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mother’s home, and as much as I tried over the years to change it, I wasn’t able to do so. Disputing my mother’s practices, procedures, or rituals was something rather simple to do, but having her agree with me was another story. Although this particular day wasn’t a Sunday, it was a holiday, and one that my mother perceived as worthy of a family meal.
    And arguing with her wasn’t an option.
    “Eat your fried chicken, Stephen,” my mother said.
    “I’m eating it as fast as I can, Mother,” I responded.
    “You’re picking. I don’t like it when you pick. Pick, pick, pick. It’s all you’ve done since you got here. Did you eat with those boys before you came?” she asked.
    “No. I told you, I came straight from home. The food’s good, I just…”
    She reached below the table and handed Bradley another chicken bone. “You just what ? Stephen Vincent Ames, you need to forget about that woman. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. You deserve better, and it’s been what? Two years?”
    “Don’t feed him chicken bones. It’ll kill him. And it’s been a year,” I said.
    Bradley, an English bulldog, was my mother’s best friend. She talked to him as if he understood every word she said, and fed him whatever he would eat. According to my mother, Bradley was my younger brother, and she even held birthday parties for him, making him wear a hat and eat birthday cake every year.
    “He’s a walking garbage disposal, he’ll be fine. And don’t think changing the subject will make me forget what we were talking about. She didn’t even want kids, Stephen, it was only a matter of time. And I haven’t seen her for two years, so it’s hard for me to remember exactly when you were divorced, but she left you long before you were divorced, I can tell you that, ” she said.
    I inhaled a shallow breath and cleared my throat. “I’m not thinking about her.”
    I scooped up a forkful of some strange corn, bean, and vegetable salad she had prepared and carefully lifted the substance to my mouth. Fried chicken on the Fourth of July was one of her rituals, and it generally included several side dishes, many of which she now obtained off of Pinterest. Some of the new recipes were great and some were nothing short of awful. I did my best to swallow the unidentifiable spicy mixture, but it was proving to be rather difficult. As I rolled it around in my mouth and reached for my glass of water, she raised her eyebrows and sighed.
    “You don’t like the corn salsa?” she asked.
    “It’s salsa ?” I asked as I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth in an effort to rid myself of the taste.
    “Yes, what did you think it was?” she asked.
    I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. Hell, you’ve got a gallon of it there in that bowl, I thought it was a salad or something.”
    “Salsa, Stephen. It’s corn salsa . I got if off of Pinterest. Suzette likes it, and so does Randy,” she said.
    “Well, take it over to Suzette and Randy’s house,” I said.
    She reached over the table and smacked the back of my knuckles with her butter knife.
    “God damn it,” I howled as I pulled my hand away. “Fuck.”
    I raised my hand and stared at the back of it, fully expecting to see blood. A three inch long red welt began to rise before my eyes.
    “You hear that, Bradley? We’re two dollars richer,” she said as she pointed toward the top of the refrigerator with her chicken leg.
    I knew better than to argue. I stood, pulled out my wallet, and walked to the refrigerator. After digging through my wallet and finding two one dollar bills, I pulled the jar from the top of the refrigerator and dropped the money inside.
    “You smell like smoke. Have you been smoking?” she asked.
    “No, I quit,” I said, telling the truth for the most part.
    “I think you were telling quite a fib to Bradley and me earlier when we were cooking the chicken. I want you to know that, Stephen. You’re my little boy and I can see