Read The Glass Factory for Free Online

the field from the previous week’s victory party. Ouch. That explains a lot, but not enough. His arm may be no good for football, but I’ve seen a lot of torn cartilage in my years and his doesn’t look that serious—I mean, he can open beer cans and change the channel pretty well with it. No, this kid doesn’t want to move. I sense he needs help, but more than I can spare for anybody else right now.
    Or so I think.

    Sunday morning we all finally submit to the pretense of going to church as a group, and the Old Testament reading is a command from Proverbs to “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,” and “not to stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds.” Though it doesn’t say anything specific about your neighbor slowly wasting away from lung cancer, I figure that’s the general idea. After church Billy refuses the car ride, says he’ll walk back with Antonia and me. That’s news to everybody. We stop at a bakery and Antonia blackmails me into getting her pistachio cookies. I hand the cashier a fifty-dollar bill. She checks it carefully and snaps the change as she counts it off.
    “You’ve done this before, I see.”
    We’re halfway through the bag when Billy takes us past the school and stands at the fence, staring at the football field.
    “This is the last time I fought for anything,” he tells me. “At least I knew what was up. The game had rules. There’s no more rules to follow.”
    “Sure there are.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like it says in the Bible: to fight for the little guy.”
    “The little guy ain’t always right.”
    We stare for a few more minutes, then walk past this school where for twelve long years he learned he was useless for anything other than football—and now he can’t even do that. I tell him mistakes in life should be like mistakes in the kitchen—throw them right out.
    “Nobody keeps spoiled pea soup on the shelf. The smell alone would be unbearable.”
    He says: “What are you talking about?”
    “I guess I am babbling, aren’t I?”
    “You sure are.”
    And not one inch closer to my goal. Whatever that is. No, I know what my goal is, all right, the question is, How do I get there from here?
    I get the answer from Colomba. We get home, lunch is served, and she hands me yesterday’s classifieds, with four job openings circled in red. Two of them are at Morse’s computer factory.

CHAPTER THREE
What’s the point of women joining
the mainstream if the stream is polluted?
—Bella Abzug
    WELL, THIS HERO is spending the night before battle trying to get her kid to eat her vegetables. I explain the importance of eating a variety of other foods, and I get nods of understanding, but no cooperation.
    “You’ve got to eat your veggies, Tonia,” I say. “Popeye eats his spinach, that’s why he’s so strong; Bugs Bunny eats carrots, that’s why he’s so smart.”
    “But Bugs Bunny doesn’t eat other food,” she says.
    Colomba laughs. I have to admit she’s got me. “Three and a half years old and she’s got me.”
    “Mommy, you’re silly,” says Antonia.
    Oh, no. My kid has finally discovered that her mother’s not rational. I’ve had her fooled for almost four years but no more.
    Monday morning I call to confirm an appointment I haven’t made with Techtonics, Inc. Typical Morse operation: The frenzied receptionist is too overworked to admit she’s never heard of me and squeezes me in for 11:30. Rules are for gringos.
    I decide it’s okay to leave Antonia with the family today. I wouldn’t want to take her to Morse’s place anyway. I think you’ll back me on that one. I kiss and hug her goodbye, fire up the heap and head west. The words “East Carthage” are superimposed on my Hagstrom’s with the same authority as the words “Carthage” and “Minoa,” yet it is conspicuously absent from the reality I’m driving through. In less than a mile “Minoa” becomes “Carthage” without passing through this intermediate stage.