Truly, Madly, Whiskey(97)

“I’ve been out for six months,” he seethed. “You didn’t think to tell me that Mom had more kids? That she was f*cking up their lives, too? I could have helped.”

Quincy scoffed. “You told me…” He coughed, wheezing like he was on his last lung. “To f*ck off.”

Truman glared at his brother, sure he was breathing fire. “I pulled you out of a f*cking crack house the week I got out of prison and tried to get you help. I destroyed my life trying to protect you, you idiot. You told me to f*ck off and then went underground. You never mentioned that I have a sister and—” He looked at the baby, having no idea if it was a boy or a girl. A thin spray of reddish hair covered its tiny head.

“Brother. Kennedy and Lincoln. Kennedy’s, I don’t know, two, three maybe? And Lincoln’s…Lincoln’s the boy.”

Their f*cking mother and her presidential names. She once told him that it was important to have an unforgettable name, since they’d have forgettable lives. Talk about self-fulfilling prophecies.

Rising to his feet, teeth gritted, his rain-drenched clothes now covered in urine from their saturated diapers, Truman didn’t even try to mask his repulsion. “These are babies, you *. You couldn’t clean up your act to take care of them?”

Quincy turned sullenly back to their mother, shoving Truman’s disgust for his brother’s pathetic life deeper. The baby’s shrieks quieted as the toddler patted him. Kennedy blinked big, wet, brown eyes up at Truman, and in that instant, he knew what he had to do.

“Where’s their stuff?” Truman looked around the filthy room. He spotted a few diapers peeking out from beneath a ratty blanket and picked them up.

“They were born on the streets. They don’t even have birth certificates.”

“Are you shitting me?” How the f*ck did they survive? Truman grabbed the tattered blanket that smelled like death and wrapped it around the babies, heading for the door.

Quincy unfolded his thin body and rose to his feet, meeting his six-three brother eye to eye. “You can’t leave me here with her.”

“You made your choice long ago, little brother,” Truman said in a lethal tone. “I begged you to get clean.” He shifted his gaze to the woman on the floor, unable to think of her as his mother. “She f*cked up my life, and she clearly f*cked up yours, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let her f*ck up theirs. The Gritt nightmare stops here and now.”

He pulled the blanket over the children’s heads to shield them from the rain and opened the door. Cold, wet air crashed over his arms.

“What am I supposed to do?” Quincy pleaded.

Truman took one last look around the room, guilt and anger consuming him. On some level, he’d always known it would come to this, though he’d hoped he was wrong. “Your mother’s lying dead on the floor. You let your sister and brother live in squalor, and you’re wondering what you should do? Get. Clean.”

Quincy turned away.

“And have her cremated.” He juggled the babies and dug out his wallet, throwing a wad of cash on the floor, then took a step out the door. Hesitating, he turned back again, pissed with himself for not being strong enough to simply walk away and never look back. “When you’re ready to get clean, you know where to find me. Until then, I don’t want you anywhere near these kids.”

End of sneak peek

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