SIXTEEN THAT SPRING, SOMETIMES TUCKER’S mother would study until three or four in the morning, and then report to Stirring Romances by nine thirty. Once Tucker found her hunched over some work, crying, at the kitchen table just as dawn was breaking. He had awakened to go to the bathroom, and at first he thought she was asleep sitting up. Then he saw her shoulders shaking. He went up behind her and looked down at the papers spread out in front of her. On one side were the page proofs of a manuscript called “I Married the Devil: He Wanted Me to Sleep in a Coffin.” On the other side were long yellow sheets marked with headings like “Ancillary jurisdiction of federal courts and the basis thereof,” and “Implied judicial power.” “Mom?” he said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Are you okay?” “It’s hard, honey. It’s so hard,” she answered. Then she bawled in great wails, hanging on to him for a long time. But there were days when he had never seen her so happy, and his father had this strange new way with her, almost as though he were courting her all over again.
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