I looked at his clothes. Six-hundred-dollar suit. A little old boy out of a Mississippi swamp. He’d gone a long way on a Mississippi Christian optio... play. He was guts from hell. I looked at the scar down the side of his skull, the busted nose, the broken jaw didn’t show – they’d wired it good. I wondered if he had trouble getting up after sitting two hours in a movie with those bad knees. And the punctured lung only the Mayo Clinic could fix. But nobody was trying to kill him every week. He might beacting all peaches and cookies and light right now, but I remember himranting and raving, holing himself up for hours in the room downstairsdoing god-only-knows-what in there on the computer. That's what mom usedto call it: "god-only-knows-what." Whatever it was, she didn't make itsound good.He might want to start again and I don't blame him. Who doesn't? Heprobably wants to forget all the things he said and did back in the day.It's got to be great for him to dump all that garbage in. More

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