from life behind a veil of drunkenness, but he had given up trying to reform her
long ago. Mary had, too. Jeromy had lost track of the times he had found Mary in
tears after trying to convince her mother of the destructiveness of her ways, or after
having spent hours on her knees praying for her mother's salvation. "I wonder if
the old woman knows how much her total lack of respect for God bothered Mary?"
he reflected.
As he watched her slothfully reach across the coffee table and pour
herself another drink, he knew the answer. She was so lost in her own world now
that she probably didn't even remember he was there. Did the woman have any
true feelings at all? He used to feel sorry for her, but not anymore. "A mother
who wouldn't even cry at her own daughter's funeral has got to be made of
granite," he concluded as he sat down in the chair opposite her, unbuttoning his
coat and studying her leathery face.