unkempt, slumped like the poorest of white trash on a piece of furniture that had been dowdy and threadbare even when new. Mary’s drunken father had had more pride. Her Sicilian grandmother, too poor to buy drinking glasses, had kept her jelly jars in immaculate rows. For the first time in her life, Mary knew her son as a stranger. As someone who might do anything, whose head was full of thoughts and desires she couldn’t imagine.
