[15: Blood] The screen door behind her banged sharply, and she whirled about, surprised. There was Jeffrey, holding a bottle of beer and a dingy cooler, a ball cap emblazoned with “Simmons Auto Body” perched on his head. “Mom!” He was a squat man, just starting to go bald, but she swore she heard a petulant four-year-old’s voice, yelling “Moooom!” as she wiped dirt from his face in front of his friends. “Hey, honey. Welcome home.” He looked about the kitchen, still covered in dishes, but none left where he had had them that morning, and some of the piles replaced by bulging garbage bags. “I thought you weren’t coming ‘til this weekend.” “It’s friday, and a holiday. The car rental place let me have the car a day early for twenty bucks, so I thought I’d pop down and surprise you.” He looked about the kitchen, and saw just how much had been moved into trash bags. She wasn’t sure whether he was going to storm out, or say thank you, or maybe cry. He grunted and nodded. “Thanks for coming down.” Not quite the same thing, she thought. “I love you too, honey. How was work?” “Slow. Me and the guys went out to the lake after lunch ‘cause we’d already finished.” “Want to go get dinner? I was going to cook, but the kitchen’s still dirty. Is that cute little diner still open in town?” “Laura’s? Nah, she called it quits a few years ago now. Some lady from Chester tried to open it again, but she wasn’t Laura. Lasted like three months. But Chuck’s Tavern has wings if you want ‘em.” “Honey, I love you, but I am not eating in a bar.” Jeffrey shrugged and swigged his beer. There was something of a swagger in it, and she laughed a bit inside. “I think there’s pretzels around here, too. And I got chef.” He pointed to a pile of cans on top of the refrigerator. “Go get a clean shirt on. Let’s go to Chester and get pizza. I’m not going to eat canned ravioli either, and neither should you.” “Okay, mom.” There was the petulant four-year-old again. He came back out of the bedroom a few minutes later, in a different shirt. Grease-stained, but ostensibly ‘clean’, she supposed. “I don’t suppose you have anything with buttons?”