McCourt and his wife, Beth, share a three-room cottage at the end of the raked gravel drive, a quarter of a mile down the road. Jack’s father allows them to stay there rent-free, part of the arrangement he has with them. The both of them are full-time help, available to do whatever needs doing, from farming to scullery work. Connor is off to the gun show with Jack’s old man, but his fluorescent orange Road Runner is still here, parked alongside his bungalow.
“Why doesn’t Beth drive us?”
“The Road Runner needs a new whatsit.”
“Aren’t we going to say good-bye?”
“Naw. It’s her Saturday. We’ll let her sleep in for once, kid. Give ol’ Beth a break.”
They walk swiftly toward the tree line, his mother hauling the suitcase in one hand and squeezing his cold fingers in the other. Jack can see Connor and Beth’s cottage in its little stand of trees and wonders if Beth will look out the window and wonder why they’re carrying a suitcase across the furrowed field.
They wade through a few yards of stiff, frozen brush and come out on the edge of the highway. His mother marches them east along the side of the road, gravel crunching under their heels. With every step they put between themselves and his father’s sprawling red farmhouse, she seems more at ease with herself.
Jack and Bloom walk the ruler-straight highway in the strong, brassy morning light for around half an hour. His mother tells him about relations he will meet up north, people with colorful mental illnesses and amusing criminal histories. There is the aunt who fell in love with a parking meter and went to jail for taking a cutting torch to it so she could bring it home with her. There is the great-uncle who strangled someone’s poodle because he thought it was a Russian spy. Jack’s great-great-grandfather used to walk in the Easter parade, naked except for a loincloth, carrying a hundred-pound mahogany cross on his back and wearing a crown of thorns, until the town ordered him to stop—the blood on his face was scaring children. Jack is at turns incredulous, bemused, and thrilled. She might almost be describing a nineteenth-century freak show instead of family.
He sees his father’s F-150 coming before his mother does, Connor’s Road Runner following right behind it.
“Hey,” he says, pointing at the pickup, which is still half a mile away. “It’s Dad. I thought he went to the gun show.”
His mother looks back over her shoulder at the approaching vehicles. They travel another few yards, and then Bloom’s feet catch up to her brain and they stop walking. She sets the suitcase down by her heels.
The truck eases to the side of the road, slowing in the chalky margin and throwing up a haze of dust. Jack’s father sits at the wheel, staring at them from behind a pair of mirrored shades, Connor right beside him. The Road Runner parks behind the pickup, and Beth gets out. She stands holding the driver’s-side door, looking frightened.
“Whyn’t you come over here, Jack?” Beth calls. “I’ll drive you back to the house. Grown-ups gotta talk.”
Bloom tightens her grip on Jack’s hand. He stares up at his mother, then catches a movement from the corner of his eye and glances behind them. There’s another car coming, this one from the direction of town: a police cruiser. It glides along with the lights and siren off, and when it’s about fifty feet away, it parks on the other side of the road.
Only then does Hank McCourt, Jack’s father, the Separatist, climb out of the big beige F-150. Connor gets down from the other side, careful not to put his weight on his carbon foot. Jack’s cousin is the luckiest man he knows: he has a twenty-first-century mechanical leg, that souped-up Road Runner, and Beth. Jack would commit multiple homicides to have even one of them.
Jack’s father ambles toward them with his hands out to either side, palms down, in a gesture that seems to recommend calm. He’s armed, a Glock in a black leather holster on his right hip, but that’s no surprise. He only takes it off to shower.
“Get in the Road Runner, Jack,” Hank says. “Beth will drive you home.”
Jack looks at his mother. She nods and releases his hand. Bloom picks up the suitcase and moves to follow, but Hank steps between them. He reaches for the handle of the suitcase—a husbandly thing to do—but then he puts his palm against Bloom’s chest to