THE STAIN IN THE ATTICJulie, Mark, and I sleep in the attic together in a bed whose springs coil out of the mattress like a pig's tail. Grandma scoots about on the floor, since she has no legs to walk on, just stumps.
“Lor', child, hep yore poor ol' grandma get ta the outhouse,” she wails.
I can barely speak, since Pa's latest attack has left me feeling numb all over. I rub my stomach, feeling the baby move. Not much longer, I think. Not much longer…
Mark, only three years old but with his Pa's blue eyes, looks up from a puddle of pee on the floor. He has an oafish grin on his face, like he's accomplished something big in life; that is, if he lives that long. Over in the corner next to a cracked mirror is a stain that will not wash away, no matter how hard we scrub and scrub. In a paint
