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baking.
"How was school today, N.B.?" Momma was cooking in her apron, smoking a cigarette and drinking from a half empty pitcher of martinis.

"Okay," I sat down at the table behind her. "Mrs. Jacobs says to say hello and to stop by."

"Oh I haven't seen her in ages," she was rolling out biscuits on the counter next to the stove. "Where did you see her, honey?"

I love when Momma calls me 'honey' but it usually means she's about to get really drunk and that's not all that much fun for any of us. "At baseball practice; they made me run down the fowl balls that went mostly in her yard."

"That's nice, dear." I don't think she really heard me. "Tell her 'hello' for me when you see her next. Then Momma sat down next to me and wiped her forehead with her apron, lit another cigarette and poured another drink.

"Momma," I asked with my cast resting on the table, all its colors looked crazy next to the biscuits waiting on the tray in front of us, "do you think coach is feeling sorry for me 'cause of my bum arm?"

"N.B. Sherman!" she drew hard on her cigarette, staring down it like it was a gun barrel pointing from her finger. "Your father was training you and coach new it, and don't you ever, ever feel sorry for yourself." She was kinda' mad. "At least not in front of me."

Momma kissed my head and put the biscuits in the oven.



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