The Axeman's Jazz

money. S’posed to support me in my old age and here I am supportin’ him.” He got up and rummaged in a cabinet until he’d found a box of supermarket doughnuts, which he opened unceremoniously on the table. “Take two, they’re small,” he said. “And butter ’em while they’re hot.”
    “Thanks.” She eyed them warily.
    “What do you think of a boy like that? Tell me, I’d like to know.”
    For once, I feel kind of sorry for him
. Aloud, she said, “Maybe he’s just changing careers.”
    He snorted. “Changing careers! You know what he says he’s doing? Says he’s working on a book! Now, who does Elec think he is, trying to write a book?”
    Was it possible he really didn’t know his son was a highly successful author? “Well, I don’t know,” she said cautiously. “Maybe he took a writing course or something.”
    For some reason that tickled Lamar’s funny bone. He slapped his knee and had himself a good old laugh. “You’re all right, you know that? He ought to, that’s for sure. See, Elec’s written a book or two before; but piss-poor? You can’t even imagine. All kind of whiny stuff that just shows what’s wrong with America today. My son the grown-up crybaby. No wonder those books never did a damn thing. Really stumped his toe on that last one. I don’t think it sold but three copies in the whole country, and his mother bought one of them—not me, nosiree, I wouldn’t waste my money. And now here he is tryin’ to write another one—or says he is. I got no idea what that boy does all day.”
    “As long as he’s home at night.”
    “Home at night! Well, that’s a good one. I’d like to know the last time he was home at night. Can’t really expect it, though. Him and me never did get along. You know, even when he was a little boy he wouldn’t do right. Other boys liked to play cowboys and war and everything, what did Elec do? Always lyin’ around with his nose in a book. I knew he wasn’t ever gon’ be a man’s man. Always Mr. Intellexshul. Always thought he knew better’n his old man. Don’t know what his mama saw in him.”
    “They were close, were they?”
    “Well, we got divorced early on and he spent most of his time with her. Guess that was all the comp’ny she had—had to make the most of it. He’d come stay with me and wouldn’t lift a finger, that boy. Way she spoiled him’d make you want to puke.”
    “You must have remarried, then. You mentioned your wife’s dying last year.”
    “Did. I remarried the same old woman. If you can feature such a thing.” Once more he laughed and slapped his leg. “We wasn’t really apart that long, tell you the truth. Minute Elec left home, that woman wanted me back. She just never could stand to be alone, that was her problem.”
    “Oh, Lamar, you can’t fool me—I’ll bet you were glad to have somebody to take care of you.”
    “You shore are right about that! Lordy, lordy, those years we were separated, I never even learned to open a can of soup for myself! Why, I had dust mice looked like cocker spaniels!” He was laughing up a storm now, hugely enjoying himself—to the point that Skip wondered if he hadn’t doctored his coffee.
    She looked at her clipboard as if prompting herself. “What kind of work do you do, Lamar?”
    “Little as possible.”
    “Don’t blame you. Don’t blame you a bit.” She waited, but he didn’t continue. “Are you retired?”
    “I guess so,” he said. “Wife had some decent insurance. Miss her, though. She had a mouth on her, but I miss her. Never thought I would.”
    “You married her twice—you must have liked her.”
    “Best woman I ever saw. But you know about women.”
    Skip got ready. She knew what was coming.
    “Can’t live with ’em,” he said. “Can’t live without ’em.”
    He got up, found a brown bottle, and held it up to her. “Want a little something in that coffee?”
    When she shook her head, he poured an amber stream into his.
    She consulted her clipboard again, inventing as she went along. “It says here this is a two-income family.”
    He nodded. “Jonelle worked. Night nurse at Touro.”
    “And you, sir?”
    “Well, I did this and that. That time we were divorced, I set up as a painting contractor. Pretty good, too. But you know what? There’s not a good way to paint, not a good way in the world. You’ve either got to spray it, roll it, or brush it on. None of ’em work worth a damn, compared to everything else—you know,