Not the outward boy, unruly, irresponsible, wild, defiant, too handsome for his own good. She could see past all that to the man inside who was having a little trouble coming out but who one day would, and she loved him.

She went towards him, letting her arm come away from her tits. He'd seen them before, and he probably would again. Their closeness had never been marred by false modesty.

"oh, honey," she said tolerantly, "come on and get to bed before your father comes home and sees you like this. You'll only fight again."

She took his arm. He looked down at her tits. Then he looked into her eyes, at the mention of Paul, and she saw something there she hadn't seen before.

She saw that he was running hard, running scared, ducking in and out of the long shadow Paul had cast, as if there were a great taloned bird beating its wings above his head, croaking, "Bastard! Bastard!"

"Let him see me," Roger grated hollowly, his voice more frightened than frightening. "I don't give a damn any more, Mom. I can get drunk if I want to now, and: not even big old Daddy can rescue anyone from the law." He slipped his arm around her naked shoulders, his fingers at the top of her tit. He leaned slackly against her and pushed his chest firmly against her other fit. "Hey, how come you married an old fart like him, Mom? I mean, I know the story and all, but look at your bod, Mom! Christ, I could go for you myself, you know that?" He grinned down and breathed alcoholic fumes at her.

"All right, that's enough of that kind of talk," she smiled, feeling an unwanted flush of flattery. She tried to lead him from the door. He dragged his feet and pulled her this way and that drunkenly.

"Don't wanna go to bed. Not unless you go with me. You go with me and tuck me in?" He grinned with boyish innocence. "Like old times, when he was away and you slept with me and let me play with your titties?"