“Funny how fancy-ass people from New York can be just as dumb and stubborn as folks from a pissant little town like Walkers Pasture. Yep, they find it easier to blame their problems on other people. Now, I’m not saying that Balboa Littlefield is a fine upstanding citizen. Recently I heard him referred to as ‘an A-one asshole.’ And I sure do agree with that description. I think Balboa is evil incarnate. But the people who buy drugs from him are just as much to blame, especially if they’ve been helped by other people, like the drug users whose Mom and Daddy paid for treatment center visits over and over again, especially the mom whose knees hurt from praying and never got those prayers answered. We can bitch and carry on about Balboa himself, but because someone asks you to sin, it doesn’t mean…” And then she stops. Her words turn to tears.

I kneel down beside her. I hold her shoulders. She stops crying.

“Are those butter beans all shelled, Lucy?”

That’s Big Lucy.

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

“YOU GOT A TAPEWORM inside you, bro?” Cabot asks Willie as my boy shovels in his third helping of honey-baked pork shoulder.

“Maybe I do,” Willie says. Willie’s voice is sharp and high-pitched. Cabot slurs his words. He’s not drunk, but he sounds like he is. I don’t think Willie notices his pronunciation, but I’m sure Big Lucy does. Cabot squints his eyes shut and open, then shut again, then open.

“Open your mouth real wide,” Mom says to Willie. “I’m gonna check for a tapeworm.”

Willie obeys. He stretches his mouth open.

Then Mom becomes a serious detective, looking inside her grandson’s mouth. “No!” she declares. “No. No tapeworm in there, just a pile of teeth and a very large tongue.”

Willie, laughing, goes back to his pork shoulder, and I wonder if anyone else notices that Cabot’s question about the tapeworm is the first time during supper that he has even spoken. Cabot has eaten almost nothing, only a few sweet bites of Mom’s ridiculously delicious Strawberry Jell-O and Red Cabbage Salad. (Don’t judge it until you’ve taken a taste.) The only person quieter than Cabot is my father. He sits with his head bowed. He eats nothing.

“You look so tired, Mom,” I say.

She shakes her head back and forth. “No. I’m too excited having you and Willie here to be tired. But…soon as Willie finishes eating his pork—assuming he doesn’t want a fourth helping—I’ll start getting Daddy washed and into bed.”

“I’ll help you,” I say.

“No need to,” Mom says. “We’ve got our system, and to be honest, I think Daddy would be embarrassed.”

“Would you be angry if I asked him, Mom?”

“Of course not,” and I know she is telling the truth. I lean in toward my father.