Chapter 35: That’s What You Tell YourselfI stopped at a liquor store on McCullough Boulevard.
We don’t keep alcohol in the apartment. Don’t even keep aspirin in the apartment for fear Jackson Ledbetter would grind it and snort the powder up his goddamn nose.
I was partial to American Honey, so I picked out a fifth, thought better of it, grabbed a big bottle instead.
I was never one to do things halfway.
As I drove to New Albany, where Mama lived, I drank straight from the bottle.
I was in one of those moods again.
I bypassed the road to Mama’s house and circled through the downtown area, eventually winding up at the cemetery on the edge of town where Catholics had been buried since the 1800s. A meandering drive went through the cemetery, and the tombstones glared in my headlights. I
