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Fran Tarkenton

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Jacob Clifton: A+ | Grade It Now!
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Maternity Tests
ting the air tickets; apparently he's going along and they'll be -- he explains like a kid on a band trip -- sitting together. Andy wigs about his "life plan" and where his dick will end up; he begins to plan his funeral: "Open bar. Big picture of me...." Schiff hints around for a handjob, I think. Andy's ashes will be split: Half set adrift on an ice floe in Glacier Bay and the other half blown into an old bully's face with the greeting, Anus Botwin says hi. He's a poet, he really is. Schiff hints around for a blowjob. Andy threatens to haunt her with murder hallucinations, flying babies, giant Hellmouth in her closet -- "yeah, real nightmare shit" -- if she doesn't follow his instructions to the letter.

Sex, death, sex, death. No sex talk from Andy, nothing but sex talk from Schiff who's practically dead. The cellos are going and it's all very hilarious and right when you think the gag is over, it's way worse than that. There are lies you can cover up so well, with so many lovely things, good things, sunlight, you could forget you ever told them. You can rub them out but they're never really gone. There's always a stain. Sometimes it takes just a hairbrush; sometimes maternity is harder to prove: A mother knows where her children are, at all times; when her son approaches the door she can feel him out there, almost like a smell. Like butter cookies. Silas comes in quietly.

Q: "Can I lie next to you for a second?"

Silas smiles sadly, and wraps his arms around his mother. "I used to love sleeping between you and Dad. I felt so safe." She smiles to herself, wakes up against him. He's so big now. Against him it's like a furnace. Measured against her in this bed and every bed, until he was taller than she is.

"It doesn't really feel like anything now..."

His voice breaks and she turns her head, surprised. He talks and she listens and she can't really hear what he's saying until he's done saying it. Her crime, his confession. The question she never thought they'd ask; the reason she can't ever stop missing the bear.

Q: What's the worst thing you've ever done?

A: "At least I don't have to worry about dropping dead at forty from a bad ticker. Lars, he's in great shape."

He doesn't cry. He doesn't stop smiling. He doesn't stop loving her. She's not a vampire, not a monster, not a bitch. Not a mother anymore: Just a woman. Just the thing she keeps saying she is. He kisses her shoulder, and an arm, and before she sees him cry he says goodbye.

"I sincerely wish you all good things," he says, squeezing her hand. Pressing something into it: The truth. She reads it and she falls apart; she sobs under the comforter and falls asleep.

In the morning they're getting dressed and getting packed and she's still there, still in her jacket, tears dry on her cheeks. Vaughn texts: Nancy, Have info from FBI source. Stop by before you leave. URGENT. She calls for Andy and he finally appears; she sends him to the airport. He's excited, and a little scared, and then more scared.

Q: "Plan A, Plan B or Plan C?"

A: "I'll let you know."

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