Free God Is Dead by Ron Currie Jr. Page B

work shirt are rolled up, revealing hairy, muscular forearms. He’s glowering at me from under the bill of a Teague Tractor Supply baseball cap.
    â€œLooks like they did a real number on her this time, them,” he calls to me across the parking lot.
    This is a little game we play. Every day, while I’m in the office, Jeff vandalizes my car. Then he pretends someone else did it, and I pretend I don’t know it was him. The damage is usually worse on Wednesdays, after our mandatory weekly appointment, but today he’s really outdone himself. The right rear tire is gutted, slashed all the way around the rim. Jeff’s also gone to the trouble of uprooting a traffic sign and breaking the driver’s side window with it. The sign juts from the window as I approach, instructing me to STOP.
    I set my briefcase on the pavement and pull the sign out. “They must have been particularly angry today,” I say to Jeff.
    â€œMust have been, them,” he agrees.
    â€œI wonder why,” I say. “I wonder what I did today to make them so angry. Would you mind? I need to get the spare out of the trunk.”
    Jeff takes his time getting up. “I might have some theories about that,” he says. “I might be able to shed a little light for you, me. ’Cept I spent all day thinking about what crappy kids my two boys are, like you told me.”
    I remove the jack, tire iron, and spare from the trunk. “They’re not crappy kids, Jeff. Just normal. Average.”
    This is not strictly true. His younger son Abe has a fastball he could probably ride to the pros. Abe is also preternaturally compassionate. He cries at television commercials and displays none of the ruthless tendencies toward frogs and bugs usually seen in adolescent boys. But he has a harelip, so I focus on that during sessions with his father.
    Jeff watches me work. “You know,” he says after a while, “this problem with your car is getting epidemic. You ought to call the police about it, you.”
    I tighten the last lug nut on the spare and look up at him. “We both know the police won’t do anything about it, Jeff. They hate me as much as everyone else. They hate me as much as you do.”
    For the first time, Jeff smiles. “No,” he says. “Nobody around here hates you as much as I do, me.”
    â€œDon’t know about that,” I say. “I had Reggie Boucher jailed last week for missing two consecutive sessions. He’s probably got you beat in the hating me department.” I put the stuff back in the trunk and slam the lid shut. “Is there anything else, Jeff? Anything you want to talk about?”
    â€œNo, that’ll be all,” he says. “I gotta get back home, me. Gotta feed those ungrateful parasite sons.”
    â€œGood night, then,” I say. But I know he won’t leave just yet, and he doesn’t. He gets into his truck and waits while I brush the broken glass from inside my car and start it up. Then he follows me all the way home, tailgating and blaring his horn. When I reach my driveway and pull in through the gate, he jams the accelerator, speeding past with a roar.
    I park in the circular driveway and walk into the garage. With a ten-foot wall surrounding the place, no one could get in, not even Jeff, but still I lift the dustcover from the Jaguar and inspect it for the smallest hints of malice. Finding none, I take a new tire from the stack against the back wall and bring it out to the Celica, placing it in the trunk with the other three.
    Then I go inside, punch the code into the security keypad, triple-lock the door, and run to the basement before the motion sensors reset themselves.
    Selia’s on the couch in the rumpus room, watching people on television eat cow eyeballs for money. There are five people in town with no relationship whatsoever to any children. Fortunately for me, Selia’s one of them.
    â€œHey,” she