Sunday morning, his mother stood over him wearing her good hat and purple dress. “This is the third Sunday in a row, Joseph.” Her face was pinched. “Father Santelli is asking about you all the time, and what am I supposed to tell him?”
Joe blinked at the light in the room. She’d thrown all the curtains open. “I’m sorry, Ma.” He needed to sleep. He turned to his side, away from her. This was the only time of the week he could stay in bed. Even God had taken a day to rest, hadn’t he?
“Did you drink this whole bottle down last night?”
“It was only half.”
“You drink too much of that whiskey. You know, my brother died from the drink. It killed him. Is that what you want to happen to you?”
“I’m sorry, Ma.”
She sighed heavily, and Joe waited, keeping his eyes closed. At last, she turned awa
