Page 200 of Property of Whiskey

Thank fuck.

Twila bends beside me. “This one’s got flowers.”

“Maybe Prickle’s landscaping.”

She elbows me.

Mama gets out of the recliner and reaches for her purse. “I’m going home.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s late.”

“Whiskey.”

“Mama.”

“I drove at night before you grew a beard.”

“That ain’t the point.”

“It’s four miles.”

“Still.”

Twila looks between us. “Stay.”

Both of us turn toward her.

“Who knows what else the night will bring.”

“She’s right.”

Mama asks, “Where will I sleep?”

Twila shrugs. “You have a couch.”

Mama’s eyes sharpen with amusement. “And where are you sleeping?”

Oh, hell.

Twila smiles sweetly. “I won’t.”

Mama looks at me.

I look at Twila.

Twila looks downright pleased with herself.

Mama grabs her purse. “Driving home suddenly sounds delightful.”

“Mama.”

“What? I raised you. My work is done.”

“You’re the least helpful person I know.”