The Body Artist by Don DeLillo
8 min @a table in Toronto
“What the hell?”
He grabbed her wrist before she could make contact with his jaw. She’d landed a solid punch in the past so he knew how effective her flinty little fists were. He gripped her shoulder with his other hand. She was all sinew and steel. Nine years old and more fit than the prospects for his junior team this year – too much ‘screen time’ all summer made for soft cores but dexterous thumbs. Jack looked at Mona’s still clenched fist, her squat thumb still itching for a fight.
“Mona? Take a deep breath. Now tell Daddy what you’re upset about. Use your words.”
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