“They’re not weeds, you crazy old bat-”

“Shut up! I told you not to call me that! And I’m not old, only forty-six. I only look old ’cause I’ve been living with you like a pauper. Because you’re too lazy to get a real job.”

Jack Durkin held his stomach gingerly, still recovering having had his wind knocked out of him by that elbow. Damn thing was as hard as a crowbar. His knees felt creaky as he hobbled back to his chair. Without much enthusiasm he took a bite of corn flakes, then dropped his spoon back into the bowl.

“I got a job,” he said defiantly. “The most frickin’ important job in this whole goddamn world. And I’m under contract, goddamit!”

“You and your lousy contract.”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, pointing a thick finger at her. “That contract is the most sacred piece of paper on the planet. Don’t you dare desecrate it!”

Something about his tone stopped her. She went back to scrubbing the dishes and muttering under her breath what a useless fool she married. Jack Durkin sat scowling, first at her then at the bowl of corn flakes sitting in front of him. He pushed the bowl away, his round face turning red.

“Where are Lester and Bert? Why ain’t my sons eating breakfast with me?”

“It’s summer. I’m letting them sleep past six o’clock!”

“Well, that’s not going to happen again. Tomorrow morning they’re damn well joining me for breakfast. If I’m off saving the world every day, least they can do is join their pa for breakfast. You get them woken up or I’ll drag them out of bed myself. Don’t you think I won’t! And quit your goddamn muttering!”

Fed up, he pushed himself away from the table, grabbed his baseball cap and thermos, and headed towards the door.

Lydia Durkin stared stone-faced at him, but once he opened the door she softened a bit. “Ain’t you gonna eat nothin’?”

“Not in the mood now.”