Ceremony

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"She's a goddamned whore," Harry Kyle said. "And I don't want her in this house again."

"For God's sake, Harry, you're talking about your own daughter," his wife said.

"She's a goddamned whore," Harry said.

"You don't know that, Mr. Kyle," Susan said.

"The hell I don't. I saw her in there hanging all over some guy older than me. I saw what she was doing and she can keep right on doing it, because she ain't coming back here."

"That doesn't make her a whore, Mr. Kyle."

"Don't tell me what it makes and doesn't make, lady. I don't need some goddamned goody two-shoes coming around and giving me a lot of that bleeding-heart mumbo jumbo they teach nowadays."

"Harry," I said.

Susan looked at me. The look said shut up. A lot of people looked at me like that, but to Susan I paid attention. We were standing in the perfect living room of a perfect house in a perfect development in Smithfield. The upholstery was all in powder blue and the rug and walls and drapes all coordinated with it. The furniture was massive Mediterranean oak, probably-dark stained. You could tell they'd bought it all at once. It was a set, a living room set. I was willing to bet my new blackjack that there was a dining room set in the dining room and at least four bedroom sets upstairs. The cellar probably had a cellar set, all coordinated with the furnace.

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