“I’m sorry for throwing the glass,” I finally said.

“What the hell has gotten into you?”

“I already told you, Carolyn.”

She didn’t respond. A train passed and a rush of wind blew in the windows. She was right; the whole apartment smelled like whiskey.

“Where were you?” I asked.

She dug through her purse and removed the copy of my book. I looked to the desk. I hadn’t noticed it missing.

“Reading this,” she said, and I wasn’t sure what to feel. Flattery? Anxiety? Anger at her for not asking? Mostly I still felt like an asshole.

“How far did you get?”

“Fifty pages. Are you going to be mad about that, too?”

I thought about it a minute. No, I wasn’t mad, more nervous than anything. Nobody had read it but me. And a few agents. But had they really read it, the whole thing? I highly doubted it.

“No,” I said. I was quiet a moment. “What did you think?”

“I don’t know yet. I want to read the whole thing first.”

“You’re really going to read it all?”

“Only if you’re willing to let me.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind if you do.”

“Okay, but I’m not answering any questions until I’m finished, so don’t ask.”

She carried her sandwich to the desk. “Jesus, Stratton.” She stopped eating and lifted my ankle, inspecting the bottom of my foot. “You’re dripping. You cut yourself really badly.”

“I know, it hurts like hell.”

She pulled off my sock, studied the gash, then shook her head. “If you weren’t so goddamn ignorant sometimes, then things like this wouldn’t happen.”

“I know.”

I closed my eyes while she cleaned the wound with a wet rag. Then she covered it with ointment and bandages she had in her purse, pulled a fresh sock over it, and kissed the bottom of my foot. I felt remorseful, and knew I was far from deserving of her tender attention.

twenty-nine

1

I’M SWEAT-COVERED, OUT OF breath. Four miles today through the stifling heat beneath the cloudless sky, the rancid smell of manure filling the heavy air. Not bad for wrestling season still three months away. I reach home and neither car is in the drive. I walk around the block to cool down. When I return, my mother’s car is there. I hear it ticking and can feel the heat coming off its engine. She’s at the dining room table, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. She smiles, and is somewhat done up, wearing makeup with her shiny hair past her shoulders. But there’s something else there too, something a little harder to put my finger on, and it goes beyond the powder on her cheeks or the lilac perfume on her wrists. A sense of happiness perhaps, maybe even tranquility. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen either of these things in her.