Jay sat at the old Formica table and watched her, his face stern. She stopped abruptly and turned to him. "I can't believe you'd betray us," she snarled. "Grandma, there is no us. Only you and me. We're the only ones left." "The family! Your grandfather. Your poor mother! All dead because of Rose Windham and now you're going to marry that whore!" Jay stood, the chair falling in his haste. "She is not a whore." "She's a whore! Just like her grandmother! I can't stand to look at you. Get out of here!" Her last words rose to a screech as she pointed towards the door, the forgotten cigarette dangling from her fingers. She angrily threw it into the kitchen sink, then picked up the closest thing -- a jelly jar -- and threw it at the wall. It shattered and strawberry jam slid down the plaster, puddling on the floor amid shards of glass. Jay was familiar with her hysterics. From the age of twelve, when his mother killed herself overdosing on heroin, he'd lived with Faye, endured her volatile temper, her rages, her insanity.
