***

The back porch boards creaked as Scoot brought his boot heel down, gavel like, and threatened to give way. One more thing to change out, Poocher thought.

“So what?” Scoot belched. “That’s fuckin’—I dunno how many—That’s seconds, dude. Nothing.”

“Seconds? You can measure a week in seconds, you asshole. Forty-eight seconds, how much it is. That’s goddamn near a full fucking minute, Scoot. Jesus.”

“You’re just saving up. You just gotta cut full loose tomorrow, unleashing the beast and shit.” He brought the boot down again.

“Where were you? Could have backed me up against his dickish behavior.”

Poocher held his glass of ice and bourbon in front of the sun sinking low behind the pines. Light glinted through like the stained glass in the church. Rapturous. He had to run in the morning. He was drinking bourbon. Finishing bourbon. He poured another few fingers onto the ice.

“Ain’t your mom supposed to be passing in there?”

“Why the hell you think we’re out on the porch, not the comfort of my own home? Maggie and the girls got that prayer group in there.”

He drained the new glass. Goddamn prayer group.

Through the plate glass squares of the door he could hear it. Low. Monotonous. Chanting. Like a self-righteous bee, won’t leave you alone.

He took a swig from the bottle. He let Maggie get away with a lot. Hell, she practically ran the damn place. Swig. He was racing. And now. And now? Strangers in his house. With his mother.  In his house.

He knocked the empty bottle over as he stumbled from his chair. Door swung wide. Legs lurched through. Sloshing now.

Scoot followed close behind, trying to guide his friend. Poocher was too big, too unwieldy. Nothing could be done.

“Don’t have to be a scene in here!” He was shouting before he reached the doorway, which he leaned into heavy and proud when he found it.

The women surrounding the old woman stopped. Looked up. Anxious. Not Maggie. Steely eyed, Maggie. Smoke signals rose from Taryn’s amused, twisted lips. They said let’s go. The others were deer in the lights.

Her eyes never closed.

“She’s a goddamn Catholic. Was. Y’all know that?”

They didn’t say anything. Every woman’s mouth was wide open now. Showing their teeth off. Gaping and forever silent.

“Y’all strangers. Comin’ in my house. I mortgage this house. Pay that. This’s mine. Her. Paid for her too. To sit and stare and piss in that bag.”

He looked down at the bag of urine. Somebody had nestled it into a wine coozie covered in pink polk-a-dots.

He pointed at Taryn. She tossed him a Virginia Slim and a light. He lit.

“Forgive me, y’all look awful nice. Maggie. And it’s sweet of you comin’ ‘round here. Especially since y’all strangers. Taryn’s here whether I like it or not. A real kind thing considerin’ her scrambled brain means she ain’t even aware of it, and if she were she wouldn’t walk across the street to spare piss for you if you were on fire, well… It’s just a real kind thing, and I’m wonderin’ if you can do one more kind thing for me?”

Gaping and forever silent.

“Could you keep it down in here? I’m trying to drink out there.”

Scoot stood nearby, watching. Some of the ladies started to get up and leave. He nodded at them. If he’d had a hat, it would have been in his hands. He wished he had a hat.

“Don’t go,” Poocher said like to a dog in the wrong. “Just keep it at our inside voices, okay?”

Maggie, frozen blue glare unblinking, took the old woman’s hand.

“Dammit, Maggie!” Came his voice, raised in volume, lowered an octave. “I never asked for that. I never asked for you to turn this into some fuckin’ halfway.  Some fuckin’ shelter!”

Flinty eyed. Quiet and firm. “You ask for everything.”