“Here, child.” Eudora handed him one of Dad’s fancy cut-glass tumblers. The reddish-brown liquid in the bottom stank of rubbing alcohol. “Moonshine from my medicine cabinet.”
“As part of our intervention.” Katherine smiled.
Harry’s jaw popped and his head jerked sideways as if in some death spasm. Again and again. He looked at the rug in front of the black, empty fireplace. Everyone waited; no one spoke. They huddled around him like a blanket.
“I don’t drink.”
“I do,” Max said. Max had arrived within minutes of the ambulance. Probably broke the sound barrier along the way.
“Best not say that out loud, child. The ding-a-ling in that yellow house across the way is a bit”—Eudora tapped her head—“cray-cray, bless her heart. She’d turn you in for underage drinking faster than I can reload Daddy’s shotgun.” Eudora nodded at Harry. “Sip it so you don’t get tore up.”
“Tore up?” Max laughed.
“Redneck for sozzled. My car mechanic’s expression of the week.”
“Man, that’s disgusting!” Harry gagged.
“You’ll develop a taste for it when you’re older. I reckon this might ease those tics, though. That last one looked mighty painful.”
“Yeah, okay.” Harry held his nose and drank. Fire burned his throat, but he deserved it. And then warmth filled his insides, and his elbow stopped flapping.
“Good job. And one more,” Eudora said.
He still felt like shit, but at least he felt loved. A loved piece of shit.
“When the ambulance turned up, I thought she was dying,” Harry said. “I thought it was my fault.”
Max draped his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “So not true, dude.” He took Harry’s glass and had a gulp.
“Child, my mama used to have panic attacks all the time. Of course, they weren’t called panic attacks in those days. I think they were called a case of female nerves. The medical profession has not been kind to women.”
“Amen, sista.” Katherine leaned forward and took the glass away from Max. “I’ve had them too, Harry. Given the stress everyone’s been under, I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier. To any of us.”
Dad appeared from the bedroom. He was still in his suit and carrying an overnight bag. He looked like an unloved piece of shit.
Harry jumped up, threw his arms around him. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. It’s all my fault.”
Dad stiffened, patted Harry’s back, and then clutched at him like they were both drowning. “Hazza,” he said quietly. “You did nothing wrong. Katherine and I both believed your mother needed help managing—managing . . .”
“Her emotional stress,” Katherine said. “Harry, this is a good thing. They’ll keep her for a few days’ observation and probably send her home with an antidepressant. Felix, did you call Robert?”
Dad eased himself free of their hug. “I’m meeting him at the office in an hour—after I take this bag to the hospital.” He grabbed the photo of toddler Harry sitting on his plastic dump truck and slid it into the bag’s outside pocket.
“Dang. At this time of night?” Eudora said.
“Sadly, yes. Katherine, can I leave you in charge?”
Katherine nodded. “Stay in the office until you’ve met the deadline,” she said. “I’ll take over here.”
Max raised his hand like an overeager preschooler. “I’ll take Harry to school tomorrow. And drive him home.”
“I’ll make the best southern breakfast y’all have ever tasted,” Eudora said.
“With biscuits and gravy?” Max said.
“And fried eggs, country ham, fried okra, and grits.”
Max squealed.
“Now, you give me the number of that school, Felix, and I’ll call first thing in the morning and tell the director that these two delightful young men will be in my charge until I’m done feeding them.”
“I think I love you,” Max said to Eudora.
“I’m mighty flattered, hon, but I’m a lesbian.”