When they saw us, they parted. Ebony, grinning broadly, peeked from the kitchen."Do you want me to sit at the table or kneel at your feet while your f...ed me?" Mrs. Whitfield asked Father. He leered and kissed her again before guiding her to her chair and holding it for her."May I have a pillow, please, Bruce?" she asked in a subservient and husky voice."Is my little slave-girl's bottom sore?" he teased."My soreness is not limited to my bottom," she replied coquettishly.He tilted her head back. I looked over at Connie, sitting at the table, wearing nothing but a pair of bifocals, as she did our bookwork. She had a look on her face, too.Homer started to talk real slow, almost to himself. "I was watchin' a old documentary on Public TV last week about a singer named Ricky Nelson and how he got tired of all the bull shit and wrote a song about it that pissed off a whole bunch of fans and, of course, all them asshole critics. The song was about how if he couldn't sing and play his own. More

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