Read Online Uncle Vampire by Cynthia D. Grant - Free Book Online

is too critical, that she never has a good word to say. The same could be said for him. He’s always on Richie. Would I like my father if I didn’t love him? He was drinking beer and getting louder. His belly strained the waistband of his pants. When people disagree with him or interrupt his monologues on the Trouble with Foreigners, or the Economy’s a Disgrace, he turns up the volume and drowns them out.
    â€œHe’s a dog!” he shouted at Uncle Wayne, referring to the coach of a football team. “They’re paying him a million and a half to lose! I wish I had a deal like that!”
    â€œYeah, you’re losing for nothing,” said Aunt Marion. Papa laughed hard at her joke.
    You can tell when Aunt Marion’s going to say something sharp because her mouth puckers up, as if she’s blowing a dart.
    She said, “Richie seems a little withdrawn.”
    The barb was so pointed Mama barely felt it. Then the poison entered her bloodstream. Aunt Marion was saying that Richie is rude.
    (“ He’s not rude !” I wanted to scream. “ He just can’t stand you !”)
    Mama glanced toward the porch. Richie slumped on the railing. His long blond hair needed washing.
    â€œHe’s shy,” Mama explained.
    â€œHow’s he doing in school?”
    â€œOh, fine,” Mama said. “He’s going to graduate in June. Can you believe it? The time goes so quickly.”
    â€œWhat’s he going to do?”
    â€œGo to college,” Mama said automatically. I wonder if she ever wonders if that’s true. “More coffee, Marion?”
    â€œI’ll get it, Mama.” Honey leaped up, anxious to serve.
    â€œThat’s okay, Honey. I was going out there anyway. I’ve got to check on the turkey.”
    If we followed Mama out to the kitchen we’d see her refill Aunt Marion’s pretty cup and her own with coffee and a splash of cream.
    Then we’d see her set down the cups and go into her bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. She takes out an orange vial of pills and shakes one, no, two tablets into her palm, then gulps them down with a handful of water. Now she dries her lips and touches up her lipstick, smiles at herself in the mirror, stops smiling, applies more lipstick, smiles again, comes back into the kitchen, picks up the cups, and reappears.
    â€œHere you go, Marion. I hope I gave you enough cream.”
    Why is Mama so afraid? Beneath her perpetual thirst for sleep is a terrible fear of waking.
    The good thing about having so many people around is that they tend to dilute the brew. I didn’t have to talk to Uncle Toddy; he watched football and charmed Gram and Gramps. They love him. Honey took off Gram’s shoes and rubbed her feet, and told her what was new at school. Gram loves to have her feet rubbed. I don’t do that anymore. The nails on her toes look like yellow shells.
    Then we helped Uncle Toddy get dinner ready. We mashed potatoes and filled gravy boats. Uncle Toddy sliced open the turkey’s breast. Honey clamored for the crispy golden skin.
    I wrote the grace, but Honey said it. I wasn’t in the mood to give thanks. I know I should; millions of people in the world are much worse off than I am. They’re starving or buried alive in prison, cancer victims, and abused children, forgotten by God—Why doesn’t He help them? I have plenty to eat and drink and wear, a warm place to sleep, and my family around me. So it could be worse, and I’m grateful it’s not, but it probably will be. Amen.
    The grace Honey gave was more traditional: “We thank thee, Lord, for bringing us together, and keeping this family safe from harm,” etc. When she was finished, Grampa patted her hand and said, “Wonderful, Honey.” He’s a man of few words, but he means them. Grammy’s eyes shone with love and pride. “That was just right, Honey,” she said. “Thank you,