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I thought I was going to be sick. His mother asked him to entertain us, to play something for us on the piano, and the pert-butt blond tossed the curl out of his face and flowed over to the piano and started to fill the room with Chopin. I'd had this kid in my craw for a good fifteen years, and all I wanted to do was to slam him to the floor and fuck the stuffing out of him. And that was when he was just a series of pictures and narratives in letters from his mother to mine. And now here he was in the flesh, Mr. Perfect. And, damn if he didn't play Chopin like a concert pianist.

His mother, Belle, and mine had gone to school together—more than that, they'd been in the same little social clique from kindergarten through high school in a very small town. Belle had been told she couldn't have any kids. And she didn't have any kids until very late in life, and then there was Jon; her pride and joy. I was the third of five my mother had birthed and was six years old when Jon was born. Mother hadn't thrown it up to Belle that she could have kids at a drop of a hat and Belle couldn't, but from the moment Jon popped out, Belle thought he was the only kid in the world and had made a career out of pushing that idea with all her friends and one upping any talent or achievement mentioned about any other kid in town. And I think she called my mother every day of her life and had a camera implanted between her tits, so she—and all of her friends—wouldn't miss any of the wonderful things Jon was doing.

...

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