did something to my uncle they didn't like, and that was a long time ago. What kind of people are you, anyway?" (37 of 197) The old man smiled. "Old, yes. But not a hundred." "I just came out here to warn you. Mom and Dad are bringing out my great aunt, and she's no fun for anyone. You better go away." With that said, I ran back to my bike and rode off, pumping for all I was
worth. I was between a rock and a hard place. I love my folks, but I itched to hear more stories. Why wasn't it easier to make decisions? That night I slept restlessly. I didn't have any dreams, but I kept waking up with something pounding at
the back of my head, like it wanted to be let in. I scrunched my face up and pressed it back.
At Sunday breakfast, Mom looked across the table at me and put on a kind face. "We're going to pick up Auntie Danser this afternoon, at the airport," she said. My face went like warm butter. "You'll come with us, won't you?" she asked. "You always did like the airport." "All the way from where she lives?' I asked. "From Omaha," Dad said. I didn't want to go, but it was more a command than a request. I nodded, and Dad smiled at me around his
pipe. "Don't eat too many biscuits," Mom warned him. "You're putting on weight again." "I'll wear it off come harvest. You cook as if the whole crew was here, anyway." "Auntie Danser will straighten it all out," Mom said, her mind elsewhere. I caught the suggestion of a
grimace on Dad's face, and the pipe wriggled as he bit down on it harder. The airport was something out of a TV space movie. It went on forever, with stairways going up to restaurants and big smoky windows that looked out on the screaming jets, and crowds of people, all
leaving, except for one pear-shaped figure in a cotton print dress with fat ankles and glasses thick as headlamps. I knew her from a hundred yards. When we met, she shook hands with Mom, hugged Dad as if she didn't want to, then bent down and gave
me a smile. Her teeth were yellow and even, sound as a horse's. She was the ugliest woman I'd ever seen. She smelled of lilacs. To this day lilacs take my appetite away. She carried a bag. Part of it was filled with knitting, part with books and pamphlets. I always wondered
(38 of 197) why she never carried a Biblejust Billy Grahams and Zondervans. One pamphlet fell out, and Dad bent to pick it up. "Keep it, read it," Auntie Danser instructed him. "Do you good." She turned to Mom and scrutinized her from the bottom of a swimming pool. "You're looking good. He must be treating you right." Dad ushered us out the automatic doors into the dry heat. Her one suitcase was light as a mummy and probably just as empty. I carried it, and it didn't even bring sweat to my brow. Her life was not in clothes and toiletry but in the plastic knitting bag. We drove back to the farm in the big white station wagon. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the rear seat window and considered puking. Auntie Danser, I told myself, was like a mental dose of castor oil. Or like a visit to the dentist. Even if nothing was going to happen her smell presaged disaster, and like a horse sniffing a storm, my entrails worried. Mom looked across the seat at meAuntie Danser was riding up front with Dadand asked, "You feeling okay? Did they give you anything to eat? Anything funny?" I said they'd given me a piece of nut bread. Mom went, "Oh, Lord." "Margie, they don't work like that. They got other ways." Auntie Danser leaned over the backseat and goggled at me. "Boy's just worried. I know all about it. These people and I have had it out before." Through those murky glasses, her flat eyes knew me to my young pithy core. I didn't like being known so well. I could see that Auntie Danser's life was firm and predictable, and I made a sudden commitment. I liked the man and woman. They caused trouble, but they were the exact opposite of my great aunt. I felt better, and I gave her a reassuring grin. "Boy will be okay," she said. "Just a colic of
worth. I was between a rock and a hard place. I love my folks, but I itched to hear more stories. Why wasn't it easier to make decisions? That night I slept restlessly. I didn't have any dreams, but I kept waking up with something pounding at
the back of my head, like it wanted to be let in. I scrunched my face up and pressed it back.
At Sunday breakfast, Mom looked across the table at me and put on a kind face. "We're going to pick up Auntie Danser this afternoon, at the airport," she said. My face went like warm butter. "You'll come with us, won't you?" she asked. "You always did like the airport." "All the way from where she lives?' I asked. "From Omaha," Dad said. I didn't want to go, but it was more a command than a request. I nodded, and Dad smiled at me around his
pipe. "Don't eat too many biscuits," Mom warned him. "You're putting on weight again." "I'll wear it off come harvest. You cook as if the whole crew was here, anyway." "Auntie Danser will straighten it all out," Mom said, her mind elsewhere. I caught the suggestion of a
grimace on Dad's face, and the pipe wriggled as he bit down on it harder. The airport was something out of a TV space movie. It went on forever, with stairways going up to restaurants and big smoky windows that looked out on the screaming jets, and crowds of people, all
leaving, except for one pear-shaped figure in a cotton print dress with fat ankles and glasses thick as headlamps. I knew her from a hundred yards. When we met, she shook hands with Mom, hugged Dad as if she didn't want to, then bent down and gave
me a smile. Her teeth were yellow and even, sound as a horse's. She was the ugliest woman I'd ever seen. She smelled of lilacs. To this day lilacs take my appetite away. She carried a bag. Part of it was filled with knitting, part with books and pamphlets. I always wondered
(38 of 197) why she never carried a Biblejust Billy Grahams and Zondervans. One pamphlet fell out, and Dad bent to pick it up. "Keep it, read it," Auntie Danser instructed him. "Do you good." She turned to Mom and scrutinized her from the bottom of a swimming pool. "You're looking good. He must be treating you right." Dad ushered us out the automatic doors into the dry heat. Her one suitcase was light as a mummy and probably just as empty. I carried it, and it didn't even bring sweat to my brow. Her life was not in clothes and toiletry but in the plastic knitting bag. We drove back to the farm in the big white station wagon. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the rear seat window and considered puking. Auntie Danser, I told myself, was like a mental dose of castor oil. Or like a visit to the dentist. Even if nothing was going to happen her smell presaged disaster, and like a horse sniffing a storm, my entrails worried. Mom looked across the seat at meAuntie Danser was riding up front with Dadand asked, "You feeling okay? Did they give you anything to eat? Anything funny?" I said they'd given me a piece of nut bread. Mom went, "Oh, Lord." "Margie, they don't work like that. They got other ways." Auntie Danser leaned over the backseat and goggled at me. "Boy's just worried. I know all about it. These people and I have had it out before." Through those murky glasses, her flat eyes knew me to my young pithy core. I didn't like being known so well. I could see that Auntie Danser's life was firm and predictable, and I made a sudden commitment. I liked the man and woman. They caused trouble, but they were the exact opposite of my great aunt. I felt better, and I gave her a reassuring grin. "Boy will be okay," she said. "Just a colic of
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