Orlin rocks in an old green rocker, reads his Bible bound in black leatherette, and writes letters in a shaky, spidery hand on blue stationery he’s brought with him, in one of the cigar boxes in which he carries his treasury: old fountain pens, rubber bands, paper clips, stamps, and most precious of all, his tobacco. He loves snuff as he loves—as far as I can tell—nothing else, and the yellowish brown juices of the stuff seem to have seeped into him like some kind of insidiously pervasive tea: his teeth, his fingernails, his skin, even those weird antique underclothes all seemed stained by an essence of tobacco dissolved in spittle. Which he produces in vast quantities, so much so that he requires a coffee can beside his rocker, and since it’s a lot of work for him to get up and make it down the hall to the bathroom, he urinates in the can as well. The resultant noxious mix ferments, over the course of the day, until he carries it to the john and commences making a new batch. It takes precedence in any space he occupies, his signature, his spoor. It isn’t hard to understand why his other children—my aunt Marguerite, my uncle Clarence, his favorite—have had it with him, why he’s been packed up and shipped out on the West-bound bus.

My mother’s horrified. I am, too, though since I have no responsibilities in his regard I can slip away more easily. She’s responsible for his dinner and his laundry, which must make even a strong soul quail. When he doesn’t come to the table for a meal, my mother brings him his dinner on a tray, but sitting at the dining table we’re all aware of him eating in the next room, or refusing to—he doesn’t approve of my mother’s cooking. The fumes of his coffee can slink around the dining table like diabolical incense. The tension and resentment in the house are palpable; my poor father seems to think he has no choice but to take the old man in, but my mother’s so angry about her new occupation that her vile mood seems to loom as large as Orlin’s.