Page 21 of Property of Whiskey

“What’d she want?”

“You.”

My teeth come together hard enough to ache.

Holler notices.

“She always wants you,” he adds. “That ain’t news.”

“She ask about Wren?”

The fork starts scraping his plate again, slower this time. Holler looks down at the gravy instead of at me.

That’s answer enough.

I pick up my glass but don’t drink.

“She asked how she was.”

“No. She asked whether I was still keeping Wren from her.”

“Same thing, according to her.”

“It ain’t.”

“I know.”

The old jail settles around us. Pipes knock somewhere inside the walls, and one of the men sleeping in the cells snores hard enough to make a bottle vibrate against the bars.

Holler reaches for his coffee. “She says she’s doing better.”

“She always says that.”

“Says she’s clean.”

“She always says that too.”

“Been going to meetings in Official.”

“Good for her.”

He looks at me over the rim of his mug. “She wants to see Wren.”

“No.”

“Whiskey.”

“No.”

“She’s her mama.”

“She lost custody.”

“You know I ain’t defending what she did.”

“Sounds close.”

His expression hardens. “She’s still my sister.”