I went back inside, looked at my sleeping husband. How could I tell him? Shook my head, poured another cup of coffee.

Alice had given me the paper and I read it, feeling detached, feeling the numb species of "this isn't happening" that had really defined my adult life. It's what I thought at 16 when I discovered I was pregnant, when I was kicked out of my house and married Stan, I was numb and thinking "this isn't happening."

So I read, kind of skimmed it as terror seeped in, "Johnny Cade…Ponyboy Curtis…fountain covered in blood…Bob Sheldon found dead…fugitives…authorities looking for fugitives…" Oh shit.

It was those friends of his, those hoodlums, dime store hoods he insisted on hanging around with. They put him up to it, made him do it, he wasn't like that. Not my son.

Stan groaned, rolled over. He was waking up. I debated telling him about Johnny. 'Honey, your son murdered someone early this morning. Want some coffee?' I stifled a hysterical laugh and thought of my half pint of vodka hidden in the hall closet behind the towels. Beautiful clear liquid shimmering behind the label.

He stood up, stumbled into the kitchen, eyes half closed. And all at once I was so mad at him, always beating up on Johnny, no wonder he hardly stayed here, no wonder. Then that anger shifted to Johnny, 'what in the hell was he thinking of?' He couldn't keep out of trouble for one damn day. And then it was anger at myself, for sticking with this sinking ship of a marriage, for subjecting Johnny to this kind of life because I was too damn chicken to leave it.

I sighed, so deep, sorrowful. Leaned on the kitchen counter and lit a cigarette. Stan rolled his eyes toward my cigarette and I pointed at the pack on the table. He took one out and lit it. The kitchen filled with smoke.

Then a knock at the door. Stan looked up sharply but made no movement toward answering it. So I did.

"Ma'am?" It was a neatly dressed kid, probably in his early twenties. I stared at him.

"Are you Mrs. Cade?" He had on a blazer and carried a notebook. Delicately he plucked a pen from his pocket.

I nodded and watched him write in his notebook.

"Cindy!" Stan growled my name. I held up one finger to the young man and turned to my husband.

"Who the hell is at the door?"

Before I could answer Stan came to the door, glared at the kid.

"What do you want?"

"Mr. Cade?" I thought the reporter, if that's what he was, was putting up a brave front. With me it had been real, his security, his sense of entitlement to ask whatever questions he planned on asking. But Stan had him shook.

"Look, if you're selling something we don't want it!"

"No, sir, I'm a reporter and wanted to talk to you about your son, Johnny Ca…"

"What about Johnny?" Stan was so angry, so quick to cut people off. Maybe that was why Johnny hardly spoke.

I saw the reporter's eyes shift to the side. Perhaps he didn't want to be the one to break the news. I smirked. These over eager media hounds. Let him be the one to tell. He'd get what he deserved.

He seemed to gather himself, to square his mental shoulders, clear his throat.

"Last night your son and another boy killed someone, but by all accounts it was your son, your son who…"

Stan's anger was turning to a dreadful confusion.