Author's Note:
Guys, are you all asleep? Chapter 7 has been up for over a week, and I haven't gotten one lousy review! Reviews are usually what keeps us writers going, so if there aren't any, it tends to make you feel worthless. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but, you know, a little acknowledgement every now and then really boasts the old ego and gets the ideas and the fingers flying. :o)

And as much as I'm complaining, I'm updating anyway. See, that's how nice a person I am. And like I said before, don't expect too many updates in the near future. I'm starting a new job tomorrow and I guess that'll keep me pretty busy. Feel free to bug me to go on, though. Sometimes that works wonders. And now: Go read, here's more to satisfy your cravings:

--...----...----...--

The door creaked slightly as Adam turned the key in the lock and opened it awkwardly with one hand, for in the other he was carrying a brown paper bag with groceries that he had just gotten from the supermarket. He had already almost dropped it once when he had taken it out of the car, and it wasn't exactly light-weight with the cans and glass jars at the bottom. The plastic bag with the milk container that hung in the crook of his other arm cut into his flesh uncomfortably, so he kicked the door shut with his foot and quickly walked into the kitchen to put everything down on the counter next to the refrigerator.

When he had finished placing everything where it belonged, he went upstairs to his room. It was Friday late afternoon, he would be leaving for Washington with Mary Jane later in their camper. And he hadn't even asked his dad for permission yet.

He had put this conversation off for much too long already, the conversation about the nights at the pub and the money missing from the housekeeping allowance that they kept in the porcelain bowl on the top shelf. The reason why he had was that he already knew it wouldn't be pleasant. But he had set himself an ultimatum: He would talk to his father before he left for Washington.

As Adam got the nylon traveling bag from under his bed and started putting clothes in it, he went over the conversation in his mind once again. And in all the scenarios he had imagined so far, it didn't end too well for either of them. He hoped that reality would turn out for the better. After he had gotten his bathroom utensils as well, he zipped up the bag and went downstairs again.

His father was sitting in the living room in his armchair, watching a rerun of The Tonight Show. Adam sat down on the couch, so he could look at his father. There was no easy way to broach the subject, so Adam went right ahead. There was no need to sugarcoat things.

"Dad, there's something I need to ask you."

Carl turned his head sideways and looked at him. "Go ahead," he replied, sounding slightly bored as if it didn't interest him much.

"Can you switch this off?" Adam indicated the television.

Carl Rove got the hint and used the remote control to shut down Jay Leno animatedly interviewing Ewan McGregor. He sat up a little straighter in his chair, wincing at his hurting back, and studied his son. This somehow felt like it would be getting unpleasant.

"Thanks," Adam muttered. "Look, I don't know how else to say this, so I'll just say it. There's money missing from the bowl. I know it's your money as well as mine, but we agreed that it's the money we use for groceries and other necessities. I barely managed to buy food with what's left."

Adam looked pained, even more so than usual. Carl was afraid to look into his own son's eyes because Adam was right and he suddenly felt more ashamed than he had all those mornings he had woken up with a hangover and heard his son leaving for school and then afterwards his job that they depended on to support the family.

Carl sighed and said, "Yeah, I know. I had to take some, but I'll put it back. I promise."

"When, Dad? I won't get paid before the end of the month. How are we supposed to get by until then?"

"Look, I'll handle it, okay?" Carl said, an angry edge creeping into his voice.

"You'll handle it? How?" Adam asked, his voice now raised. "You don't have a job, you don't earn any money, you're not the one working his ass off to pay our bills." He was painfully aware that he was being unfair because it wasn't his father's fault that he was not healthy enough to work.

"No, Adam, I don't have a job and I don't earn any money." Carl was now shouting at his son. "Do you think I'm happy about that? Do you think I chose to be stuck here with a wrecked back? Do you think I chose all this?"

"And I suppose you also didn't choose to go to the pub every other night to blow the little money we have left on alcohol, right?" Adam spat at him angrily.

"How dare you say that? How dare you dictate what I'm doing on my own time with my money?"

"But it's not only your money. That's the problem!"

"If that's what you want, you can keep your money and I'll keep mine!" Carl's face had gone red with heated irritation.

"Fine!" Adam yelled back at him, now beyond all reason to calm the situation down. "I'd like to see how you get by on that."

Adam got up and left the room. In the doorway he turned around again and added in a cold voice, "And just so you know, I'm going away for the weekend and I'm taking the camper. Don't expect me to be back before Sunday night."

With those words, he stomped up the stairs, took his ready-packed bag and left the house.

--...----...----...--

When Joan opened the door of her room to the hallway, she had to wrinkle her nose at the smell stinging in her nose. It smelled distinctly of something edible burning. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, to see if whatever it was that had already started to cloud the kitchen in gray smoke had already been taken care of.

Apparently, it hadn't, because thick smoke, accompanied by a tangy and unpleasant smell, was billowing from the oven. Thinking quickly, Joan grabbed a pair of oven gloves and opened the oven door. She had to cough at the heat and smoke that blew in her face. Waving for the smoke to clear, she extracted the baking tray from the oven and put it next to the sink. A brownish black something greeted her that, she guessed, in a perfect world was supposed to be a cake.

Suppressing the urge to cough again, she switched off the oven and opened all the windows in or near the kitchen. One of the quirks of an open cooking area was that smells would waft through half the house, including the unpleasant ones. That having been taken care of, she went to find her mother, whom she had seen preparing dough earlier. Remembering her God assignment, Joan had asked if she could help when she came home, but Helen had only shooed her from the kitchen, saying that she was almost done anyway.

Joan found her mother on the couch, her head resting on one of the pillows, fast asleep, a book in her lap. She shook her mother softly. "Mom."

Helen jerked to wakefulness. Realizing something wasn't right, she asked, "What's wrong? What's that smell?"

"Mom, you tried to burn down the kitchen."

Helen's hand shot to her mouth as she gasped. "The cake!" She jumped up.

"Relax, I defused the situation," Joan reassured her.

Helen went into the kitchen, looking at the burnt, black something on the counter with wide eyes. "Oh no! How could I fall asleep? It's completely ruined!"

Joan stood opposite her, leaning against the other side of the counter. "Relax, it's only a cake."

"No, it's not only a cake!" Helen's voice was on the brink of catastrophe. "It was the cake for the library raffle tomorrow. I promised I'd bring one. Now I have to start over." She started to hastily assemble ingredients from the refrigerator and cupboards on the kitchen counter, getting out the mixer and a plastic bowl. With a sudden jolt of realization, Helen asked, "What time is it?"

Joan looked at her watch. "Ten to six, why?"

"Oh, dammit!" Helen exclaimed, her hand shooting to her forehead to indicate she had forgotten something. "I promised Mrs. Hargrove from two houses over to help her take down her curtains for washing. I said I'd be there at six."

"Why don't you let me take care of the cake and you can go help Mrs. Hargrove?" Joan offered. She saw the unenthusiastic look on her mother's face, who probably already saw her kitchen in shambles if she let Joan cook or bake on her own again. But then Joan remembered CuteBoy-God and how he had said "Be courteous to the old lady". The old lady, Joan realized, could only be Mrs. Hargrove.

Looking at her mother, she added, "You know what? I'll help Mrs. Hargrove with the curtains while you bake another cake. How's that sound?"

Helen smiled feebly. "Better."

"Okay, it's a deal." With that, Joan went quickly upstairs to switch off her computer and stereo before she left for her neighbor's place.

--...----...----...--

Adam honked the horn twice as he pulled up in front of M.J.'s house with the camper. They had agreed that M.J. would go with Adam in the camper, so that she could guide the way to her aunt's house in Washington. Besides, M.J. thought it would be much more fun than riding with her dad. Her father had said he didn't mind driving alone, so it was agreed upon.

The Clover's house was situated in the same suburb as the Girardi's, just barely a few blocks away from Euclid Avenue. It was an impressive building, painted starkly white with a roof covered in dark, shiny tiles that looked brand new. Somehow it stood out among all the brown or gray houses all around. The sight of it made Adam once more painfully aware of how shabby their own house looked in comparison.

After a few minutes, M.J. came out the front door, carrying a crammed backpack. Adam got out of the car and helped her put the backpack into the camper. M.J. waved to her father, who was standing casually in the front doorway, as they drove away.

M.J. shifted in her seat and adjusted the seatbelt, so it wouldn't cut into her shoulder quite as much. She looked over at Adam, whose jaw was set determinedly. She could see his jaw muscles working as he was watching the road ahead, turning in the direction of the motorway.

To compensate, she started talking. "So, you know the way to Washington, right? At least until we get into town."

"Yeah," he just replied.

M.J. went on, "Have you ever been to DC?"

Adam shook his head.

"There are so many cool places. My parents and I used to go to Rock Creek Park all the time. Sometimes we'd take the bikes, sometimes Mom and I would hire horses at the stables while Dad played golf. Then Dad would drag me through some of the gazillion museums. Some were fun, some where just boring. And there's some really amazing spots near the Potomac too. I sometimes went there when I needed inspiration. And not to mention the many opportunities to go shopping. Paradise for any woman, you know?"

She paused and looked at Adam again, who was keeping quiet. He had barely said a word since they had left. "Adam, is everything okay?" she asked.

"Hm?" he asked as if he hadn't even been listening.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, his reply again monosyllabic.

"Am I talking too much? Sometimes I can babble on and on. You know, I don't wanna chew your ear off first thing."

"No. It's just..." Adam sighed. He wasn't sure how much he should be disclosing to M.J. He didn't know her that well yet and he didn't know how much of his personal life he wanted to confide in her. He finally said, "I had a fight with my dad before I left."

"Oh," M.J. said understandingly. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No, not really." Adam sure wasn't ready to discuss their financial problems with M.J. He hadn't even told Joan or anyone else. Not that there really was anyone other than Joan or Grace to tell about it. And Grace usually wasn't someone he would discuss these things with.

They rode a few minutes in silence and then M.J. started talking about her old school and her best friend Lena back in Washington. Adam just listened, nodding occasionally or acknowledging with a mumble every now and then. He was glad for the distraction, glad that he was getting out of Arcadia for a while to forget about all the ugliness around.

After a while, M.J. got tired of being the only person to talk, so she demanded carefully, "So, tell me about your friends."

Hesitantly, Adam answered, "Well, you've already met Grace, Joan, Friedman and Luke in school."

"Joan and Luke are siblings, right?"

"Yeah. Joan has another, older brother—Kevin."

"I haven't met him. What's he do? Is he going to college?"

"No, he works at the Arcadia Herald as a reporter."

"Sounds cool."

Adam didn't mention that Kevin was in a wheelchair. He didn't know if M.J. already knew, but it didn't sound like it. And Adam thought it best to leave it to Luke, Joan or Kevin himself to disclose this to M.J. Not wanting to talk about Joan, he steered the subject away from her. "I've known Grace since kindergarten. She can be a rebel sometimes, but deep down she's a decent person."

Adam had to smile despite himself. If Grace knew he was talking this way about her, she'd give him a good whack over the head. So he added knowingly, "Don't tell her I said that, okay?"

M.J. laughed. "Okay, sure. My lips are sealed."

"And then there's Friedman. He can be a real jerk, but he's cool, yo. We're not that close, he's really Luke's friend."

"And Luke and Grace are together, right?"

"Yeah, they have been for... let me think... about a year now, I guess. Wow, time flies."

"So, what about Joan? Are you two...?" M.J. let the question hanging in the air.

"No." Adam's eyes clouded over ever so slightly. He didn't know if M.J. had noticed since he was looking at the traffic through the windshield. "I mean, we were for a while."

"So, what happened?"

M.J.'s question was innocent enough. She didn't know that Adam was completely uncomfortable talking about it. "I..." he started. "It's complicated," he then evaded.

"Yeah, when isn't it ever?" M.J. sighed. "Well, it's not like I've been with a lot of guys. Only one, really. But he turned out to be a real jerk, screwing around behind my back with another girl. Reason enough to dump that s.o.b."

Adam had to swallow at M.J.'s words. He had to fight to hold back the tears threatening to well up. He couldn't help but think back to the afternoon of mock trial, even though that was months in the past. Thanks to his photographic memory, the events were rolling before his mind's eye like a movie in perfect playback. He had to concentrate hard not to lose sight of the road in front of him. He gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles went white.

M.J. noticed his sudden discomfort and gaped at him, the connection of her words to Adam and Joan's situation dawning on her. He was working the muscles in his jaws again as she quietly asked, "You didn't cheat on Joan, did you?"

Adam couldn't speak. He knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to hold back the tears any longer. He just nodded slowly.

"Sheesh, men. What is it with them?" M.J. remarked exasperated. "So, I guess she found out and broke it off, huh?"

"Yeah," Adam half whispered, still not ready to speak.

"But you didn't stay with the other girl?"

"No," Adam said suddenly vehemently. "No. She wasn't... I wasn't really in love with her." He didn't want to say Bonnie had been just a hook-up; that sounded so cruel, so drastic.

"You cheated with someone you weren't in love with? Sorry, that's just beyond my grasp. What is it you did, then? Just fuck her for the fun of it?"

It wasn't meant as an earnest question, but M.J. wasn't aware of how close to the truth she actually was. When she looked at Adam again, she saw the look of silent desperation in his expression. "No. Tell me you didn't! Why?" There was something accusing in her voice now.

Adam wanted to stop this conversation right here, right now. This was something that he didn't want to talk about, but they were in way too deep by now. A little angry, he said in a raised voice, "I don't know why, okay? It... it just happened. I didn't mean it to."

"You didn't mean it to? Adam, were you even thinking about Joan when you did it? Couldn't you at least have told her before? You know, screwing a girl you don't love is despicable enough, but couldn't you at least have told Joan before you went to sleep with someone else?"

"I shouldn't have done it in the first place," he said quietly, his voice full of regret.

"Yeah, I'd say so too," M.J. agreed.

"You know, I really wish I could take it back. I wish that so much," Adam said softly, blinking, so the tears wouldn't cloud his vision. He saw a sign announcing a motorway station ahead and pulled over to head for it. If this discussion continued any further, he would start crying, and he didn't want to endanger either of them by driving around with zero vision.

When they had stopped the car, Adam leaned back in the seat and rubbed his face with his hands as he sighed. He heard M.J.'s now soft and sympathetic voice from next to him. "Here, why don't you let me drive for a while?"

He took it as a truce offering and got out of the car to swap places with M.J. She told him, "I'll just quickly look for the toilet, 'k?"

"Sure," Adam acknowledged. He made himself comfortable in the passenger seat, taking a swig from his water bottle. He hoped M.J. would leave him alone and not grill him any further on what he was already beating himself up about. It had been like another kick to the stomach to have someone else tell him how stupid he'd been. And he had hoped this trip would be taking him away from all of this...

--...----...----...—

"Do you want some tea, honey?" Mrs. Hargrove asked Joan, who was balancing on a chair next to the window to reach the last of the curtains and take it down to be put into the washing machine.

Once, the chair had been close to tilting to one side and Joan had quickly shifted her weight, so she and the chair wouldn't topple over together. She had to think back on the sprained ankle her escapades with the washing machine had once earned her. Laundry didn't agree with Joan for some reason. But she was still on a mission from God, just as she had been the last time.

Joan climbed down from the chair with the curtain in hand that was slightly yellow and felt like years of dust and other dirt particles had gathered in it. Slightly disgusted, she put it in the laundry basket standing on the floor.

"Tea would be nice," Joan answered, more out of courtesy than out of the need to have a hot beverage. God had told her to be courteous, so she was going to be as courteous as she could pull off.

Before Mrs. Hargrove turned to go into the kitchen, Joan pointed at the laundry basket and asked, "Where do you want me to take this? Do you have a laundry room or something?"

"Oh, just leave it for now, dear. I'll make us some tea first."

The truth was, Joan was eager to leave this house that smelled stuffy and somehow like someone had cooked cabbage in the kitchen for days on end. Courtesy, she reminded herself. "Is there anything I can help you with?" Joan offered.

"No, no, you've helped plenty, young lady. I will be fine, just wait here."

Joan was left in the living room to watch Mrs. Hargrove slowly walk into the kitchen, the pain of her gouty joints clearly showing by the way she moved.

Joan couldn't help but look around: The living room was stereotypical 'old lady'. A chintz sofa with two matching armchairs sat in the middle of the room, a blanket neatly draped on it. A dark and depressing wooden wall unit lined one wall in front of an old-fashioned and by today's standards savorless wallpaper. It screamed 'antediluvian', just as much as the little accessories like the oversized flower pot with the fake flowers and the sideboard that had an assortment of framed pictures arranged on it.

Nevertheless, Joan was drawn to the sideboard with the pictures, so she strode over to it and looked at the pictures. There was a slightly yellowed picture of a man, maybe in his thirties. The recently deceased Mr. Hargrove, Joan guessed. Next to it was an old black-and-white wedding picture of Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove, standing close to a portrait of a pretty but chubby woman with blond hair. The woman was depicted in more than one picture. When Joan looked closer, in one she could see the woman with a young boy in her lap. A young boy whose face looked strangely familiar, but then didn't all toddlers look similar at a certain age?

Joan was still studying the pictures when Mrs. Hargrove came back into the room with a tea tray that held cups with flower patterns and a teapot. Mrs. Hargrove put the tray onto the bulky couch table and then joined Joan at the sideboard.

Joan was—again—too curious for her own good. "Is this your daughter?" she asked, indicating the blond woman in one of the pictures.

Mrs. Hargrove lifted the picture and her fingers softly went over the glass cover of the frame. "Yes, that's my Clarissa."

"And that's her son?" Joan asked, now looking at the picture with the little boy.

"Yes, that's my grandson," Mrs. Hargrove said.

Joan tried to calculate how old he might be. "He must be... in his twenties by now?"

"He turned thirty this year."

"Wow. I bet he threw a big birthday party," Joan thought aloud.

Mrs. Hargrove suddenly grew quiet. With regret in her tone, she said, "I wouldn't know. I haven't talked to him in years."

"Why?" Joan blurted out before she realized that she was prying and sticking her nose in people's business where it definitely didn't belong. But in the back of her mind, God's words echoed, "Family is important." Was this maybe the reason she was here?

"Oh, it's a long story, dear."

Clearly, Mrs. Hargrove didn't want to talk about it, and Joan didn't know how she could get the story out of her without being extremely rude, so she figured she wouldn't push the subject and try to find out more through other sources.

Joan followed Mrs. Hargrove to the sofa and sat down on it, desperately trying to think of something to talk about with someone who was so much older than herself. Joan sighed inwardly. This would be a long night.

--...----...----...--