The Language of Love and Loss by Bart Yates

Author:Bart Yates [Yates, Bart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2023-02-16T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

If I ever bitch about needing more excitement in my life, please feel free to make me swallow my own tongue. Sure, I get sick of my daily routine, when there’s nothing more interesting going on than a spat with an annoying coworker or an inconsequential blowjob from a stranger, but even so, I much prefer boredom to the nonstop weirdness and emotional upheaval of the last few days. If I took a blood pressure reading right now, the cuff would explode off my bicep and punch a hole through the wall.

We managed to get Janelle bailed out of jail early this afternoon, and now she’s back up in her room, licking her psychic wounds and snarling at anybody who comes near. She’s completely screwed, and we all know it: She’s being charged with not just one, but two felony counts—unlawful possession of a credit card, and forgery of the card owner’s name. The forgery charge is a complete dick move on the part of the DA, since the unlawful possession charge is already more than enough to ruin her life, but given Janelle’s shoplifting history, neither the DA nor the judge who set her bail were inclined to cut her any slack. Cindy had to cough up twelve thousand dollars just to get her mentally deficient daughter temporarily out of jail.

Needless to say, today hasn’t been much fun.

Cindy hasn’t sat still for more than fifteen minutes at a time since we got home four hours ago; she keeps trotting upstairs to try to talk to Janelle—who either yells at her to go away, or ignores her completely—then she comes back downstairs and bawls her eyes out in the living room while Mom tries to console her. I’ve been hiding in the kitchen all afternoon, perched on a barstool at the island and doodling in my sketch pad. Most of what I’ve done is crap, but I no longer care: Happy hour officially started half an hour ago, and I’m now on my second gin and tonic. At the moment, Cindy is upstairs again, and Mom is molesting a big ball of pizza dough on the counter for tonight’s supper. I set down my charcoal pencil and rub my hand.

“Want some help?” I ask.

She looks over her shoulder and shakes her head. “I’m nearly done.” She slaps the poor dough a few last times for good measure, then wanders over to check out the sketch I just finished. “Wow,” she says, leaning over my shoulder. “That’s really good. I assume it’s from yesterday?”

“Yeah.” I evaluate the drawing with a more critical eye than hers; it’s a profile of J.D., sitting on the bleachers with his elbows resting on his knees. It’s decent, I guess, especially for working from memory, but it could be a whole lot better. The knuckles in his left hand are too pronounced, for one thing, and I also bungled the muscles in the side of his neck. I haven’t drawn or painted J.D. in years, but his body is still as familiar to me as my own.

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