He relaxes a little--not much, but enough to smile at his mother and mean it.
"Thanks, Momma." He smells the lavender, and it makes him think of childhood, of his mother singing hymns quietly while doing the dishes. With a pang of guilt he wonders when she got so small, when her hair got so thin.
"You know that ain't my call," he says, turning his attention back to his father, glowering at the other end of the room.
"Lureen's got the money, she calls the shots. How it is. You know I do what I can with what I got. Now, if I could come up here with some help? Could lick this place into good shape."
He says it to both of them, eyes moving to his mother, like they did when he was a boy and had something, some drawing or some small accomplishment to show her.
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"Thanks, Momma." He smells the lavender, and it makes him think of childhood, of his mother singing hymns quietly while doing the dishes. With a pang of guilt he wonders when she got so small, when her hair got so thin.
"You know that ain't my call," he says, turning his attention back to his father, glowering at the other end of the room.
"Lureen's got the money, she calls the shots. How it is. You know I do what I can with what I got. Now, if I could come up here with some help? Could lick this place into good shape."
He says it to both of them, eyes moving to his mother, like they did when he was a boy and had something, some drawing or some small accomplishment to show her.