4 Chapter 4

“You’re wasting your time,” she said, holding a slab of meatloaf on her fork, getting ready to slide the beef inside her mouth, savoring its pepper and salsa taste. “Tal isn’t going to help you. He’ll show up at your office first thing in the morning and tell you he’s not available. Any sane man would. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“We will indeed,” she replied, winked at me, shoveled meatloaf into her trap, obviously enjoying my company, as usual. 6: A Mother’s Son

Katherine Williams-Boxford, my mother, drank herself to death. At age sixty-five she had found a way of ruining her liver and the once-sturdy relationships she had with her two children, Cissy and me. Mother failed to seek help for her addiction, took on the role of skin and bones, and never believed for once that she had had a real problem, which were all typical in an alcoholic’s short life.