“He was wearing my mom’s apron with the outline of a woman’s body in a pink bikini on the front. My mom had insisted on a tablecloth for the picnic table and was pouring glasses of iced tea for her and me. My dad was already on his third beer. He looked out over the yard like he was king of the castle. A trailer castle. It would have been easier for my dad if we had moved a lot. Most con artists move towns frequently to avoid being known by the local cops, but for whatever reason my dad wanted t...o stay here and put down roots. Well, as rooted as you can be when your house has no foundation. “How do you want your steak?” Dad asked when I came out carrying the potato salad and a stack of napkins. “Medium rare,” I said. He wrinkled up his face. “How can you eat that? Pretty soon you’ll tell me you like your steak still mooing. If you’re going to eat meat, make sure it’s dead first. I’ll cook it well done like your mom’s and mine.” I slid the potato salad onto the table.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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