rumbling and crunching down the white-graveled drive, Mel stares at her feet. "Daddy, I can't believe you said that to him."
S I
"What'd he say?" says Roger.
"Nothing, Roger," says Mel.
"You can tell him," Willis says. "Long as it's a direct quote, you're off the hook."
Mel, still looking at her feet, turns red.
"What?" yeUs Roger.
"Well, for reasons I don't fully understand myself," Willis says, "I called Mr. Bjork a fat pig."
"That's not exactly what you said, Daddy," Mel says.
"What did he say?'' says Roger.
Mel takes a breath and looks out the window. "He called Mr. Bjork afat f-u-c-k."
"All right" says Willis. "Melanie has spelled/«c^ for us. We've all heard the word, yes?"
Mel and Roger say nothing. He grinds gears as he shifts down to make the turn onto County Road 39; can't decide if the clutch is really going or if he's babying it and not pushing the pedal down far enough because he thinks the clutch is going.
"So," he says. "Isn't anybody curious about this surprise?"
''What surprise?" says Roger.
"Should I just tell you?" Willis says.
"Yes," says Roger.
Mel says nothing.
"Okay, what it is, you guys are going camping with your mom this afternoon."
"Do we have to?" says Roger.
"I knew you'd be thrilled to the—"
"Daddy, watch where you're going" says Mel. Willis swerves back over to his side to miss a tractor, cutter bar down, mowing brush on the other side of the road. "Are you coming too?" she says.
"No. I'm going to stay and see if I can't get some work done. Rathbone'U keep me company "
"I don't want to," says Roger.
"You," says Willis. "We haven't gotten around to you yet, mister. What's gotten into you, using that kind of language around people?"
"So? Look what you said."
"True," says Willis. "But the difference is—" Right. What is the difference? "Look. This is the kind of thing where, you know, fairly or uniairly, if you're a kid, it sounds worse to people than it does if you're
PRESTON FALLS
a grownup," Great: he's just told Roger how he can get a rise out of people. "When they hear you using bad language, they're going to think, Well, that's a bad person, and I don't want to be that person's friend."
"So? If they don't want to be my friend they don't have to be."
"What?" Willis has blanked out for a second. What the fuck are they talking about?
"I don't care if they don't want to be my friend," Roger says. "They're probably a feeb like her that has to spell everything."
"Watch out, Roger," says Mel.
"Watch out, Roger," says Roger.
"I'm not kidding," says Mel.
"Vm not kidding," says Roger.
"Enough," Willis says.
"Yeah, well, she started it."
"I did not.''
"God help you both," Willis says.
He shifts down again, double-clutching but still grinding gears, and turns onto Goodwin Hill Road. Setting one more piss-poor example by cruising through the stop sign.
"So," he says. He keeps the truck in second to get up this first steep stretch; it feels as if he's fucking up the engine by revving it to a roar while the thing's just crawling, but in third it'll clunk and lurch. "I imagine your mother's just about packed."
Not a word from either of them. But what are they supposed to say? There's truly something wrong with him; you don't act this way with your children. The thing to do is to pull over, fall on them with slobbery kisses, clutch at their bare knees, bathe their bare feet with your tears and dry them with your hair. At least he's sane enough just to keep driving.
Willis stands in the middle of the road, holding Rathbone by the collar with one hand and waving the Cherokee out of sight with the other. As they turn the corner, Jean's arm comes out the window: the hand flutters and they're gone. Willis lets go of Rathbone, who looks down the road, then up at him. Summer's over. It's one o'clock in the afternoon.
Okay. To work, to work.
Okay, first thing he's going to do, he's going to tear out the living room ceiling, where some asshole smeared joint compound
S I
"What'd he say?" says Roger.
"Nothing, Roger," says Mel.
"You can tell him," Willis says. "Long as it's a direct quote, you're off the hook."
Mel, still looking at her feet, turns red.
"What?" yeUs Roger.
"Well, for reasons I don't fully understand myself," Willis says, "I called Mr. Bjork a fat pig."
"That's not exactly what you said, Daddy," Mel says.
"What did he say?'' says Roger.
Mel takes a breath and looks out the window. "He called Mr. Bjork afat f-u-c-k."
"All right" says Willis. "Melanie has spelled/«c^ for us. We've all heard the word, yes?"
Mel and Roger say nothing. He grinds gears as he shifts down to make the turn onto County Road 39; can't decide if the clutch is really going or if he's babying it and not pushing the pedal down far enough because he thinks the clutch is going.
"So," he says. "Isn't anybody curious about this surprise?"
''What surprise?" says Roger.
"Should I just tell you?" Willis says.
"Yes," says Roger.
Mel says nothing.
"Okay, what it is, you guys are going camping with your mom this afternoon."
"Do we have to?" says Roger.
"I knew you'd be thrilled to the—"
"Daddy, watch where you're going" says Mel. Willis swerves back over to his side to miss a tractor, cutter bar down, mowing brush on the other side of the road. "Are you coming too?" she says.
"No. I'm going to stay and see if I can't get some work done. Rathbone'U keep me company "
"I don't want to," says Roger.
"You," says Willis. "We haven't gotten around to you yet, mister. What's gotten into you, using that kind of language around people?"
"So? Look what you said."
"True," says Willis. "But the difference is—" Right. What is the difference? "Look. This is the kind of thing where, you know, fairly or uniairly, if you're a kid, it sounds worse to people than it does if you're
PRESTON FALLS
a grownup," Great: he's just told Roger how he can get a rise out of people. "When they hear you using bad language, they're going to think, Well, that's a bad person, and I don't want to be that person's friend."
"So? If they don't want to be my friend they don't have to be."
"What?" Willis has blanked out for a second. What the fuck are they talking about?
"I don't care if they don't want to be my friend," Roger says. "They're probably a feeb like her that has to spell everything."
"Watch out, Roger," says Mel.
"Watch out, Roger," says Roger.
"I'm not kidding," says Mel.
"Vm not kidding," says Roger.
"Enough," Willis says.
"Yeah, well, she started it."
"I did not.''
"God help you both," Willis says.
He shifts down again, double-clutching but still grinding gears, and turns onto Goodwin Hill Road. Setting one more piss-poor example by cruising through the stop sign.
"So," he says. He keeps the truck in second to get up this first steep stretch; it feels as if he's fucking up the engine by revving it to a roar while the thing's just crawling, but in third it'll clunk and lurch. "I imagine your mother's just about packed."
Not a word from either of them. But what are they supposed to say? There's truly something wrong with him; you don't act this way with your children. The thing to do is to pull over, fall on them with slobbery kisses, clutch at their bare knees, bathe their bare feet with your tears and dry them with your hair. At least he's sane enough just to keep driving.
Willis stands in the middle of the road, holding Rathbone by the collar with one hand and waving the Cherokee out of sight with the other. As they turn the corner, Jean's arm comes out the window: the hand flutters and they're gone. Willis lets go of Rathbone, who looks down the road, then up at him. Summer's over. It's one o'clock in the afternoon.
Okay. To work, to work.
Okay, first thing he's going to do, he's going to tear out the living room ceiling, where some asshole smeared joint compound
Similar Books
The Hero Strikes Back
Moira J. Moore
Days of Love and Blood
R.S. Carter
Domination
Lyra Byrnes
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3
Melissa Scott
Recoil
Brian Garfield
As Night Falls
Jenny Milchman
Steamy Sisters
Jennifer Kitt
Full Circle
Connie Monk
Forgotten Alpha
Joanna Wilson
Scars and Songs
Christine Zolendz, Frankie Sutton, Okaycreations