said.
“The check’s in the mail,” Leon said.
“I don’t believe that either. We all agreed to send him $100each, every month, twelve months a year. It’s the least we can do. I know it’s hard, especially on me, livin’ on Social Security and all. But you boys have jobs, and the least you can do is squeeze out $100 each for your little brother so he can buy decent food and pay his lawyers.”
“Do we have to go through this again?” Leon asked.
“I hear it every day,” Butch said. “If I don’t hear from Raymond, on the phone or through the mail, then I hear it from Momma.”
“Is that a complaint?” she asked. “Got a problem with your livin’ arrangements? Stayin’ in my house for free, and yet you want to complain?”
“Come on,” Leon said.
“Who’ll take care of you?” Butch offered in his defense.
“Knock it off, you two. This gets so old.”
All three took a deep breath, then began reaching for the cigarettes. After a long, quiet smoke, they settled in for another round. Inez got things started with a pleasant “Me, I never miss a month. And, if you’ll recall, I never missed a month when the both of you was locked up at Parchman.”
Leon grunted, slapped the wheel, and said angrily, “Momma, that was twenty-five years ago. Why bring it up now? I ain’t had so much as a speedin’ ticket since I got paroled.” Butch, whose life in crime had been much more colorful than Leon’s, and who was still on parole, said nothing.
“I never missed a month,” she said.
“Come on.”
“And sometimes it was $200 a month ’cause I had two of youthere at one time, as I recall. Guess I was lucky I never had all three behind bars. Couldn’t’ve paid my light bill.”
“I thought those lawyers worked for free,” Butch said in an effort to deflect attention from himself and hopefully direct it toward a target outside the family.
“They do,” Leon said. “It’s called pro bono work, and all lawyers are supposed to do some of it. As far as I know, these big firms who come in on cases like this don’t expect to get paid.”
“Then what’s Raymond doin’ with $300 a month if he ain’t payin’ his lawyers?”
“We’ve had this conversation,” Inez said.
“I’m sure he spends a fortune on pens, paper, envelopes, and postage,” Leon said. “He claims he writes ten letters a day. Hell, that’s over $100 a month right there.”
“Plus he’s written eight novels,” Butch added quickly. “Or is it nine, Momma? I can’t remember.”
“Nine.”
“Nine novels, several volumes of poetry, bunch of short stories, hundreds of songs. Just think of all the paper he goes through,” Butch said.
“Are you pokin’ fun at Raymond?” she asked.
“Never.”
“He sold a short story once,” she said.
“Of course he did. What was the magazine? Hot Rodder ? Paid him forty bucks for a story about a man who stole a thousand hubcaps. They say you write what you know.”
“How many stories have you sold?” she asked.
“None, because I haven’t written any, and the reason Ihaven’t written any is because I realize that I don’t have the talent to write. If my little brother would also realize that he has no artistic talents whatsoever, then he could save some money and hundreds of people would not be subjected to his nonsense.”
“That’s very cruel.”
“No, Momma, it’s very honest. And if you’d been honest with him a long time ago, then maybe he would’ve stopped writing. But no. You read his books and his poetry and his short stories and told him the stuff was great. So he wrote more, with longer words, longer sentences, longer paragraphs, and got to the point to where now we can hardly understand a damned thang he writes.”
“So it’s all my fault?”
“Not 100 percent, no.”
“He writes for therapy.”
“I’ve been there. I don’t see how writin’ helps any.”
“He says it helps.”
“Are these books handwritten or typed up?” Leon
“The check’s in the mail,” Leon said.
“I don’t believe that either. We all agreed to send him $100each, every month, twelve months a year. It’s the least we can do. I know it’s hard, especially on me, livin’ on Social Security and all. But you boys have jobs, and the least you can do is squeeze out $100 each for your little brother so he can buy decent food and pay his lawyers.”
“Do we have to go through this again?” Leon asked.
“I hear it every day,” Butch said. “If I don’t hear from Raymond, on the phone or through the mail, then I hear it from Momma.”
“Is that a complaint?” she asked. “Got a problem with your livin’ arrangements? Stayin’ in my house for free, and yet you want to complain?”
“Come on,” Leon said.
“Who’ll take care of you?” Butch offered in his defense.
“Knock it off, you two. This gets so old.”
All three took a deep breath, then began reaching for the cigarettes. After a long, quiet smoke, they settled in for another round. Inez got things started with a pleasant “Me, I never miss a month. And, if you’ll recall, I never missed a month when the both of you was locked up at Parchman.”
Leon grunted, slapped the wheel, and said angrily, “Momma, that was twenty-five years ago. Why bring it up now? I ain’t had so much as a speedin’ ticket since I got paroled.” Butch, whose life in crime had been much more colorful than Leon’s, and who was still on parole, said nothing.
“I never missed a month,” she said.
“Come on.”
“And sometimes it was $200 a month ’cause I had two of youthere at one time, as I recall. Guess I was lucky I never had all three behind bars. Couldn’t’ve paid my light bill.”
“I thought those lawyers worked for free,” Butch said in an effort to deflect attention from himself and hopefully direct it toward a target outside the family.
“They do,” Leon said. “It’s called pro bono work, and all lawyers are supposed to do some of it. As far as I know, these big firms who come in on cases like this don’t expect to get paid.”
“Then what’s Raymond doin’ with $300 a month if he ain’t payin’ his lawyers?”
“We’ve had this conversation,” Inez said.
“I’m sure he spends a fortune on pens, paper, envelopes, and postage,” Leon said. “He claims he writes ten letters a day. Hell, that’s over $100 a month right there.”
“Plus he’s written eight novels,” Butch added quickly. “Or is it nine, Momma? I can’t remember.”
“Nine.”
“Nine novels, several volumes of poetry, bunch of short stories, hundreds of songs. Just think of all the paper he goes through,” Butch said.
“Are you pokin’ fun at Raymond?” she asked.
“Never.”
“He sold a short story once,” she said.
“Of course he did. What was the magazine? Hot Rodder ? Paid him forty bucks for a story about a man who stole a thousand hubcaps. They say you write what you know.”
“How many stories have you sold?” she asked.
“None, because I haven’t written any, and the reason Ihaven’t written any is because I realize that I don’t have the talent to write. If my little brother would also realize that he has no artistic talents whatsoever, then he could save some money and hundreds of people would not be subjected to his nonsense.”
“That’s very cruel.”
“No, Momma, it’s very honest. And if you’d been honest with him a long time ago, then maybe he would’ve stopped writing. But no. You read his books and his poetry and his short stories and told him the stuff was great. So he wrote more, with longer words, longer sentences, longer paragraphs, and got to the point to where now we can hardly understand a damned thang he writes.”
“So it’s all my fault?”
“Not 100 percent, no.”
“He writes for therapy.”
“I’ve been there. I don’t see how writin’ helps any.”
“He says it helps.”
“Are these books handwritten or typed up?” Leon
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