Belly by Lisa Selin Davis

adjusting okay? I brought you a hemp bar.” She handed him a hard block of what looked like wood coated
     in Saran Wrap.
    “Are you still doing that health-food thing? Jesus, kid, you need to eat a steak.”
    He saw her mouth twist a little, her nose twitch.
    “What?”
    She withdrew from him. “Your breath.”
    “I just woke up.”
    She stroked his hand and stared so hard into his eyes that he felt her pupils pressing against him, some unanswered question
     in the black circles.
    “What?” he asked again.
    “You smell like alcohol.”
    “Oh, well. That.”
    “How much did you drink?”
    “I had one drink. Last night.” This was true if “night” meant after eleven and before six.
    “You smell like a bar.”
    He could still feel the numbing power of this morning’s tequila and last night’s beer, that floating sensation he’d missed
     so much while he was away. He wanted it again, wanted to lie down and let the alcohol carry him off, carry him back to Before.
    “I thought they’d cured you of that. I thought you couldn’t drink there.”
    He thought, She can’t even say the word. His sweet little girl, his youngest, she always danced around an issue and never
     landed inside it. He put his arm around her and whispered “prison” in her ear.
    “I know,” she said. “I thought they fixed you.” His little puritan princess, this one was. For one of those hippie types,
     she was the most uptight, the one who used to sniff his breath at night if he needed to drive, who checked his room for unexpected
     guests, for anything with the appearance of impropriety. Poor kid. He gave her so much to fret about.
    “It’s not illegal or anything. I’m not doing anything illegal.” He put his right hand over his heart. “I will not do anything
     illegal.”
    She continued to stare at him, to squint her eyes and try to cull some information from him, some promise he couldn’t make.
    “What?”
    “Just be sober on Sunday, okay? For Stevie’s confirmation. And don’t forget to show up.”
    “You, too? What’s with you girls? Why wouldn’t I be there?”
    Eliza looked at her hands, and he felt nervous again, and sick, and too sober.
    “Why couldn’t God give me just one boy?”
    “You’ve got sons-in-law. It’s the next best thing.”
    “Oh, right. Your chubby little health-food Jew is just what I wanted.”
    Eliza pulled her lank blond hair into a ponytail, and she pasted a smile on her face. “I missed you, Belly.”
    “Oh, sure you did.”
    “I did.”
    Eliza stood up. She traced a line in the dust on the TV set. Belly spread himself out on the couch, lifted his right leg till
     his titanium hip screamed for him to stop. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, to sleep all day, to erase the four years
     of dawn wake-up calls, four years of strange sideways sleep-deprivation, of rising just when he felt it was time for bed.
    “You want me to help you?” she asked. “I could take the day off.”
    “Help me with what?”
    “Whatever you have to do.”
    “What do I have to do?”
    “I don’t know. Nora knows. You have to see your parole officer, you have to get a job, stuff like that.”
    “There’s plenty of time for that.”
    “No, there isn’t,” she said.
    He sat up on the couch, and she stood silhouetted in the window.
    “If I need help, I’ll tell you,” he said, but that did not seem to satisfy her. “How’s the art world? Still piddling with
     the paints?”
    She smiled into her lap.
    “What?” he asked her. “What?”
    “Yes. Still piddling. With the paints. Sort of.” She reached into her purse and took out a small notebook wrapped in tinted
     aluminum foil and handed it to him. The front cover was made of wobbly cardboard, and inside, blank pages of thick, uneven
     paper crinkled.
    “I made it myself,” she said.
    “Thanks,” he said, fingering the foil. “Is it candy or something?”
    “It’s an artist’s book. It’s my art.”
    “Can you make money at