once been one of those kids playing, as filthy and undernourished looking as they. His mom had been every bit as fat and slovenly as the women he shrank from now. His dad had been a mean son of a bitch, quick with fists and curses, and he’d worn only an undershirt every day he’d been at home. Probably, judging from the holes and stains that had always decorated it, the same one.
These were his people. Their experience of life was his. Their bad blood was in his genes.
Once, he’d hoped to escape.
Once. Hell, once he’d hoped for a lot of things.
It was a one-story frame house, every bit as ramshackle as the worst of those he’d passed, atop a small knoll. A gravel driveway led up to it. Two rusted-out pickup trucks were parked in the drive, one, having lost its tires, propped on cement blocks. Chickens scratched in the yard. Through the open front door he could see the flicker of a television.
Someone was home. Johnny didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.
He walked up the driveway, stepped onto the porch,and looked through the screen door with its innumerable small holes and tears.
A man lay on a sagging couch watching TV. An old man, grizzled and thin, in a raggedy, stained tank-style undershirt, nursing a bottle of cheap beer.
The sight made Johnny’s throat close.
Home. For better or worse, he was home.
He opened the door and walked in.
Willie Harris glanced up at him, appearing momentarily startled at the intrusion. Then recognition narrowed his eyes.
“You,” he said in a voice heavy with contempt. “I knew you’d turn up sooner or later, just like a damned bad penny. Get out of the way—you’re blockin’ the TV.”
“Hello, Dad,” Johnny said softly, not moving.
“I said move your ass!”
Johnny moved. Not because he was afraid of his father or his fists any longer, but because he wanted to see the rest of the house, see what had changed. He walked into the small kitchen with its chipped white enamel counters and the card table around which they’d always eaten—when there’d been something to eat. If it wasn’t the same card table—could something so flimsy have lasted so long?—the one there now was its twin, down to the chunk missing from the center of the top. Dirty dishes were piled beside the sink, as always, only now there were just a few of them. The same pink-flowered curtains, limper and dingier than ever, hung from the same sagging yellowed rod over the sink.
There were two tiny bedrooms and a minuscule, barely functional bathroom off the hall, just as there had always been. Johnny glanced into each, wondering if the double mattress that rested on the floor in the smaller of the two bedrooms was the same one on which he and Buck and Grady had always slept. Sue Ann, being the only girl, had had the living-room couch to herself. His parents had shared the bed in the other bedroom, until his mother hadtaken off for Chicago with some guy. Then his father had slept in there with whichever slut he’d been humping at the time. Sometimes one or the other of the boys—usually Buck—had humped her, too.
Home.
He stepped back into the living room and switched off the TV.
“Damn you!” his father said, his face contorting with anger as he set the beer bottle down on the floor and sat up.
“How you been, Dad?” Johnny sat down at the end of the couch just made vacant by the removal of Willie’s bare feet and kept his father from getting up to turn the television back on by gently grasping his arm.
The beery, aged smell of the old man assaulted him.
“Goddamn you, get your goddamned hand off my arm!” Willie tried to jerk his arm free, without success. Johnny smiled at him and tightened his grip. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to warn. Things had changed, and he was no longer going to put up with a fist to the mouth or the stomach whenever his old man felt like lashing out.
“You living here alone now?”
“What the hell business is it of yourn? You’re
These were his people. Their experience of life was his. Their bad blood was in his genes.
Once, he’d hoped to escape.
Once. Hell, once he’d hoped for a lot of things.
It was a one-story frame house, every bit as ramshackle as the worst of those he’d passed, atop a small knoll. A gravel driveway led up to it. Two rusted-out pickup trucks were parked in the drive, one, having lost its tires, propped on cement blocks. Chickens scratched in the yard. Through the open front door he could see the flicker of a television.
Someone was home. Johnny didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.
He walked up the driveway, stepped onto the porch,and looked through the screen door with its innumerable small holes and tears.
A man lay on a sagging couch watching TV. An old man, grizzled and thin, in a raggedy, stained tank-style undershirt, nursing a bottle of cheap beer.
The sight made Johnny’s throat close.
Home. For better or worse, he was home.
He opened the door and walked in.
Willie Harris glanced up at him, appearing momentarily startled at the intrusion. Then recognition narrowed his eyes.
“You,” he said in a voice heavy with contempt. “I knew you’d turn up sooner or later, just like a damned bad penny. Get out of the way—you’re blockin’ the TV.”
“Hello, Dad,” Johnny said softly, not moving.
“I said move your ass!”
Johnny moved. Not because he was afraid of his father or his fists any longer, but because he wanted to see the rest of the house, see what had changed. He walked into the small kitchen with its chipped white enamel counters and the card table around which they’d always eaten—when there’d been something to eat. If it wasn’t the same card table—could something so flimsy have lasted so long?—the one there now was its twin, down to the chunk missing from the center of the top. Dirty dishes were piled beside the sink, as always, only now there were just a few of them. The same pink-flowered curtains, limper and dingier than ever, hung from the same sagging yellowed rod over the sink.
There were two tiny bedrooms and a minuscule, barely functional bathroom off the hall, just as there had always been. Johnny glanced into each, wondering if the double mattress that rested on the floor in the smaller of the two bedrooms was the same one on which he and Buck and Grady had always slept. Sue Ann, being the only girl, had had the living-room couch to herself. His parents had shared the bed in the other bedroom, until his mother hadtaken off for Chicago with some guy. Then his father had slept in there with whichever slut he’d been humping at the time. Sometimes one or the other of the boys—usually Buck—had humped her, too.
Home.
He stepped back into the living room and switched off the TV.
“Damn you!” his father said, his face contorting with anger as he set the beer bottle down on the floor and sat up.
“How you been, Dad?” Johnny sat down at the end of the couch just made vacant by the removal of Willie’s bare feet and kept his father from getting up to turn the television back on by gently grasping his arm.
The beery, aged smell of the old man assaulted him.
“Goddamn you, get your goddamned hand off my arm!” Willie tried to jerk his arm free, without success. Johnny smiled at him and tightened his grip. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to warn. Things had changed, and he was no longer going to put up with a fist to the mouth or the stomach whenever his old man felt like lashing out.
“You living here alone now?”
“What the hell business is it of yourn? You’re
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