“Pete said, then smacked a claw with the wooden mallet. “They sure are,” Joyce Wentz agreed. The kitchen swam in spicy aromas of Old Bay and vinegar. A quick glance out the window showed the yard darkening, the sun going down. It was nearing 9 p.m. “And you did a great job cooking them,” she added. “These are the best I’ve had.” The heap of cooked crabs lay on the newspaper-covered table. They were starting to get cool. Joyce suspected that her son knew full well that she was placating him—anyth...ing to avoid the issue. Soon she couldn’t think of anything to say as they sat there in silence plucking tender white crabmeat. The hardest part was simply containing her rage. The son of a bitch should’ve at least called… Pete finished his third crab; usually he ate six or eight. Eventually he said, “I guess Dad’s not coming back tonight, huh, Mom?” “Probably not.” “But he did say he’s retiring tomorrow, right? He said for us to be there at noon.” “That, right, that’s what he said.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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