She let go of his thigh and tickled his neck before kissing him on the earlobe.
“You bet,” he whispered, taking her right breast into one of his hands.
Maggie pretended to swoon and slapped at his clutching hand before rising from the bed.
“Drink your coffee,” she admonished, her heels already tapping across the bare floor. “There’s food in the fridge, remember.”
“You know I don’t eat breakfast.” Sam picked up his empty cup and touched the tits with his fingertip. The only thing on his mind was a shot of bourbon.
“I know you don’t take care of yourself, Sam Bartholomew. I’ll be back at noon to do it myself.” The door closed softly. Sam stood at the window and watched her leave. An ardent observer, he chronicled the departures and arrivals in his neighborhood. As he watched Maggie’s green Plymouth leave the curb, his eyes caught some movement at the DeShane place. Willie flew across the porch, as if freed from a dungeon, and sailed down the walk to the street. He peered up and down the block. It was too early for play. Other children were still asleep. Willie shrugged and swaggered off toward the corner, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
Sam sighed as his hand reached for the drawer. What wouldn’t he give to be young again. To be ten years old and free and happy, the world wide open with endless opportunities.
As he poured the bourbon and mixed in the coffee, Sam knew he was lying to himself. He did not want it all over again. He wished it was almost over. He wished he were eighty instead of sixty and that there were no more races to run.
Despair settled over him with a comfortable familiarity. Sam raised the cup. By noon the bourbon would be gone.
Chapter 7
Nick had been up for two hours when Daley made his first appearance in the kitchen. He groped for the coffeepot, his eyes hardly able to focus in the early morning light streaming in the window.
"You're going to be late for class," Nick said. He took another bite of the Butterfinger candy bar he was having for breakfast. He tried to keep his voice light and casual to hide his mood, which had moved inexorably toward depression. He knew he sounded like a pushy older brother or, even worse, like a nagging mother, but he could not help it.
Daley nodded as he sat down at the table. He took a swallow of coffee, debating whether or not to spit the scalding liquid back into the cup. He grimaced and swallowed.
"If you wouldn't stay out so late…" Nick began, then suddenly shifted gears. "Where did you go last night?"
"Leave me alone, Nick." Daley said it without rancor. He just didn't want to talk this morning. He tried the coffee again, more cautiously,
"When will you get back today?"
"Nick, just lay off, will you? I have three classes, a full load today, and afterward I may go furniture browsing. I don't know when I'll be back."
“Furniture, my ass. That stuff’s nothing but old spindly junk. I don’t see why anyone buys it.”
“You don’t appreciate antiques, that’s all. It’s not my fault if your taste runs to chrome and plastic."
He pulled the toaster into the center of the counter and popped four slices of wheat bread into the slots.
"I don’t know how you can eat that stuff." Nick frowned at the loaf of wheat bread.
"Goddamnit, Nick! If you're not mothering me you're judging me, and if you're not judging me you're needling me. Why can't you leave me the hell alone?"
Nick chewed his candy, his gaze resting on the far kitchen door. He pretended not to hear the outburst.
Daley jerked open the refrigerator door and took out a tub of unsalted butter. "If you'd get off your duff and find a job, you wouldn’t have time to criticize me," he said. "We're been home almost six months and you're like a rock. You don't go out of the house. You sit around eating junk food and acting like the world has come to an end. You watch me like a goddamn eagle. When are you going to get off this?”
“I knew you didn’t want
“You bet,” he whispered, taking her right breast into one of his hands.
Maggie pretended to swoon and slapped at his clutching hand before rising from the bed.
“Drink your coffee,” she admonished, her heels already tapping across the bare floor. “There’s food in the fridge, remember.”
“You know I don’t eat breakfast.” Sam picked up his empty cup and touched the tits with his fingertip. The only thing on his mind was a shot of bourbon.
“I know you don’t take care of yourself, Sam Bartholomew. I’ll be back at noon to do it myself.” The door closed softly. Sam stood at the window and watched her leave. An ardent observer, he chronicled the departures and arrivals in his neighborhood. As he watched Maggie’s green Plymouth leave the curb, his eyes caught some movement at the DeShane place. Willie flew across the porch, as if freed from a dungeon, and sailed down the walk to the street. He peered up and down the block. It was too early for play. Other children were still asleep. Willie shrugged and swaggered off toward the corner, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
Sam sighed as his hand reached for the drawer. What wouldn’t he give to be young again. To be ten years old and free and happy, the world wide open with endless opportunities.
As he poured the bourbon and mixed in the coffee, Sam knew he was lying to himself. He did not want it all over again. He wished it was almost over. He wished he were eighty instead of sixty and that there were no more races to run.
Despair settled over him with a comfortable familiarity. Sam raised the cup. By noon the bourbon would be gone.
Chapter 7
Nick had been up for two hours when Daley made his first appearance in the kitchen. He groped for the coffeepot, his eyes hardly able to focus in the early morning light streaming in the window.
"You're going to be late for class," Nick said. He took another bite of the Butterfinger candy bar he was having for breakfast. He tried to keep his voice light and casual to hide his mood, which had moved inexorably toward depression. He knew he sounded like a pushy older brother or, even worse, like a nagging mother, but he could not help it.
Daley nodded as he sat down at the table. He took a swallow of coffee, debating whether or not to spit the scalding liquid back into the cup. He grimaced and swallowed.
"If you wouldn't stay out so late…" Nick began, then suddenly shifted gears. "Where did you go last night?"
"Leave me alone, Nick." Daley said it without rancor. He just didn't want to talk this morning. He tried the coffee again, more cautiously,
"When will you get back today?"
"Nick, just lay off, will you? I have three classes, a full load today, and afterward I may go furniture browsing. I don't know when I'll be back."
“Furniture, my ass. That stuff’s nothing but old spindly junk. I don’t see why anyone buys it.”
“You don’t appreciate antiques, that’s all. It’s not my fault if your taste runs to chrome and plastic."
He pulled the toaster into the center of the counter and popped four slices of wheat bread into the slots.
"I don’t know how you can eat that stuff." Nick frowned at the loaf of wheat bread.
"Goddamnit, Nick! If you're not mothering me you're judging me, and if you're not judging me you're needling me. Why can't you leave me the hell alone?"
Nick chewed his candy, his gaze resting on the far kitchen door. He pretended not to hear the outburst.
Daley jerked open the refrigerator door and took out a tub of unsalted butter. "If you'd get off your duff and find a job, you wouldn’t have time to criticize me," he said. "We're been home almost six months and you're like a rock. You don't go out of the house. You sit around eating junk food and acting like the world has come to an end. You watch me like a goddamn eagle. When are you going to get off this?”
“I knew you didn’t want
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