Sleeping dogs may lie, but they eventually wake up. And the following Monday morning when I woke up, I had to face the fact that school was waiting. I thought about pretending to have fallen sick over the weekend, but I knew that in the long run, feigning an illness would only make it that much harder to go back to school on Tuesday.

I got to Miss Todd’s class early that afternoon, not because I wanted to be there, but because I didn’t want to walk in late and be the center of attention. Miss Todd, noticing my reluctance to enter her classroom, pulled me aside before class and told me that I had no reason to be embarrassed about my “mistake,” assuring me that it was unlikely that most of my classmates had even recognized it as such. Her kind words helped ease my pain, but there was still the Lughead to contend with, and I dreaded her arrival. To my dismay, she appeared just moments later, and right on cue, my stomach began to churn. The thought of having to endure her sniveling grins and mocking smiles made me shudder, so I quickly decided that my only recourse was to be strong and not act the victim. If she looked at me, I would look right back at her, with pride, as though nothing had happened. No, I would do better than that: I would look at her first.

I glanced in her direction, but to my great surprise she turned her head away. This made no sense to me. After all, I’d known this Lughead since the first grade, and she was not one to miss an opportunity to show off, or to throw something back in someone’s face. (That’s what made her a Lughead!) I looked at her again, only to discover that her head was buried in a book. What was going on?

Miss Todd called class to order, then asked the Lughead to come to the front of the classroom and read her homework assignment on Joe Running Horse aloud.

“Maybe someone else would like to go first today,” the Lughead offered.

“Is there something wrong, Amy?” Miss Todd asked with a look of concern on her face. “Aren’t you prepared for class?”

“Of course!” the Lughead shot back, horrified that she had even been asked such a question. “Of course I am, Miss Todd. I’m always prepared for class.”

Several of my classmates looked at each other. She made us all want to gag.

“Well, come on then. Let’s hear what you have to say about our esteemed guest on Friday.”

In a very un-Lughead-like fashion, she rose slowly from her chair, shuffled some papers (and her feet), and walked to the head of the class, keeping a steady eye on the floor. A few seconds later, I heard soft giggling coming from every direction in the room. It was music to my ears. I looked up from my own homework assignment and then at the Lughead, who stood before the class. Suddenly, it was a glorious day and all was right with the world. It seems that over the weekend, a giant, repulsive zit had grown on the end of the Lughead’s very prominent nose, and lucky for me, it seemed to be thriving. My classmates may not have known much about squalor, but they knew a zit when they saw one.

And at that moment, as if by magic, my own humiliating experience of three days past seemed light-years away, while the Lughead’s humiliation, burning so brightly at that moment, took its rightful place in my memory, where I felt sure it would continue to delight me for all the days of my life.

***

In the weeks that followed, although I never mentioned it again, everything Mom had told me about my aunt Rebecca replayed in my mind—over and over and over again. Every aspect of this mystery woman intrigued me. Even my own mother began to intrigue me. Why was she was so concerned about scandal? We were the McKendricks, not the Kennedys. What was there to know about us? As far as I could remember, the only family “scandal” I knew of concerned Didi’s three daughters, April, May, and June.
As legend had it, Aunt Didi had carefully planned her pregnancies, and the first daughter, April, was born on April 6, followed by May, a year later, who was born on May 11. But one year after that, to Aunt Didi’s “horror,” June was born late—in July. When I first heard this story, I was able to understand how Aunt Didi had planned when she would give birth, but I never quite understood how she had “arranged” to have girls. “Girls run in our family,” Mom had explained, and being a girl myself, who was I to argue?

But that was silly stuff, I concluded. It was far more scandalous to have had a drug-addicted, pregnant, runaway aunt than a cousin named June who was born in July. But why would anyone care about that now, especially outsiders, some fifteen- plus years later?

I wondered if Aunt Didi had ever discussed Rebecca with her daughters, and I decided that she had not, unless it was in passing. My cousins all led such busy lives, and I was sure they had no time to obsess over an aunt they had never known.

A modern-day version of the Andrews Sisters, billed as “The Alexander Three,” April, May, and June had been performing at talent shows, beauty pageants, private parties, community events, theatrical shows, and on local television commercials ever since I could remember. Yes, indeed, they were far too busy enjoying their glamorous life to think about Rebecca. I, on the other hand, had plenty of time for such an activity.

I don’t know why she fascinated me so. But as I mulled over every aspect of Rebecca’s life, I felt like Sherlock Holmes in search of an elusive mystery woman. A couple of times, when Mom and Dad were out of the house, I rummaged through the attic, in hopes of finding at least one photograph of Rebecca. My curiosity was killing me and if nothing else, I wanted to know what she looked like. Finally, on my second attempt, I discovered several family photos, wrapped in paper, that had been hidden under some clothes in Mom’s old camp trunk. But all that the photos revealed was a beautiful little girl (the prettiest of the three), who only slightly resembled Mom and Aunt Didi. She was not a fire-breathing fiend, nor did she have the devil’s twinkle in her eyes. Certain that I must’ve overlooked more telling evidence of Rebecca’s true nature, I continued to search for more photos, ones that might provide some real answers, but instead found only more likenesses of the same delightful child. Unfortunately, it appeared that no photographs had been taken of Rebecca after the age of twelve or thirteen. People who do drugs, I surmised, don’t like posing for pictures.

My obsession continued. Day after day, I would imagine the poverty (it was still tough to say “squalor”) that my mother had described. I wondered if Rebecca had really had rats in her apartment, if she had truly been pregnant, why she hadn’t called home in all these years (or had she?), and how she could live in vermin-infested filth after growing up in such a comfortable home. And why were Dad and Uncle George even more unnerved talking about her than Mom and Aunt Didi were? She wasn’t their “bad seed” sister! Perhaps men just didn’t like talking about such things. I no longer had a clue; my questions were now just a jumble in my head, and I grew weary of groping for answers.
By the time I completed the ninth grade, my interest in Rebecca began to wane even more. Like any normal teenage girl, I was interested in boys, shopping malls, music, makeup, and hanging out with my friends. And since I had actually kept my promise to my mother and had never discussed Rebecca with anyone, I had only a residual interest in playing Watson to my own ineffectual Holmes.

But once again, just as the mystery of Rebecca was fading from my mind, something happened to renew my interest. Mom’s uncle Martin, yet another “runaway relative” whom I had never met, came to town with his new wife, Maudie.

Martin was my grandpa’s brother, fifteen years his junior, and even I knew that he was a loser. I remembered his name had come up once at the dinner table, and that Dad had referred to him as “the black sheep of the Connor family” and as “a lazy-good-for-nothing slob.” But unlike with Rebecca, no one gave him a second thought, and no one ever asked me not to discuss him. What was there to discuss? I guessed that he was such a dud that no one, myself included, gave a damn.

Right before Martin’s visit, however, my curious nature got the better of me, and I went to Dad for some background information. From what he told me, Martin had barely finished high school when he went to work as a clerk for F.W. Woolworth Co. Apparently, the family was pleased because they didn’t think he’d get a high school diploma, much less a job. After a year, Martin surprised everyone by getting promoted to assistant manager on the evening shift. He must’ve done a great job in that position, Dad told me, shaking his head, because he stayed in that very same job until he was forty-two years old, when F.W. Woolworth closed the store.

After his severance package had expired, Martin eventually found another position selling auto parts, which was something he knew nothing about. “That lasted only a few weeks,” Dad told me, “before he entered the exciting world of ice cream. Well, scooping cones didn’t seem to tickle his fancy, either, and within a month’s time, he left for Toronto. Said he had a friend who’d offered him a good job up there. Except for an occasional Christmas card, that was all we ever heard from Martin.”

“Wasn’t Grandpa upset that he just left the country like that?”

“Relieved,” Dad assured me. “Your grandpa Henry had far more important things to worry about than his socially inept, good-for-nothing brother.”

I knew that Dad was referring to Rebecca, but I didn’t dare ask.

“So why’s he coming to town now, after all these years?”

“Who knows?” Dad said, shrugging his shoulders. “Seems the poor slob finally got married, at sixty-something years old, and he’s passing through town on his honeymoon. According to Martin, his new wife wants to live in Florida and enjoy ‘the good life.’ Canada is too cold for her. Wants to have fun in the sun.”

Dad rolled his eyes. It was obvious that he didn’t have an ounce of respect for this man, or for his new wife, whom he hadn’t even met. “I’ve told you all that I know,” he said sincerely. “You’ll just have to meet him and judge for yourself.”

***

Mom agreed to make dinner for Martin and his new wife at our house. She had, however, first offered Aunt Didi the opportunity to play hostess, since Aunt Didi was the oldest Connor sister.

“Sure, I’ll cook for Martin,” Aunt Didi had told Mom, “when hell freezes over!”

At first, Aunt Didi and Uncle George didn’t even want to see Martin, but then Aunt Didi decided that it was an evening she couldn’t pass up. (It would fuel the conversational fires for months.)

It was a warm July night. My cousins were in Cape Cod, visiting their cousins on Uncle George’s side of the family, so it was just the five of us. We sat in the living room and waited. Mom had made a beautiful plate of hors d’oeuvres, which sat untouched on the coffee table, in anticipation of the guests of honor. My parents kept exchanging weird looks with my aunt and uncle, and no one looked at me, not until I uttered the dreaded words, “I think they’re here.”

And so they were. I had never met anyone like them in my entire life.

Martin, who appeared in the doorway first, was a sleazy-looking old man with a bad toupee and bad teeth—and the ugliest plaid jacket I’d ever seen. It was orange, black, brown, and green, and it looked just like the old couch in my best friend Melanie’s basement. He reminded me of this creepy used car salesman I’d recently seen in an episode of “The Twilight Zone,” and he had a grin that made me want to gag. I looked at my mother in horror.

“Ted, you old son of a gun!” Martin practically shouted. “Good to see you, buddy.” He grabbed Dad’s hand and began shaking it vigorously.

Then he looked at Mom and Aunt Didi. “My dear nieces, Margaret and Deirdre! As I live and breathe – ”

“Unfortunately,” I heard Uncle George mutter under his breath.

“You gorgeous gals, you. Who’s gonna be the first to give your old uncle Martin a great big bear hug?”

Naturally, it was Mom who consented to hug him first, trying her best to touch him as little as possible. Mom had this thing about vermin, and from looking at her face, I could tell that she feared that some noxious creatures might be gestating in his plaid jacket.

“Welcome, Martin,” she said unconvincingly. “It’s so nice to see you.”

Before Uncle Martin could even attempt to smother Aunt Didi, Uncle George diverted his attention with an enthusiastic handshake, while Aunt Didi offered a minimal greeting from across the room. Martin explained to us that his bride would be along momentarily.

“She’s out in the car, puttin’ on the last touches of her rouge. You know how women are. Gotta look their best to meet the family.”

Then he noticed me. “Who is this beautiful girl?”

“This is our daughter, Darla,” Dad said, looking at me apologetically, as though he had wanted to spare me the introduction.

“Darla. Now, that’s a beautiful name. Come give your uncle Martin a big bear hug!”
He stood there, his arms outstretched, with a big come-hither grin on his face. I couldn’t go through with it.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I have a cold.” (And you have disgusting fingernails, I thought.)

Martin laughed loudly. “You’re a shy one, aren’t you? Don’t worry, we’ll be old friends by the time the evening is through. I can tell just from looking at you that you’re a one-in-a-million girl.”

And then, at that moment, she came through the front door.

“Hello, everybody! I’m your aunt Maudie.”

I honestly thought that Aunt Didi’s eyes were going to pop right out of her head and dangle from her eye sockets, and that my mother was going to lose consciousness and wake up at the heels of Maudie’s faux leopard pumps. This woman was a sight! I guessed her to be in her late fifties, though with the mask of dime-store makeup on her face, it was hard to tell. She was fairly slender but revealed far more skin than human dignity allowed. Hugging her hips was a fire-engine red satin dress that accentuated all her negatives, including, but not limited to, her sagging cleavage, knobby knees, and bulging stomach—right down to a big mole (with a hair growing out of it) that was situated just due north of her right breast. The loose flesh on her upper arms swayed to and fro as she sashayed into our home. To complete this vision of loveliness, she wore long, pearly white press-on fingernails and had false eyelashes so long one might think she had pet spiders snoozing on her eyelids.

Her dyed strawberry blond hair was done up in what Uncle George referred to later as a “beehive do,” and it looked as though it had been forced into place with some type of industrial varnish. On her ears, she sported hoop earrings large enough for Uncle Martin to jump through, and her excessive costume jewelry clanged so loudly when she walked that she sounded like a one-woman marching band that was seriously out of tune.

As if the visual impact of this woman were not enough, the scent of her was enough to disencumber the most clogged of nasal passages. I knew she had to be wearing some bargain brand of cologne, but her particular scent reminded me of something that had been in storage in the attic, like Rebecca’s baby pictures. The best I can say is that it smelled like a mixture of camphor and jasmine musk.

Not in the movies, not in the city, not on television, and not in my most grotesque nightmares had I ever seen anyone like Maudie. Shortly after she arrived, I excused myself for a moment and ran upstairs to call Melanie. Normally, my parents would have considered it rude to leave when we had company, but in this case, I knew they wouldn’t even notice, or care. Besides, there was no way I could wait until later to call my best friend and describe this mutant piece of modern art on loan to the McKendrick gallery for the evening. And naturally, I couldn’t wait to rub it in that the companion piece to this monstrosity, entitled “Uncle Martin,” was wearing not only a terrible rug but a jacket that looked identical to Melanie’s parent’s old couch.

After Melanie’s twenty-fifth “Omigod,” I hung up the phone and returned to the party. Everyone was seated in the living room and Maudie had the plate of hors d’oeuvres resting on her lap.

“These are scrump-dilly-icious, Margaret,” she said to Mom. “No pigs in the blanket, huh?”

“No. Sorry. No pigs in the blanket. And please, it’s Maggie.”

“Ah well, maybe next time. Don’t worry none, though. These are absolutely dee-lish. Really, hon. What are these little things?”

“They’re miniature quiches with bacon and green onion.”

“They look like little pies to me!” Maudie said, popping one whole in her mouth. And as she chewed, she carefully surveyed the room. “Hey, ya know, you got a lotta nice stuff in this house.” She put the hors d’oeuvres tray back on the table and proceeded to pick up a candy dish, which she promptly turned over, dumping the butterscotch candy all over the coffee table. “Wow, Wedgwood. Nice. Take a look, Marty.”

“Real nice, babe,” Martin said, as he eyed the dish, then handed it back to her.
Maudie continued to look around, as if she’d lost something. “Oh well,” she announced, “this’ll do.” She opened up her bag and pulled out a cigarette. From where he was sitting, Martin lurched forward with a cheap black lighter and lit it for her. Using the candy dish as an ashtray, Maudie began puffing away, completely oblivious to the obvious objections around her.

I saw Dad start to ask her not to smoke, but then his famous “Why bother?” look crossed his face and I figured we would just fumigate in the morning.

“So what does a pretty girl like Darla McKendrick study in school?” Martin asked me.
“I don’t know. History, algebra, English. Whatever.”

“I’ll bet you and your friends spend most of your time studying boys!” Maudie said assuredly. “Aunt Maudie remembers when she was a teenager.”

“Exactly when was that?” Uncle George asked. “That you were Darla’s age?”

“Well, it’s not as long ago as you might think,” Maudie replied. I could tell she was annoyed by the question, but she was still aiming for the impossible—to be charming. “I can tell you this, though. I remember my girlhood days as if they were yesterday.”

“You sure are pretty,” Martin repeated, staring at me. “A one-in-a-million girl. That’s what you are.”

And you’re a one-in-a-million asshole, I thought, wondering what my parents would do if I said it aloud. It was hard to imagine that this man was my grandpa’s brother. They were nothing alike.

“Thank you,” I muttered because I thought I should.

I glanced over at my uncle George, who appeared to be seething with contempt. I knew his patience was wearing thin and that meant his manners couldn’t be far behind.

“That’s some beehive do, Maudie,” Uncle George said, trying his best to insult her.

“Glad you like it, Georgie. You know, men come straight to my beehive when they want some honey.” She pointed to her lips. “But here’s where they come to get sugar.”

Aunt Didi put her hand over her mouth as if she were going to get sick, then rose to join Mom, who had already slipped off to the kitchen.

The conversation continued to deteriorate for another fifteen minutes until dinner was served. Then it got really bad. And then it got even worse.

“Tell me, Martin” said Mom, still determined to take her role as hostess seriously. “What have you been doing for the last seventeen years?”

“Well,” Martin began, “I’ve been in women’s shoes, Margaret. Oh—but don’t take me too literally. I just sell them.”

Maudie laughed. “He uses that line all the time. He’s a real joker.”

“Hey,” Martin said, encouraged by her praise, “did you hear the one about the Jew radio operator who gave up being a ham ‘cause it wasn’t kosher?”

“No, we didn’t hear that one!” Aunt Didi said sharply. “And I can guarantee you that nobody in this room wants to hear ‘that one.’ ”

“I think she’s a little touchy, hon,” Maudie told her husband through a mouth full of food. “Probably a Democrat or some other kind of liberal.”

Aunt Didi looked at her as if she had two heads. (In a way, she did.)

“So, you’ve been selling women’s shoes, have you?” Dad said, trying to turn the conversation around.

“Sure have,” Martin answered. “And had a successful career of it too. I’m no loafer!”
Maudie and Martin roared hysterically. The five of us stared at him. I wanted to laugh because he was so weird, but not because he was the least bit funny.

“Seriously, though,” Martin went on, “I found my niche when I found shoes. Worked as a salesman for a chain in Toronto, and ten years ago, I made manager. Increase in salary, health bennies, the whole nine yards! But you wanna know the best part about working in shoes?”

“What?” asked an agitated Aunt Didi. “You don’t step on rusty nails?”

Maudie laughed. “Oh, that’s a riot, Deirdre! I can see what family member you get your sense of humor from!”

Aunt Didi grimaced at the unintentional insult.

“Nope!” said Martin to Aunt Didi. “The best part of the job was meeting people. And the best day on the job was the day I met my Maudie.”

“Don’t tell me,” Uncle George said, feigning interest. “She came in for a pair of platforms.”

“How did ya know?” Maudie asked, as a huge glob of marinara sauce took a nosedive into her sagging breasts.

“It must’ve been love at first sight,” Aunt Didi groaned. She looked at Maudie with utter disgust. “You’ve got marinara between your boobs.”

Mom looked as if she were going to burst out laughing. It was the first time I’d seen her crack a smile that evening.

“Well, so I do!” Maudie said, looking down at her dress. Without missing a beat, she dipped her napkin in her water glass and wiped the sauce off, leaving a huge water stain on the material. “Actually, it was love at first sight, but when we started dating, I wasn’t so sure this romance was going to get off the ground.”

“Gosh, why not?” Aunt Didi encouraged her.

I, by the way, was having a marvelous time, despite the fact that I was dining with what I then referred to as “lost art treasures from the planet Way Weird.”

“Well –” Maudie said. She looked right at me, and then at my parents. “We’re all adults here, right? We’re family, right?”

Nobody answered her. Suddenly, Mom looked at me as if she wanted me to leave the room. I pretended not to notice.

Maudie took a huge gulp of wine. “Marty, if you will, had a little trouble raising the flag at first.”

“Oh God!” Aunt Didi and Uncle George moaned simultaneously.

“Maudie!” Mom said angrily. “Please!” I had never seen my mother react so negatively to anything in front of company before. This was a true milestone. I wondered if perhaps her wholesome façade was starting to splinter. Maybe I would be lucky enough to get a glimpse of the real woman behind the enduring smile.

Dad looked extremely uncomfortable and then glared at me to gauge my reaction. Actually, at first I hadn’t been one hundred percent sure what Maudie meant, but when my family reacted as they did, it didn’t take me long to figure it out. I looked at Martin. Amazingly, he didn’t seem to be the least bit embarrassed by this disclosure of his sexual dysfunction.

“Before I met Maudie,” he began, “I was a lonely bachelor. The darn thing stayed at half-mast for so long, I didn’t know how to – ”

“Really Martin!” Mom scolded him. “That’s quite enough. Stop it now!”

“You heard Maggie,” Uncle George cautioned, glaring at him.

“Aw, he’s kidding,” Maudie assured everyone. “It was just a medical problem. Happens to men in their golden years, you know. Could even happen to a virile man like yourself, George.”

Uncle George looked as if he wanted to strangle her.

“Anyway,” Maudie continued, “the doc fixed my honey up just fine, and I’ve been pledgin’ allegiance ever since!”

Martin and Maudie broke out into raucous laughter.

“Don’t ya just love her?” Martin asked, beaming with pride.

My family was too appalled to speak. I couldn’t wait to repeat all this to Melanie. Nothing like this had ever happened at my house before; I was anxious to report every detail.

“Could ya pour me some more of that cabbernetslowvineyone, Teddy?” Maudie asked Dad, holding her wine glass in her outstretched right hand.

“I’d be happy to,” Dad lied, as he poured her another drink. “Anyone else?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Martin replied.

“I’m fine for now,” Aunt Didi said.

“How ‘bout yourself, there?” Maudie asked Dad. “Why aren’t you having any wine? Geez, you’re not a recovering alcoholic or nothing, are you? I find that’s usually the case when someone don’t drink. ‘Course, half the time those people will tell ya they ain’t drinkin’ ‘cause they’re taking their ‘Auntie’s Biotics’ or something.”

Dad looked livid. “I’m just not a drinker. Is that okay with you?”

“You don’t know what you’re missin’,” Maudie said, taking another gulp of wine. “This sure is good stuff.”

“We usually buy it by the jug, though,” Martin offered. “More bang for the buck that way. And it’s sweeter, too.”

“I think it’s time to clear,” Mom announced cheerfully, as she got up and began collecting our dinner plates. Any perceptible cracks in her resolve had apparently repaired themselves. False alarm; she was Mom again. I was disappointed. “Hope everyone has saved room for dessert!”

“Oh sure, hon,” Maudie told her.

Martin shifted nervously in his seat and then looked at his wife. She winked at him curiously, as if she were giving him the green light to do something.

“Ted,” Martin began officiously, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “I think you and George here will be very interested to hear about some red-hot business opportunities in Florida that I’ve recently come upon. Lucky for you, these men I know are real smart operators and they’re looking for a few savvy investors, like yourselves. These guys have the know-how to turn pennies into profit with the snap of a finger. I can promise you this, fellas, these deals aren’t for just anyone. But if you’re willing to take a risk –”

“I don’t think –” Uncle George began, “that we’re –”

“Like I said,” Martin continued, ignoring Uncle George completely, “I wouldn’t give just anyone the inside track on this. Now, repeat after me. Shopping centers, golf resorts, retirement communities, you name it. The whole nine yards. And to think, I came upon all this by accident. Why, I was just lookin’ for a place for me and Maudie when I met these developers. Boy, they sure do know the lay of the land down there. And these are one-in-a-million deals.”

“Uh-huh. And did you buy yourself a home?” Dad asked, trying to change the subject.

“Not yet, Ted boy,” Martin said patronizingly. “No use buyin’ a trailer home seeings that Maudie and I’ll be rich by year’s end, is there? Now, because you’re family, and smart businessmen too, I’d like to give you both a chance to climb aboard the golden ship of opportunity.”

“Not interested, Martin. It’ll have to sail without us.”

“We’re not in the market for swampland this year,” George threw in.

“Now wait, boys,” Maudie said. “Hear Martin out. He’s checked into this here thing, and it’s on the level. There’s some big bucks to be made.”

“Just how many pennies are you investing?” Uncle George asked with a sneer.

Martin looked at the tablecloth, then exchanged looks with Maudie. Even at the age of fifteen, I could tell that they wanted money from Dad and Uncle George. That was the real reason for their visit, as Dad later confirmed.

“This isn’t the appropriate place to discuss business,” Dad said, doing his best not to let the situation get out of hand.

“He’s right, Marty,” Maudie condescended. “Wait’ll after dinner, hon, when the kid’s gone upstairs.”

I found it interesting that she didn’t think about “the kid” going upstairs when she was discussing their sex life.

Martin looked extremely disappointed, but he changed the subject.

About ten minutes later, Mom entered the dining room carrying a tray of desserts.

“Yum-yum,” Martin said, taking a bowl from the proffered tray. “Homemade rice pudding. Just like your mother used to make.”

Mom smiled tolerably as she walked around the table to serve the rest of us.

“Gee,” Martin continued, “we’ve been having a wonderful time here tonight. I’m just sorry that little Rebecca couldn’t join us. What’s she’s doing these days, anyway?”

Mom laid the tray on the nearby sideboard and took her seat. I knew she was giving this one to Dad. My ears perked up and my eyes grew wide. I looked like an alien preparing for a transmission from the home planet. Mom looked right at me. She could see that I was excited about this turn in the conversation, and she didn’t like it one bit. Knitting her brow, she silently warned me not to open my mouth.

“Rebecca lives in another town,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “I’m sure she’s just fine.”

“Get to see her much?”

“No, we don’t see her. Martin, I think this conversation—”

“Ran away from home when she was seventeen, didn’t she?” Martin plodded on. “And just how old was she when she returned?”

“She didn’t,” George said contentiously. “Why don’t we table this discussion? Now!”

Martin ignored him. “Poor kid; she was a one-in-a-million girl. Hated to see her turn to drugs and drinkin’ like that. I tried to help her. I sure did. Tried to be a friend. I guess she just saw me as another adult tellin’ her what to do. Ever find out why she went bad?”

“Martin,” Mom said, determined to stay calm. “Please drop the subject.”

“I’d guess she was just about Darla-here’s age when she started turning rotten. Wouldn’t you say that, Margaret?”

“For God’s sake, shut up!” Aunt Didi screamed. “And don’t talk about her like she’s a piece of fruit. Drop it, will you?”

“I sure would like to see Rebecca,” he persisted. “Where does she live?”

Squalor, New Mexico, I thought, looking at my aunt Didi. A part of me was still very angry.

“We don’t have her address,” Dad said irritably.

“Too bad. Sure would like to see that pretty gal. You know, she might have a man who’s interested in this deal I’ve got going. Really, fellas, you gotta let me tell you about it. It’s a one-in-a-million opportunity.”

“Saved by the bell!” Aunt Didi proclaimed as the doorbell rang. “Excuse me, everyone.” Aunt Didi got up and rushed out of the room, returning a minute later with my friend Melanie at her side.

“Hello, dear,” Mom said to Melanie. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

Melanie could barely answer. Her mouth had dropped open and she was staring incredulously at Maudie and Martin. I guessed that my description over the phone had not quite done them justice. My best friend was going into shock. We might have to call the paramedics.

“Melanie,” Mom repeated. “Is there a special reason for your visit tonight?”

“Uh,” Melanie mumbled as if she had fallen into a trance.

“Melanie. Are you okay, dear?”

“Uh, yeah,” Melanie finally managed to say. “Darla told me that she wanted to read this book. So I brought it by.”

Mom took one look at the book, American Indians, which we had read in the seventh grade, and instantly recognized Melanie’s visit as the setup that it was. She shook her head and smiled. After all, how could she blame us? How could we not want to share this incredible experience?

“This is Melanie Davenport,” Mom said politely to Martin and Maudie. “Melanie is Darla’s very best friend.”

“She’s also a very talented artist,” Dad told them, smiling at Melanie.
Melanie looked embarrassed.

“You’ve got the most gorgeous long red hair!” Maudie gushed enviously. “You can’t buy that color, you know. Lord knows, I’ve tried. Listen, kid, if you ever feel like getting a short cut, I’d be real innerrested in buyin’ that hair from you. I could make a piece out of it and dye the rest best as I could to match.”

“Omigod!” Melanie whispered. I feared she was falling back into the trance.
“I’m as serious as a heart attack!” Maudie told her before taking a rather obscene swig of wine.

“She sure is a pretty girl,” Martin said as he leered at her. “Melody. Just like a song.”

“Melanie,” she corrected him, then looked as if she wished she hadn’t.

“That’s a pretty name too. You’re a one-in-a-million girl.” He grinned, showing off his bad teeth.

Melanie turned and looked at me wide-eyed, just the same way my family had been looking at each other all night.

“Melanie,” Dad said jovially, “why don’t you pull up a chair and have some of Mrs. McKendrick’s famous rice pudding with us?”

“Thank you, Mr. McKendrick. That would be nice.”

Mom got up and headed to the kitchen to get another bowl of pudding. Melanie started to pull up a chair to the table when Maudie stopped her.

“Before you sit down, hon, be a love and get my ciggies from the living room.”

I didn’t like the authoritative tone in Maudie’s voice, and I could tell Melanie didn’t either, but she complied with Maudie’s request out of respect for my parents.

Melanie retrieved the cigarettes, then handed them to Maudie. I saw her look oddly at Maudie’s pearly white press-on nails, and I could tell from the way she scrunched up her freckled nose that she smelled Maudie’s “cologne” too. I started to get an uneasy feeling.
“Thanks, hon. Oh, while you’re still up, could ya bring me that Wedgwood ashtray from the coffee table?”

Melanie glared at her defiantly. She was getting angry.

“Ah, never mind,” Maudie said, understanding the look. “I’ll just use the rice pudding bowl. Wouldn’t want to make an ash of myself!”

Martin exploded with laughter. Mom, who had just re-entered the dining room with some more pudding, looked positively sick. She put the bowl in front of Melanie, then took her seat.

“We’d rather you didn’t smoke at all,” Aunt Didi said. She turned to Melanie. “Please, honey, sit down and have some pudding.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Deirdre,” Maudie snapped rudely. “They’re light cigarettes. They won’t bother anyone.”

I could see Aunt Didi tighten up. Uncle George looked menacingly at Maudie’s pack of cigarettes, as if he wanted to confiscate it on the spot, but my aunt put her hand on his arm to stop him.

Melanie sat down next to me and whispered “Skieve me out!” in my ear. Maudie lit up a cigarette, and I knew, at precisely that moment, that my family would no longer tolerate the eccentric characters who sat among us. Maudie had barely inhaled her first drag of nicotine, when Dad suggested that Melanie and I take our desserts up to my room, where we wouldn’t be bored by adult conversation. I was just as happy to comply. Earlier, they had been just weird people, who for various reasons, made my uptight family squirm. Now I was beginning to see that they were mean people, and rather delight in the wake of their conduct, I felt frightened and protective of those I loved. I was happy to get away from them. Besides, it would be much more enjoyable observing them from a distance, where Melanie and I, hidden from view, could snicker to our heart’s content.

Soon after we retreated upstairs, the party returned to the living room. Melanie and I assumed our usual listening posts at the top of the stairs. After about ten minutes, things started to get really ugly.

“That was a meal fit for a king!” Martin said. “Gotta say, a man needs a full stomach to talk business. Speakin’ of business, you girls’ll excuse us men for a bit, won’t ya? I’m sure you’ve got some dirty dishes or recipe swappin’ to tend to in the kitchen, huh now? This is whatcha call a man’s conversation.”

“The women aren’t going any damn place!” George told him harshly. “And ‘us men’ aren’t doing any damn business. Now, how many ways to Sunday do you want me to spell it out for you, Martin?”

“Way to go, Mr. Alexander! Kick his slimy ass!” Melanie whispered gleefully.
“I think you could show your uncle a bit of respect and listen to what he has to say,” Maudie scolded Uncle George, as we heard the click of a cigarette lighter.

“He’s not my damn uncle,” George snorted, “and put out the goddamn cigarette! We don’t smoke in this family.”

“Right on!” Melanie exclaimed quietly as her arm rose victoriously in the air. “All right!”

“They’re not innerrested, hon,” Maudie said to Martin. “I guess some people just don’t wanna be millionaires. Seems like we wasted our time comin’ here.”

“Looks like we did!” Martin said indignantly.

“I thought you came here to see your family!” Aunt Didi challenged him. “Isn’t that what you said when you called? ‘Missed us terribly over the years.’ ‘Couldn’t wait to be reunited.’ ‘Nothing more important than family.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

Suddenly, Martin didn’t sound so sure of himself. “Well yeah, I said that, but there’s nothing wrong with throwin’ a little business proposition into the mix, is there now?”

“Business my rear end!” Aunt Didi cried out.

“He’s your father’s brother!” Maudie jumped in angrily. “Your father, may he rest in peace, would want to see his only brother get some respect in this house!”

“You came here for money, Martin,” Aunt Didi bellowed. “It’s as plain as that haystack on her head!”

“Now we’re getting nasty,” Maudie roared.

“Let’s face it,” Uncle George roared back. “You two don’t have a plug nickel to invest. And furthermore, no developer worth his salt would deal with the likes of you.”

“How dare you speak to my husband in such a way!” Maudie screamed.

“I think it’s time we all said good night!” Dad intervened in a Dad-like way. “Let’s end this now before we all say things we’re sorry for.” I couldn’t imagine why he didn’t just tell them to get the hell out of our house. But then I remembered: “it’s a bad thing to lose control,” and cursing at your dinner guests, I surmised, is a definite sign of control gone astray.

“I think it’s too late for that!” Martin said huffily. “Maudie and I’ve been dealt a raw deal here tonight. There’s no denying that.”

“You’ve been dealt a raw deal?” Aunt Didi howled at him. “You came here with no other intention than to get money from us for some phony baloney land scheme in Florida. And she’s been puffing away like a chimney despite numerous requests to stop. Is that showing respect for us?”

“The gloves are gonna come off if you don’t stop, hon,” Maudie warned Aunt Didi.

“Omigod!” Melanie gasped. “I hope no one gets hurt!”

I was going to tell her not to be ridiculous, but I suddenly shared her apprehension.

“We can settle this right now,” Uncle George challenged.

“Let’s go, Maudie,” Martin said. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome. What a shame! And after so many years apart. Who would’ve thought it would end like this? My beloved brother would’ve been very disappointed in all of you.”

“Your beloved brother would’ve been the first to haul your sorry behind out of here!” Uncle George bellowed.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner, Margaret,” Maudie said. “You went to a lot of trouble for us and we appreciate it.” Then she said, presumably to Aunt Didi, “Don’t let it be said that Maudie Ferguson Connor has no class!”

“Get lost!” Aunt Didi said in disgust.

“Goodnight now,” Mom said cheerfully. “Thank you for coming.”

Melanie turned to me. “ ‘Thank you for coming’? Darla, I really love your Mom, but sometimes she acts so unreal, you know, with her glued-on smile and sparkly eyes. I mean, even Betty Crocker isn’t that nice!”

I agreed with her but couldn’t bear to discuss it. “It’s just Mom’s way of handling an unpleasant situation and avoiding confrontation,” I explained. “What do you know about Betty Crocker, anyway?” I desperately wanted to change the subject. “She isn’t even a real person.”

“Duh. Do I care?” Melanie said. “The point is, Darla, that your aunt and uncle have much more interesting ways of handling ‘unpleasant situations’ than your parents do!”

The next thing I heard was the front door slamming and Uncle George announcing that he needed a drink. Within moments, the phone rang and it was Mrs. Davenport asking Mom to send Melanie home.

***

When I woke up the next morning, Dad was sitting beside me on my bed, smiling at me.
“Dad?” I said sleepily. “What are you doing here?”

“I just want you to know how much I love you, Darla. And I’m very sorry that you had to bear witness to the excitement here last night. Believe me, had your mother and I known what to expect, it never would’ve happened.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” I said yawning. I couldn’t bear to tell him that in some perverse way I’d enjoyed myself, despite the fact I was rather shaken by the way it had all ended.

“No, it’s clearly not okay,” Dad corrected me. “I’m certainly not in the habit of subjecting my daughter to the company of unsavory people, especially those who are drinking and smoking. I told you before the visit that Martin was no prize, but I never expected him to come here for the sole purpose of emptying our bank accounts. Absolutely not.”

“He’s gross,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“I suppose he is. Well, I’m off to work now. I love you, sweetie.” Dad bent down and kissed me. “It’s a beautiful summer day, Darla. Get outside and enjoy yourself.”