isn’t swollen shut.
“I woke up this morning,” he says, but then stops and starts again. “Something woke me up this morning. My hand.” He holds up his right hand. Unlike his face, it seems to be in good shape. Looks like whoever beat him up didn’t give him much chance to return the favor. “I tried to ignore it, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.”
“I think we know where this is going,” Uncle Jet groans. “Damn it, Lennie. Maybe we shoulda given you some sexeducation so you’d know it ain’t right to mess with a man’s manhood.”
“No!” Smith lets his hand fall. “That’s not what . . . My hand didn’t want . . .” He clears his throat. “Last night, I made a wish. And now . . .” Smith’s gaze drops to his shoes as he mutters something unintelligible.
“What was that?” Uncle Rod asks.
“He said he needs to hold Lennie’s hand.”
You wouldn’t think it from his own lack of volume control, but Uncle Dune has superhuman hearing. When I was a little kid we used to play a game called Can You Hear This? I’d stand at the opposite end of the room from Uncle Dune and whisper something as softly as possible, then he’d bellow out what I’d just said. He almost always got it right. So instead of questioning Dune, my uncles simply look from Smith to me and then back to Smith again.
“Well, Lennie,” Uncle Jet says at last. “Give the boy your hand.”
I shove both hands up into my armpits. “No.”
“Did that boy make a wish to hold your hand?”
“No. Yes. Sort of. I guess.”
“Which one?”
I glance at Smith, waiting to see if he wants to jump in, but he’s still examining his shoelaces. “I didn’t grant anywish. This is crazy. It’s insane. Smith’s screwing with me. He probably cooked it up with W2. I keep telling you it’s some weird practical joke.”
Uncle Jet shakes his head. “I’d get the moonshine and have you grant my wish that the truth would penetrate your thick skull, but it wouldn’t work till sunrise tomorrow and I hate to think of what kind of hell you’ll unleash between now and then. So let me explain this to you, one more time.” He shoots an accusing glance toward Uncle Dune with this last bit, who merely shrugs in response.
“We grant wishes. Nobody knows how it started but it’s been going on for generations, at least as far as Pop Pop knew. He always said someone up the family tree must’ve screwed a leprechaun. Whatever it was, we got this thing where we can grant wishes through the moonshine. None of that genie giving you three wishes crap. Everyone gets one wish per wish granter. Even the wish granters themselves only get one. That means I could grant a wish for Rod and Dune and myself. And they could each grant one for themselves, for me, and each other. We’re more like fairy friggin’ godmothers in that way. You got that?”
“You and Uncle Rod and Uncle Dune grant wishes,” I repeat. It sounds just as insane coming out of my mouth.
“Wrong!” Uncle Jet crows. “We used to grant wishes. The power gets passed to the next generation oncesomeone has granted three wishes. That means you’re it now, Lennie. Us three can’t grant any more wishes.”
“That can’t be real,” I whisper, even though I have a terrible feeling it is.
Uncle Jet’s told me lies before. Whoppers, too, like that a monster would eat me if I got out of bed in the middle of the night. After I spent most of grade school with recurrent bladder infections from being too afraid to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, Uncle Rod took pity on me. In exchange for no longer stealing the poker from the fireplace to keep it at my bedside, he broke down every single one of Jet’s tells that he’d observed after years of playing poker together. The nose scratch with his middle finger. The chin stroke. The fake cough. The throat clearing. The rapid blinks. The loud honking nose blow. Actually I’m pretty sure some of these were Uncle Jet’s
“I woke up this morning,” he says, but then stops and starts again. “Something woke me up this morning. My hand.” He holds up his right hand. Unlike his face, it seems to be in good shape. Looks like whoever beat him up didn’t give him much chance to return the favor. “I tried to ignore it, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.”
“I think we know where this is going,” Uncle Jet groans. “Damn it, Lennie. Maybe we shoulda given you some sexeducation so you’d know it ain’t right to mess with a man’s manhood.”
“No!” Smith lets his hand fall. “That’s not what . . . My hand didn’t want . . .” He clears his throat. “Last night, I made a wish. And now . . .” Smith’s gaze drops to his shoes as he mutters something unintelligible.
“What was that?” Uncle Rod asks.
“He said he needs to hold Lennie’s hand.”
You wouldn’t think it from his own lack of volume control, but Uncle Dune has superhuman hearing. When I was a little kid we used to play a game called Can You Hear This? I’d stand at the opposite end of the room from Uncle Dune and whisper something as softly as possible, then he’d bellow out what I’d just said. He almost always got it right. So instead of questioning Dune, my uncles simply look from Smith to me and then back to Smith again.
“Well, Lennie,” Uncle Jet says at last. “Give the boy your hand.”
I shove both hands up into my armpits. “No.”
“Did that boy make a wish to hold your hand?”
“No. Yes. Sort of. I guess.”
“Which one?”
I glance at Smith, waiting to see if he wants to jump in, but he’s still examining his shoelaces. “I didn’t grant anywish. This is crazy. It’s insane. Smith’s screwing with me. He probably cooked it up with W2. I keep telling you it’s some weird practical joke.”
Uncle Jet shakes his head. “I’d get the moonshine and have you grant my wish that the truth would penetrate your thick skull, but it wouldn’t work till sunrise tomorrow and I hate to think of what kind of hell you’ll unleash between now and then. So let me explain this to you, one more time.” He shoots an accusing glance toward Uncle Dune with this last bit, who merely shrugs in response.
“We grant wishes. Nobody knows how it started but it’s been going on for generations, at least as far as Pop Pop knew. He always said someone up the family tree must’ve screwed a leprechaun. Whatever it was, we got this thing where we can grant wishes through the moonshine. None of that genie giving you three wishes crap. Everyone gets one wish per wish granter. Even the wish granters themselves only get one. That means I could grant a wish for Rod and Dune and myself. And they could each grant one for themselves, for me, and each other. We’re more like fairy friggin’ godmothers in that way. You got that?”
“You and Uncle Rod and Uncle Dune grant wishes,” I repeat. It sounds just as insane coming out of my mouth.
“Wrong!” Uncle Jet crows. “We used to grant wishes. The power gets passed to the next generation oncesomeone has granted three wishes. That means you’re it now, Lennie. Us three can’t grant any more wishes.”
“That can’t be real,” I whisper, even though I have a terrible feeling it is.
Uncle Jet’s told me lies before. Whoppers, too, like that a monster would eat me if I got out of bed in the middle of the night. After I spent most of grade school with recurrent bladder infections from being too afraid to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, Uncle Rod took pity on me. In exchange for no longer stealing the poker from the fireplace to keep it at my bedside, he broke down every single one of Jet’s tells that he’d observed after years of playing poker together. The nose scratch with his middle finger. The chin stroke. The fake cough. The throat clearing. The rapid blinks. The loud honking nose blow. Actually I’m pretty sure some of these were Uncle Jet’s
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