over one hundred guests seated on hard wooden benches inside a church. Then he lowered his head. “My father was not a perfect man. He made mistakes. But he tried. He never stopped trying to be a good father. My mother…” His voice cracked. He cl eared his throat, hardening his expression. “ She loved more than she was loved. It isn’t fair. But then life isn’t fair, now is it? ”
Nick grasped hold of the podium, once more lowering his head. He took a few deep breaths then looked up again at the crowd. “The man that took their lives was drunk. And he decided to get in his car and go for a ride. He killed my parents. But I don’t blame him.” He scowl ed as he lifted his head to the ceiling: above him , in an ornate mural, angels floated through puffy clouds in a blue sky . “I blame you. You le t that man get in his car and cr ash into them. You killed my parents. If you’re so powerful, you could have stopped him. But you let it happen anyway. Do you hear me up there ? I blame you.”
The picture paused on the image of Nick glaring skyward.
“ So when you’re not questioning God, ” Roland said, “ you’re blaming Him. But I have to ask: if you don’t believe in Him, why do you blame Him? If He doesn’t exist, are you just using the Lord as a scapegoat?”
Nick didn’t have an answer for that. It had never really occurred to him to ask that question. At the podium, he just needed to rage at someone, and standing in a house of worship, it seemed natural to accuse God of allowing his parents to die.
“ And who did you blame for this?” Roland asked, gesturing toward the screen.
Nick staggered as he picked up a landline phone at a party and dialed . “Hey, bro,” he said slurring those two simple words. “ I’m totally trashed. Could you pick me up?”
“Again?” asked the voice on the other end. “How many times is this? Twenty? Thirty? I miss Mom, too, but you don’t see me getting shitfaced all the time, do you?”
“Of c ourse not. Not the good brother. Not the perfect son .”
Harold sighed into the phone. “Where are you?”
Nick relayed the address. “ That’s a good brother,” he said in a condescending tone. He hung up and veer ed through a large family room toward the few dozen people dancing to the beat-thumping rap song, “The Way I Am” by Eminem.
He raised his hands above his head, shaking his body to the beat and joining a few girls who danced together, oblivious to their disgusted expressions. “Come on, ladies. Shake it. Ha-ha.”
They disbanded, leaving Nick alo ne and looking for a dancing partner . He wandered between couples , found a beer bottle, shook it and smiled. He pressed it to his lips and gulped it down. Then he tossed the bottle on a sofa beside two girls making out, who shouted curse words at him as he walked away.
The scene fast-forwarded , showing Nick doing a few more shots, and hitting on girls who winced each time he approached them. Then he made his way out of the house and down the porch ste ps and into t he night. W isps of cold air escaped his mouth as he watched Harold’ s r ed Ford Mustang pull to a stop in the middle of the street.
The passenger door opened. His brother leaned over the other seat, waving at him.
“There’s my little brother, always doing the right thing.” Nick hobbled over , threw himself into the car , and slammed the door. “Hey, bro. Thanks for coming.”
With th ick, disheveled blond hair, his seventeen-year old brother tightened his pale lips to keep from speaking. The circles around Harold’s eyes revealed that he had jumped out of bed to pick up his brother.
“What’s a matter? ” Nick asked. “ I ’m thanking you. ”
“You’re welcome. ”
“My brother, Mr. Perfect – coming to the aid of his screwed up older brother. I bet you’ve inspired countless Hallmark cards.”
“Knock it off. You’re acting like a jackass. You’re better than this.”
“I don’t even have to look at
Nick grasped hold of the podium, once more lowering his head. He took a few deep breaths then looked up again at the crowd. “The man that took their lives was drunk. And he decided to get in his car and go for a ride. He killed my parents. But I don’t blame him.” He scowl ed as he lifted his head to the ceiling: above him , in an ornate mural, angels floated through puffy clouds in a blue sky . “I blame you. You le t that man get in his car and cr ash into them. You killed my parents. If you’re so powerful, you could have stopped him. But you let it happen anyway. Do you hear me up there ? I blame you.”
The picture paused on the image of Nick glaring skyward.
“ So when you’re not questioning God, ” Roland said, “ you’re blaming Him. But I have to ask: if you don’t believe in Him, why do you blame Him? If He doesn’t exist, are you just using the Lord as a scapegoat?”
Nick didn’t have an answer for that. It had never really occurred to him to ask that question. At the podium, he just needed to rage at someone, and standing in a house of worship, it seemed natural to accuse God of allowing his parents to die.
“ And who did you blame for this?” Roland asked, gesturing toward the screen.
Nick staggered as he picked up a landline phone at a party and dialed . “Hey, bro,” he said slurring those two simple words. “ I’m totally trashed. Could you pick me up?”
“Again?” asked the voice on the other end. “How many times is this? Twenty? Thirty? I miss Mom, too, but you don’t see me getting shitfaced all the time, do you?”
“Of c ourse not. Not the good brother. Not the perfect son .”
Harold sighed into the phone. “Where are you?”
Nick relayed the address. “ That’s a good brother,” he said in a condescending tone. He hung up and veer ed through a large family room toward the few dozen people dancing to the beat-thumping rap song, “The Way I Am” by Eminem.
He raised his hands above his head, shaking his body to the beat and joining a few girls who danced together, oblivious to their disgusted expressions. “Come on, ladies. Shake it. Ha-ha.”
They disbanded, leaving Nick alo ne and looking for a dancing partner . He wandered between couples , found a beer bottle, shook it and smiled. He pressed it to his lips and gulped it down. Then he tossed the bottle on a sofa beside two girls making out, who shouted curse words at him as he walked away.
The scene fast-forwarded , showing Nick doing a few more shots, and hitting on girls who winced each time he approached them. Then he made his way out of the house and down the porch ste ps and into t he night. W isps of cold air escaped his mouth as he watched Harold’ s r ed Ford Mustang pull to a stop in the middle of the street.
The passenger door opened. His brother leaned over the other seat, waving at him.
“There’s my little brother, always doing the right thing.” Nick hobbled over , threw himself into the car , and slammed the door. “Hey, bro. Thanks for coming.”
With th ick, disheveled blond hair, his seventeen-year old brother tightened his pale lips to keep from speaking. The circles around Harold’s eyes revealed that he had jumped out of bed to pick up his brother.
“What’s a matter? ” Nick asked. “ I ’m thanking you. ”
“You’re welcome. ”
“My brother, Mr. Perfect – coming to the aid of his screwed up older brother. I bet you’ve inspired countless Hallmark cards.”
“Knock it off. You’re acting like a jackass. You’re better than this.”
“I don’t even have to look at
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