The Resurrectionists [antikvár]

Chapter 1 I couldn't quite get us back without incident for the burial of my father. We ran into a little trouble along the way. It took us two stolen cars along the Interstate to get us home. It's not exactly easy to go to a funeral halfway across the country when you're up to your ass in debt, when you don't have the money for an airline ticket, and you have a car with a shot gasket. You hear about bereavement fares, but have you actually ever met anybody who flew for free to bury a loved one? It's all part of some benevolent myth. Like everything else in life, there are stories within stories. The us I am speaking of is me, my wife and our kids, the principal characters who sustained me, if not by love, then by the sheer extent of their need for me as provider. I'd taken on the cross of parenthood with an undue sense of heroism. My wife Honey diagnosed it as TAS, Terminal Asshole Syndrome. She says it is a terrible syndrome, since it usually kills those around the victim, not the victim. That sort of summed up how things were at the time we hit the road to bury my father. I say our kids went back with us, but the eldest, Robert Lee, is not mine, in the sense that I didn't beget him, as they say in the Bible. I call Robert Lee 'Exhibit A' in a long line of grievances against my wife, Honey Wainscot, who still uses her ex-husband's name for the sake of Robert Lee, to give him stability, to give him a history, to help his transition into manhood, and, I also suspect, in no smaU measure because her