“It hasn't done anything right, either. It's a house.” But buried in his disagreement for disagreement's sake, he knew what the kid meant, met it with a sort of concurrence mixed with some surrender to the vagaries of the legal system. Even if it was legal to burn down a house for the unadulterated satisfaction of watching flames peel it apart, for the sensation of unburdening yourself of worldly possessions you didn't want, there was probably some underlying insurance situation that he wasn’t aware of or hadn’t paid attention to that would complicate everything, turn it into a money-grab and land him in a courtroom. He wasn’t about to really burn down the house anyway. It was too decisive a move, too irreversible, especially when he didn’t bear any ill-will toward the structure, only things a fire wouldn’t erase. Hell, part of him still hoped the homecoming revelation he would never admit to wanting was just slow in coming. Couldn’t come home to a pile of ashes.
One-handed wave toward the teapot, do your thing, kid, while he watched the phone like something might jump out of the screen. Offhanded: “If you live through what, The End of The World?”
So Daddy, moldering on his deathbed, regrets his associations with whatever the hell Jude represents and turns Biblethumper, sends verses to everyone in his contact list as penance, gets into heaven. Okay, fine. But the stupid “Jude” thing wasn’t a coincidence. So maybe not. Message to Near: something about the kid, about faith and salvation and basically Fuck you, Courtland, if you wanted to say something, you should have said it. January 3rd didn’t ring any bells for significance, either. Not anybody’s birthday, at least not that he could think of. Not the date of the message. He sighed. Maybe Jude tea connoisseur was also Jude Bible expert?
For now, though, he held off asking. He didn’t trust either of them -- not Courtland, not Jude -- and that felt like a good enough reason to keep quiet.
One-handed wave toward the teapot, do your thing, kid, while he watched the phone like something might jump out of the screen. Offhanded: “If you live through what, The End of The World?”
So Daddy, moldering on his deathbed, regrets his associations with whatever the hell Jude represents and turns Biblethumper, sends verses to everyone in his contact list as penance, gets into heaven. Okay, fine. But the stupid “Jude” thing wasn’t a coincidence. So maybe not. Message to Near: something about the kid, about faith and salvation and basically Fuck you, Courtland, if you wanted to say something, you should have said it. January 3rd didn’t ring any bells for significance, either. Not anybody’s birthday, at least not that he could think of. Not the date of the message. He sighed. Maybe Jude tea connoisseur was also Jude Bible expert?
For now, though, he held off asking. He didn’t trust either of them -- not Courtland, not Jude -- and that felt like a good enough reason to keep quiet.