Michael Malone - Weebly

her, he had been long disconnected. He was as rootless
as the plastic rubber plant he'd given a neighbor, along
with the rest of his mother's furniture, soon after she'd
died in Phoenix without disclosing in some whispered
confession her son's heritage. There had been no
mysterious past bequeathed him on her deathbed. She'd
said only, "I'm so sick of feeling rotten," and then died.
Long before that, a car had by chance killed his father.
No relations, paternal or maternal, had traveled to
Phoenix to mourn and eat and share the same
memories.
Not that it had ever occurred to Richard Rage to
ask where he came from anyhow. He came from St.
Louis, and he grew up in Phoenix, where, having
reached the age of exploration, he was more concerned
with getting his own ashes hauled than with poking
around in those of his ancestors. All he knew was that
his paternal grandfather had hated St. Louis, had
worked hard all his life, and had been married to a
professional martyr. All he knew was that his maternal
grandfather had sung sad songs happily when he drank,
had drunk himself to death, and had been married to a