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64 The Burning Barn When I met your dad he told me a joke— drunk, standing (barely) in that hot kitchen, all beard and belly, the fat Abner Snopes. That house, your daddy, your jailbait cousin, and your brother (out on bail and on the run) belonged in some Faulkner story. So did you, but this Sarty grew up to be lesbian, tougher and drunker than William. A full minute your father mimicked going down on a woman, jabbing his tongue between sharp teeth, wetly vile. Why didn’t I see I could walk away, or run? Transfixed by the exposed soft butter and piles of over-cooked food, I waited for the punch line and watched a fly circle and land, circle and land. ...

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