“Mom, what are you doing?” I had quit yelling, my voice quiet and shocked. I hadn’t quite thought about the fact that I was still standing in the bedroom with my naked mother.
Clayton managed to push himself off the bed with a groan. He didn’t bother to cover up as he walked toward me. He was even fatter standing up, his huge furry belly hanging so low it almost allowed him some modesty.
He directed his question at Rose but kept coming toward me. “You got a goddamn queer kid. You never told me that.”
“’Cause it’s none of your goddamn business. Get back in bed and shut the fuck up.”
Clayton ignored her and kept walking toward me. “Who are you to walk in here and start yellin’ and interrupt a good fuck?” He wasn’t more than an arm’s length away, and I could feel his anger radiating off of him. “Haven’t got the chance to beat the shit out of a faggot in a long time.”
I heard Jed enter the room; he must have been waiting outside the door. I couldn’t see him, but I heard his voice. “Then you’re gonna have to beat the shit out of two of them.” It was no more than a growl. “Back off.” I had only heard it a few times before, but I knew what he looked like when he was angry enough to sound like that. Only an insane person would try to take him on. That might not play to our advantage with Clayton.
“Clayton!” Mom’s voice was shrill enough to hurt. He stopped his approach and looked back at her. She sounded nearly crazed. “Get the fuck back here and shut your worthless mouth.”
“You dumb slut.” His voice was quiet, and he turned back to the bed.
Rose turned her attention to me. “And you.” She was seething. “Get out of here. This is none of your fucking business. You have no right to be here. Aren’t you supposed to be with your precious, rich Durkes?” She spat out their name.
“I wanted to tell you Merry Christmas and see if you need anything.”
She dripped sarcasm. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest little thing? I’m so humbled that you find me worthy to come see on Christmas.” She turned away from me, back to Clayton. “Get out, Brooklyn.”
I took a step toward the bed. “You’ve been drinking again. It’s all over the fucking floor out there. What are you trying to do, trying to have another stroke?”
Clayton’s voice sounded like a little kid talking back to his teacher. “Shows what you know, faggot. Last night was nothin’, not near as much as normal, and she ain’t had a stroke yet,faggot.” He seemed to enjoy the word; his eyes lit up each time he said it.
“Shut the fuck up, Clayton! Goddamn it, use your fucking brain!”
He looked at her, half in confusion, half in anger. “What’s the fucking matter? This is good. Now I don’t have to get out of here before dawn every goddamn morning.”
“Shut the fuck up!” She smacked his face. It was odd to see such a huge man cower to this shrunken, little woman. He must have had more of a brain than I thought.
I stood there, staring. Embarrassingly, it took me several seconds for what I had heard to make sense. When it did, I took a few backward steps. The pieces fell into place, and I felt stupid for not seeing it before. I shouldhave. She’d been my mother long enough. I should have seen the signs that were right in front of my face. Even a stroke wouldn’t change her. Clayton had been coming by every night. Maybe not even just Clayton. Maybe she had several lined up. She’d been sleeping later and later because her hangovers were getting worse.
The hate in my voice surprised even me. “I can’t believe you.” I realized as I said it that it was a lie. “I’m doing all I can to help you and get you better, and you’re doing this. You’re going to kill yourself.”
A look of what must have been shame crossed her face, then her eyes hardened and narrowed. “Sorry it didn’t work in time for Christmas. What a gift that would have been, huh?”
I turned and walked out of the room, Jed following.
Rose screamed from her bedroom. “You ain’t done nothing for me, anyway. Anybody can clean a house. All you are is a damned maid!”
As I slammed the door, my voice matched hers perfectly. “Fuck you!”
I drove the short distance to the graveyard and got out and sat with Jed by Grandma and Grandpa Morrison’s gravestone. We didn’t speak. We didn’t touch.
After a while, I looked at him nervously. “Sorry.”
He was quiet. “You don’t need to be sorry.”
“I don’t like you hearing me like that. I hate that I can sound like that.”
He didn’t respond; he just put his hand over mine.
Several more minutes passed.
“What should I do?”
“What do you mean?”
