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like shit.”
    Leaving the bed, she paced to the window and looked
out. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my son. I can’t believe
you would welcome a divorce—”
    “You’d be happier. And so would I. Besides, Dad doesn’t
deserve you.”
    She turned again to face him. “Is that what all this
anger is about? Your father?”
    “I hate him.” There. He’d said it. Lightning didn’t
bolt out of the sky and incinerate him.
    “Patrick!”
    “I do. I hate his guts. He doesn’t love you, and he
doesn’t love me and Amber.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “He’s a creep and I wish he was dead.”
    “That’s enough. I won’t have you talk like that about
your father.”
    “If you don’t divorce him, I’m going to run away from
home. I’ll move in with Uncle J.D. whether you like it or not.”
    “I won’t listen to any more of this nonsense.” As she
always did when she found herself unable to cope with the momentary crisis, his
mother moved toward the door, gripping the porno tube so tightly in her hand it
bent in the middle.
    “Mom,” he said as she reached the door. She paused and
looked back, her eyes so full of anguish he felt punched in the stomach. “Please ... don’t tell Dad about the
magazine.” He swallowed. “Please.”
    She left the room, closing the door behind her.
    He felt certain that she wouldn’t tattle. She never
did. Because she knew as well as he did that bad news regarding Eric Damascus’s
kids would float in one ear and out the other. Normally, Patrick wouldn’t have
bothered with the request to keep this type of perverted news from Louisiana’s distinguished legislative director, but this was an exception. This shocking
revelation would have caused consequences he wasn’t ready to deal with at the
moment. Not yet. In time, but not now.
    He locked his door. Something he should have done
before pulling out the porno magazine, but he wasn’t accustomed to needing to.
His mother had always respected his privacy, but lately she’d been slipping.
Since she’d caught him smoking, it seemed he was always finding her popping up
out of nowhere.
    He retrieved his portable disc player with earphones
from his bookshelf, along with his favorite CD—both of which J.D. had given him
the last time they’d gone out together. He prized it as highly as the soccer
ball, autographed by David Beckham, that J.D. had given him last Christmas.
    Crawling under his bed, he extracted his hidden stash
of cigarettes and matches the freak Raymond Dillworth had provided him at
school. Raymond had offered him weed sprinkled with crack as well, but he was
genius enough to know that if he was caught with a juice joint, his mom wouldn’t
have been just rattled to tears, she would have gone apoplectic. Couldn’t have
Senator Strong’s legislative director having a son who walked around baked.
Might cost the asshole a vote or two.
    Easing up his bedroom window, Patrick crawled out on the
roof, carefully working his way along the gable until he settled down beside
the chimney. Then he leaned back, positioned the headphones on his ears, and
hit the play button before lighting up his Marlboro Light. As Credence
Clearwater Revival exploded against his eardrums singing about a bad moon
rising and trouble being on the way, he gazed at the sky, inhaled deeply from
the cigarette, and studied the moon overhead.
    There was definitely trouble on the way, he thought.
It was only a matter of time.

4
    The nights were always the worst, when memories clawed their way to the
forefront of his mind and arranged themselves like a slide show in
chronological order.
    Laura on their wedding day dressed in a beige suit,
loose-fitting to hide her pregnancy, their vows spoken to a justice of the
peace while Vegas lights flashed on and off against the fake chapel windows.
    His holding her hand as she gave birth to their son
six months later. He’d kissed her and whispered, “We’re going to make it.
Things