I could pray. Should pray. The words won’t come. The house groans. My muscles burn. Last week, Reverend Clay came by, but Lettie wouldn’t let him in. She told him Brian was sleeping. “Lettie, is he right with the Lord?” he asked urgently. Lettie said she wanted to spit in his face. Furious, she told him her grandson was more right with God than most people in Chester, including him and his son. I don’t ask God to forgive Brian anymore. I ask him to forgive me, to forgive his father.
