When we shook, his handseemed to be all knuckles. Here a tall black manwith a last few strips of flesh hanging from his face like cureddeer-hide walked his skeletal Alsatian. It wasn't just that myfather-in-law was looking for dirty laundry in my closets, either. The framed afghan square tore itself off the walland flew from one side of the studio to the other, the black oak framebreaking apart.
The smile suggested that he'dlike to see me sitting next to Romeo Bissonette in that firstgulag-bound boxcar. I pivoted, stuck out both hands, and pushedher. Devore, and when I'm driving I often drift off into my ownprivate-- You're lying. It's all right, honey, I said.
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