She was selfish, reckless, pathetic. Again she’d ditched her son—their son—so her junkie ass could go off and get high with whatever lowlifes could put up with her sorry excuse for company. And while she was god knows where doing fuck knows what, where’d he been, huh? Out there, at the crack of dawn, busting his ass for hours on end. Slaving away, day after day, for her and Junior, for fucking pennies, for fucking nothing. What had he been thinking? What had he been waiting for? He should have just gotten it over with, should have done it himself and—and then her fingertips speared his sternum.

“Oh?” Her voice went chilly. “And so getting piss drunk and shouting and cussing in front of the kid is so much better, like. Real role model material. Dad of the century, ha.”

“At least I’m here,” he hissed. “Least I’m trying.”

“And about goddamn time—ha.” An arm flopped instead of shooed. “Ha.”

Then came the slurring, her hot spittle diatribe. Going on and on about how it was her turn now. It was about motherfucking time Henry put in the work and the hours, so that she could finally get hers, like. Finally relax a little. Live a little. Five years she’d done, doing every goddamn thing, and all on her own. A miracle they’d made it. A miracle. Day in and out, grinding away to turn fire into wine, sweat into bread, like—and but for what? What the fuck for, huh, Hen? For him to come back out of the blue, out of prison, suddenly all high and mighty? For him to come and guilt-trip her for living a little, just for having herself some fun and a little life, like? For what then? No, she really wanted him to tell her because all she saw was this, this, this preachy, shit-for-brains faggot too busy feeling sorry for himself because they hadn’t thrown him a homecoming party, because there weren’t no marching band banging after him on the way to work every morning. He weren’t doing nothing more than what he was supposed to, just what he got to, just like what every other grown-ass man in this country got to. Really, though. Really must have thought he was something special. Some sort of hero, like. As if anyone here needed saving. And even if there ever had been, it weren’t like he could have done jack shit about it—ha. Weren’t that a hoot? A riot. Mr. Jesus Henry Christ had come a-strutting down the mountain to save them. Honestly. Who in the actual fuck did he think he was? Don’t tell her he actually believed he could save them, let alone provide for them, like a real man, like.

Michelle shoved spittle off her chin. “Ha.”

A pause.

It was his turn now, but he couldn’t lift his head.