—SEAN MURPHY’S JOURNAL AMANDA MADE THE BEST pancakes. Thick, tasty, and about a quarter pound each. A couple of them would keep a man moving till lunchtime, and if his bowels were sluggish, they’d move those too. George Murphy cut his stack into wedges, applied a half cup of Log Cabin syrup, and loaded them methodically into his mouth. Ricky cut his with the edge of his fork, a bite at a time, butter and a sprinkle of sugar, but no syrup. Amanda stood at the stove and watched. She liked to watch the boys eat. When they had both finished devouring their stacks, she quietly poured them another round of hot coffee. George was in one of his moods. Everybody knew that Ricky had a short fuse, and people had said the same thing about her. But George had his moods too. Ever since he was a little kid, good-natured most of the time, he did what she told him, worked hard—but there was a devil inside him. Amanda had learned to leave him alone when he was like this. Let him stew, and he’d get over it Don’t ask him any questions; don’t try to tell him what to do.
