Chapter 17

This is how it has worked for years. To Olivia, every perceived slight is a branding iron; Mom vigorously acquits her harsh parenting skills like Judge Judy without the lace collar.

“There’s a playground near here,” I suggest. “Maybe you two could just throw sand in each other’s eyes.”

Olivia ignores this. “Of course you have to go in, Barry.”

“Livvie, he doesn’t have to do squat! It’s barbaric! I wish you’d sit up straight. You’re going to end up with a hunch.”

“I’ve got a hunch, lady, that’s for sure.”

Trying to referee, Ted says both of their names, pausing meaningfully between each, like he’s reading an eye chart.

Potsy tries to reignite the skirmish. “What does a pan of slugs look like?”

I just want to get out of this Jeep and get inside. In comparison, the funeral home will be a day spa. The five of us walk in measured steps until we all see the WWOH-TV van, idling not far.

“I’m hoping that TV truck isn’t about Andy,” I mutter.