But Martin knew Billy to be a generalist, a man in need of the sweetness of miscellany.
I know how it is to live in the inescapable presence of the absence of the father.
Billy went for his ball, kissed it once, massaged it, chalked and toweled his right hand, spat in the spittoon to lighten his burden, bent slightly at the waist, shuffled and slid, a bazoo-bazoo, boys, threw another strike: not just another strike, but a titanic blast this time which sent all pins flying pitward, the cleanest of clean hits, perfection unto tidiness, bespeaking power battening on power, control escalating.
He salted his oatmeal and spiced it with raisins, those wrinkled and puny symbols of his own dark and shriveling years.
She was remote cousin to Charlie’s mother and would want to lend whatever strength she had to the troubled family, a surge of good will that would now be intrusive.
a reporter whose stories were so sugary that you risked diabetic coma if you read them regularly.
Pray to Jesus, but where is Jesus? Jesus, Charlie, sits at my desk in the person of an equivocating Welsh rarebit who doesn’t understand sons because he never had any. But he understand money and news and power and decency and perhaps such things as these will help save the boy we remember. (more…)