Vernon God Little by D. B. C. Pierre Page A

I’m sure I heard the door . . .’
    It’s Mom.
    â€˜God,
unghh
,
ugh
, Lalito, Lally –
wait
!’

eight
    â€˜D oris – I think the Special Edition arrived!’ Here’s Betty Pritchard.
    My heart ain’t even restarted before these ladies turn up. The fridge? I don’t fucken think so. Georgette Porkorney clomps onto the porch by the kitchen door. Mom always leaves that fucken door open. Even now, when she’s balling Lally up the hall.
    â€˜Look!’ says George. ‘They’re pulling over at Nancie Lechuga’s!’
    â€˜I know, I
know
!
Doris!
’
    My Nikes tense in their shame. I stare at the painting beside the laundry door. A clown holds up a fucken umbrella, and bawls one big tear underneath. Mom calls it art.
    â€˜Hi, Vern,’ says Leona, stealing a fry. ‘Stress binge?’
    I forgot about Mom’s fries. Now the bag’s squished in my fucken hand. I park it on the breakfast bar, next to a greeting card with a cartoon baby on it. ‘
It’s Wuv!
’ says the baby. I look inside the card and see a love poem from Lally to Mom. There ain’t puke enough in the world for today.
    When everybody is assembled with a view of the hallway, Mom steps out of her room and ripples toward us in a filmy pink robe. An alien scent drags behind her. ‘Well hi, baby, I didn’t expect you back.’ She pelts me a hug, but as she does it, her left tit flops free and smacks me on the arm.
    â€˜Doris, they’re trying to deliver the fridge to Nancie’s!’ says Betty.
    â€˜Wow, this is
exciting
,’ says Leona. ‘Weird, too, because I wasn’t even going to stop by! My new consultant’s installing the toning station today, and I still have new tenny-runners to buy . . .’
    Three whole brags. My house is fucken Baconham Palace, all of a sudden. The reason steps into the hallway, wearing a blue robewith gold detail, and new Timberlands on his sockless feet. He throws his arms wide. ‘It’s Martirio’s Angels!’
    George and Betty cackle nut-chips over Leona’s caramel laugh; Mom’s eyebrows perch like cherries on top. Nobody will ask why Lally’s suddenly dicking my ma, the truth of things will just get wiped over with cream-pie lies. Don’t fucken ask me about this love people have of saying things are fine when they ain’t fucken fine at all. Lally’s toothbrush in my bathroom ain’t fucken fine at all. He avoids my eyes as he walks through the kitchen, like I was nobody, as if fucken nothing; he breaks open one of his ginseng bottles, tweaks his balls, and keeps right on grinning.
    â€˜Hurry, Doris,’ says George. ‘It’s the Special Edition, go say something!’
    â€˜Well, I’m not even
dressed
.’
    â€˜Maybe I’ll drive to Houston,’ says Leona. ‘Buy some gymwear too . . .’ It’s a record-breaking fourth thing. Mom just smiles powerfully, and cozies back into Lally’s arms.
    â€˜Shit, Doris,
I’ll
go tell them,’ says George. ‘They’re unloading the damn thing already, look!’ I crane to the kitchen window; sure enough, a JC Penney’s truck is parked in front of the Lechugas’. A teddy bear lays pinned under the back wheel.
    â€˜Well but,
wait
. . .’ says Mom.
    There used to be a horse that could do math on stage. Everybody thought the horse was so fucken smart, he would tap the answer to math questions with his hoof, and always get it right. Turns out the horse couldn’t do math at all, could he fuck. He just kept tapping until he felt the tension in the audience break. Everybody relaxed when he’d tapped the right number, and he felt it, and just stopped tapping. Right now Lally takes a cue from the tension in the room, just like the horse that did math on stage.
    â€˜Tch – the Special Edition?’ he says. ‘Babe, after they screwed you around so long I