The Liars' Club

by Mary Karr

His voice came out in a guttural rasp, like the possessed kid in that exorcist movie.

Daddy’s whisper was both fierce and frail.

“Confound the luck,” Daddy said, meaning, goddamn your fate.

Bumper slithered from Daddy’s lap to the floor with a liquidy plop.

I played My Hand’s a Spider on the cat’s belly a minute.

I’ve heard it said that caring for an invalid is like caring for a baby. And I suppose it’s the same basic deal, but a baby rewards you each day with change, sprouting a tooth or discovering that the object randomly waggling before its eyes is, in fact, its own hand.

an invalid is a hole you pour yourself into. Every day he fixes you with a glance more gnawed-out tired than yours, more hurt. If life is suffering (as the Buddha says), some endless shit-eating contest, then the invalid always wins, hands down.

Like a forties movie where calendar dates get torn off in a flurry, some months passed.

We wobbled to our feet. Our table was littered with pitchers, cocktail napkins soppy wet and shredded, a forest of stemmed glasses.

I didn’t think this particularly beautiful or noteworthy at the time, but only do so now. The sunset we drove into that day was luminous, glowing; we weren’t.

Only the dark aspect of any story sank in. I never knew despair could lie.