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July 1969—Near Harkness, New York
As soon as Remi Foy got out of his rusty station wagon, he could hear screams coming out of the old hunting cabin. Drunk, he stumbled to the door and fell back on the dirt as he pulled the door open. He pulled himself back up and went in to find Marie, his thirteen-year-old daughter in labor. His wife, Jacqui, and his younger daughter, Angela, were helping.
“Stop screaming!” he slurred. “I don’t want nobody comin’ round here.”
Jacqui squealed with laughter and said, “You aren’t going to get a girl in labor to stop yellin’. Now get out of here and shut the door. This will take a couple of hours, at least. This is your fault anyway.”
Remi went back to the car, grabbed his flask of whiskey, and headed to the pond. He sat on his favorite rock ledge, lit up a Kool, took a swig of whiskey, and passed out. The flask fell, spilling most of the whiskey onto the dirt. The cigarette burned a small hole in his shirt.
Remi woke with a start when a mosquito bit him on his eyelid. It was dark out, but the moon was bright. His head pounded, and his dry mouth felt like it was full of rotten meat. He found the near-empty flask and felt around for the cap so he could save what was left. A wave of nausea hit him when he stood up, but he recovered and was able to walk, tripping over the occasional tree root. When he got back to the cabin, the glow of a gas lantern snuck through the cracks around the shutters. He went in and found Marie in bed, holding a baby swaddled in a flannel shirt. Angela was sleeping on her little mattress in the corner, and Jacqui was tending a fire in the wood stove.
“Well, what is it?” Remi asked.
Jacqui said, “It’s a boy, and he looks just like his daddy.” She cackled.
Remi went over to Marie and reached for the baby, but she pulled it away from him. He grabbed the baby, and Marie moaned in protest.
He gasped as he pulled back the flannel. “What’s this? It’s a fucking freak!” He pushed it back into Marie’s hands and ran out the door. He leaned against a tree, puking.