Michael Malone - Weebly

shit," or, "Let's go zap some of those little bastards for
so-and-so," or, best, you just left the guy alone. But he
couldn't walk into the Strummers' living room and say,
"Tough luck, man," to Joy's father. There wasn't
anything he could say. He'd just leave them alone.
Lance spun himself off the bed, his left arm raised.
He pulled on Levi's and a T-shirt, slid his feet into
loafers. He dumped drawers of socks, shorts, and shirts
(put there by his mother) into a leather satchel. He
scooped jackets and slacks from a closet, racquets and
balls, rods and tackle from the floor. All of it he flung
into the Jaguar.
Its seats were already warm from the sun. Then he
strode across the damp lawn and eased open the back
door of the big house, relieved to find his father still
upstairs. A glassed-in summer room was green with
flowering plants. Lance took to its round white table a
quart of milk and six dinner rolls. Finally, in his father's
study, he found paper and a pen and, while he ate,
wrote for the first time in five years, "Dear Dad."
Thanks for getting me fixed up last night. Hand
doing okay. What happened got me down pretty