Revival by Stephen King

the bullshit of a grief-struck man, and don’t you forget it.”
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    The Wednesday before Thanksgiving was a half day in our school district, but I had promised Mrs. Moran that I’d stay to wash the blackboards and neaten up our little library of tattered books. When I told Mom, she waved her hand in a distracted way and told me to just be home for supper. She was already putting a turkey in the oven, but I knew it couldn’t be ours; it was way too small for seven.
    As it turned out, Kathy Palmer (a teacher’s pet wannabe if there ever was one) also stayed to help out, and the work was done in half an hour. I thought of going to Al’s or Billy’s house to play guns or something, but I knew they’d want to talk about the Terrible Sermon and how Mrs. Jacobs had gotten herself and Morrie killed because she was shitfaced drunk—a rumor that had indeed gained the credence of absolute fact—and I didn’t want any part of that, so I went home. It was an unseasonably warm day, our windows were open, and I could hear my sister and my mother arguing.
    â€œWhy can’t I come?” Claire asked. “I want him to know at least some people in this stupid town are still on his side!”
    â€œBecause your father and I think all you children should stay away from him,” my mother said. They were in the kitchen, and by now I was lingering outside the window.
    â€œI’m not a child , anymore, Mother, I’m seventeen!”
    â€œSorry, but at seventeen you’re still a child, and a young girl visiting him wouldn’t look right. You’ll just have to take my word for that.”
    â€œBut it’s okay for you? You know Me-Maw’ll see you, and it’ll be all over the party line in twenty minutes! If you’re going, let me go with you!”
    â€œI said no, and that’s final.”
    â€œHe gave Con back his voice!” Claire stormed. “How can you be so mean?”
    There was a long pause and then my mother said, “That’s why I’m going to see him. Not to take him a meal for tomorrow but to let him know we’re grateful in spite of those terrible things he said.”
    â€œYou know why he said them! He just lost his wife and son and he was all messed up! Half crazy!”
    â€œI do know that.” Mom was speaking more quietly now, and I had to strain to hear because Claire was crying. “But it doesn’t change how shocked people were. He went too far. Much too far. He’s leaving next week, and that’s for the best. When you know you’re going to be fired, it’s best to quit first. It allows you to keep a little self-respect.”
    â€œFired by the deacons, I suppose,” Claire almost sneered. “Which means Dad.”
    â€œYour father has no choice. When you’re no longer a child , you may realize that, and have a little sympathy. This is tearing Dick apart.”
    â€œGo on, then,” Claire said. “See if a few slices of turkey breast and some sweet potatoes make up for the way he’s getting treated. I bet he won’t even eat it.”
    â€œClaire . . . Claire-Bear—”
    â€œ Don’t call me that! ” she yelled, and I heard her pounding for the stairs. She’d sulk and cry in her bedroom for awhile, I supposed, and then get over it, the way she did a couple of years ago when Mom told her fifteen was absolutely too young to go to the drive-in with Donnie Cantwell.
    I decided to hustle my butt into the backyard before Mom left with her special-made dinner. I sat in the tire swing, not exactly hiding but not exactly in full view, either. Ten minutes later, I heard the front door shut. I went to the corner of the house and saw Mom walking down the road with a foil-covered tray in her hands. The foil twinkled in the sun. I went in the house and up the stairs. I knocked on my sister’s door, which was graced by a