by Tony Hoagland Maybe that is what he was after, my father, when he arranged, ten years ago, to be discovered in a mobile home with a woman named Roxanne, an attractive, recently divorced masseuse. He sat there, he said later, in the middle of a red, imitation-leather sofa, with his shoes off and a whisky in his hand, filling up with a joyful kind of dread-- like a swamp filling up with night, —while my mother hammered on the trailer door with a muddy, pried-up stone, the