The Whore's Child

side of the booth. So I gave my version of the story, which—like my mother’s that afternoon at the pool—was almost funny, not the depressing development it really was but just one of those crazy things that happen to you on the road. I even made up a few details, since Clarence seemed to be getting a kick out of it. It took two songs for me to finish, and then our check came. Clarence paid it, on the spot, in cash, explaining that his own meal had been free and it was the least he could do for such hard-luck pioneers. “They got tables in the next room,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. “Let’s go make sure that rascal Bill isn’t pestering your mother.”
    He wasn’t. They were still dancing, or attempting to. Bill was trying to teach my mother the step everybody else was doing, a task made more difficult by the fact that he himself seemed not to have mastered it. He danced stiffly, as if his lower body, between his tight jeans and his cowboy boots, did not have the necessary range of motion. When the song ended, they came over to the table where we were sitting. My mother, who loved to dance and could never convince my father to take her, was flushed with excitement.
    â€œAnyhow, that’s the two-step,” Bill was saying. “It takes a little getting used to, I guess.” Then he pulled up two chairs. “You still here, Clarence?”
    â€œYes, but I’m thinking of taking my leave,” he replied. “Though I might just ask John’s mother to dance one with me before I go. I
do
enjoy mild exercise after a meal, don’t you know.”
    â€œI’d be honored, Clarence,” my mother said. “I was just getting the hang of the damn thing.”
    Bill sat down opposite me then. His face seemed pretty sweaty, and he watched my mother and Clarence on the dance floor without bothering to conceal his disgust. Clarence, it turned out, was a wonderful dancer, light and graceful on his feet, and he guided my mother around the dance floor among the other couples as if he had radar. With this huge man at her side, everyone in the room seemed to be watching her, as if what she was doing was as remarkable in its way as what Clarence had done with that Monster steak. And when they executed a complicated move, separated and came back together again in perfect time, my mother threw back her head and howled with delight.
    The only person in the room not sharing her buoyant spirits was Bill, who I realized was now watching only Clarence. “Good,” he said, getting up from the table with his empty beer bottle. “
Have
a heart attack, you fat fuck.”
    After the next dance, Clarence and my mother came back to the table just as Bill returned from the bar with another bottle of beer. Nothing for my mother this time, and nothing, of course, for me.
    â€œYou-all have a safe trip now,” Clarence was saying, and again he winked at me. “I hope you’ve seen the last of your troubles. Keep your eyes peeled for coyotes and you’ll be fine,” he added, then extended his hand to Bill. “Always a thrill, William.”
    When Bill just looked away, Clarence refused to take offense, apparently content to shake hands with my mother and me. When he disappeared into the men’s room, my mother turned to Bill and said, “That was rude.”
    He had a toothpick in his mouth that he was rotating thoughtfully, and this would’ve reminded me of my father and his metal washer except that Bill was clearly turning over a mean, ugly thought. “Well, Clarence is a pervert,” he said, bringing my mother up short. “I wouldn’t want him hanging around any kid of mine, but maybe that’s just me.”
    â€œI don’t believe you,” my mother said, but the glance she threw me suggested a frightened confusion.
    â€œOkay,” Bill said, friendly again. “Suit yourself.”
    â€œI intend to,” my mother said, and then, to me, “Let’s go, sweetie.”
    â€œLet’s part friends, anyhow,” Bill suggested. “Dance one more with me, okay? Sweetie here can wait through one dance, can’t you, sweetie?”
    When my mother looked at me, I could tell she didn’t want to, but God help me, I nodded for her to go ahead, suddenly sick with rage that she was allowing this to happen. I could think of nothing more humiliating than to be called “sweetie” by a