Pat Allen always forgot his kid’s birthday. Maybe it was some kind a masochistic thing—he sure the hell was going to hear about it from Bugs. Jeez, just what he needed was some more bullshit about what kind of father he was. Pat was approaching sixty-two and sure the hell did not need an eight-year-old kid—or maybe he was nine—messing with his lifestyle. Young wives had some real advantages, but this was one of the disadvantages: children. Pat had married Elizabeth Ruth Hall—known to everyone as Bugs—twelve years before. Pat had been fifty and she had been twenty-nine. Bugs was tall at five foot seven, and very slender, with long dark hair. She had only one goal in life: to be someone’s wife. Once she was pregnant, she discovered her other talent: being a mother. She never involved herself in “man stuff” and seemed to always be happy. Pat was almost the perfect husband for Bugs—he left her alone. He went about his business and she went about hers. She had a complete life devoted to her social activities and her son’s needs.
