Chapter 8

“Stephen!” Mrs. Ledbetter gasped.

“That’s how natural selection works, dear.”

“Dad, please,” Jackson said in a tight voice.

“I’m sorry, but if your mother is a drug dealer and a whore and God knows what else, perhaps you should be selected for extinction, if only from a germ and disease and general well-being point of view. Offspring raised in such an environment have poor outcomes. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m merely pointing out how evolution works. It’s survival of the fittest, after all, not survival of the most damaged.”

“Well, there you are,” Jackson said, an angry undercurrent in his voice.

Mr. Ledbetter knew how to kill a conversation.

“This clam chowder is the bomb,” I said into the silence, lifting my eyes and looking across the table at Jackson’s mother. “Stinks to high heaven, of course, but it’s actually quite all right. Of course, they say the same thing about Ann Coulter, but that’s just a bunch of horse hockey.”