Sylvia shot Preacher an annoyed glance. “In case you haven’t noticed, you idiot, I’m pregnant with your nephew. And I’m too big to be sleepin’ on the ground. You put me on the ground and I won’t ever get up again.”
“She’s been sleeping in the camper with us,” Ginny added.
“Nephew?” Preacher asked, glancing at Joe. “It’s a boy?”
“We don’t know.” Joe rolled his eyes. “Just last week she was sayin’ he was a she.”
Sylvia glared. “Well, I have to call it something, don’t I?”
“She’s carrying low.” Ginny gestured to Sylvia’s swollen belly. “My guess is it’s a boy.”
Sylvia beamed. “See! We can call him a he!”
Joe ran a hand through his short dark hair and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “How ‘bout we call him a life-ruining cock block?”
“Joseph Fox!” Ginny snapped, her eyes wide.
“What did you say?” Sylvia demanded, thrusting a finger at Joe, the nail painted bright red.
“Nothin’,” Joe muttered.
“It wasn’tnothin’!” she shot back. “I heard you!” Sylvia slowly lifted herself off the bench. Standing over Joe, she glared down at him. “You apologize!”
Joe, refusing to look at his wife, only scowled at the tabletop.
“What about Max?” Preacher had to raise his voice to be heard over Sylvia. “Why can’t he double with Joe?”
“Hell no!” Max chimed in, “I’m sharin’ with Knuckles! You couldn’t pay me to sleep in that stink-hole!”
No one paid either Max or Preacher any attention. Sylvia had graduated to shouting while Joe looked like he wished a lightning bolt would strike him dead. Ginny had moved to stand between them and was attempting to calm Sylvia down with hand gestures and softly spoken words.
Preacher sighed. Didn’t his mother know by now that her attempts were futile? A bat to the head wouldn’t shut up a Jersey girl—let alone an Italian. The only chance anyone had at peace was walking into traffic.
Eventually Sylvia burst into loud, exaggerated tears and shuffled away. Joe looked momentarily relieved until Ginny snatched his arm and dragged him along after her.
“Is it always like this?” Looking bewildered, Debbie stared after Ginny and Joe as if she didn’t quite know what to make of his family.
“Yup.” It was Max who’d answered. At some point, he’d taken Sylvia’s seat across from Debbie. Leaning forward on his elbows, a cocksure grin on his face, Max said, “Sometimes it’s worse. You should see them when—”
“Go away,” Preacher interjected. He really,reallydid not like the way Max was looking at Debbie—like it was his goddamn birthday and she was a present he couldn’t wait to unwrap.
Max faced Preacher, his eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Man, what is your fuckin’ problem?”
“You are. So go away. Right now.”
Eyes flashing, Max shot to his feet and slapped his palms down hard on the table. “You’re just like Dad!” he accused, before storming off.
Preacher watched him go, more perturbed that Max had likened him to their father than anything else.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Debbie remarked.
He snorted. “Nice? Do you have any brothers—or sisters?”
She shook her head. “My dad died when I was really little. I was an only child.”
Preacher was reminded of the drawing in Debbie’s notebook—the man with the little girl on his lap.
“My mom… remarried,” she continued, her words clipped and strained. Then her features tightened. “But they… didn’t have any kids.”
