"He won’t set foot on this place. He’s too proud," said Edith. "And if he sits in the car I won’t go to him. I’ve had it up to here."
Cosgrave walked to the front of the property and faced the home. For the people on the verandah it was difficult to make him out beneath the trees, but he saw his wife and son sitting in a cage of light, faces white and burning under the glare of the lightbulb, their features slightly out of focus behind the fine screen mesh. He stood without moving for a minute, then he began to sing in a clear, light tenor. The words rang across the lawn. incongruous. sad.
"Jesus Christ." said Bob. "the man’s not only drunk, he’s crazy."
Edith leaned forward in her chair and placed her hand against the screen. The vague figure whose face she could not see continued to sing to her across the intervening reaches of night. He sang without a trace of his habitual irony. Where she would have expected a joke there was none. The voice she heard was not the voice of a man in a cheap black suit, a man full of beer and lies. She had, for a fleeting moment, a lover serenading her under the elms. It was as close as he would ever come to an apology or an invitation. Jack Cosgrave was not capable of doing any more and she knew it.
Man Descending, Guy Vanderhaege