unbridled sexuality. Seated on
a lounge chair at the country club, she would narrow her eyes, speculating on the children crowding the shallow end of the
pool. “I have a sneaking suspicion Christina Youngblood might be our half sister. She’s got her father’s chin, but the eyes
and mouth are pure Mom.”
I felt uneasy implicating our parents, but Gretchen provided a wealth of frightening evidence. She noted the way our mother
applied lipstick at the approach of the potato chip delivery man, whom she addressed by first name and often invited to use
our bathroom. Our father referred to the bank tellers as “doll” or “sweetheart,” and their responses suggested that he had
taken advantage of them one time too many. The Greek Orthodox church, the gaily dressed couples at the country club, even
our elderly collie, Duchess: they were all in on it, according to Gretchen, who took to piling furniture against her bedroom
door before going to sleep each night.
The book wound up in the hands of our ten-year-old sister, Amy, who used it as a textbook in the make-believe class she held
after school each day. Dressed in a wig and high heels, she passed her late afternoons standing before a blackboard and imitating
her teachers. “I’m very sorry, Candice, but I’m going to have to fail you,” she’d say, addressing one of the empty folding
chairs arranged before her. “The problem is not that you don’t try. The problem is that you’re stupid. Very, very stupid.
Isn’t Candice stupid, class? She’s ugly, too, am I wrong? Very well, Candice, you can sit back down now and, for God’s sake,
stop crying. All right, class, now I’m going to read to you from this week’s new book. It’s a story about a California family
and it’s called
Next of Kin.
If Amy had read the book, then surely it had been seen by eight-year-old Tiffany, who shared her bedroom, and possibly by
our brother, Paul, who at the age of two might have sucked on the binding, which was even more dangerous than reading it.
Clearly this had to stop before it got out of hand. The phrase “Tight willin’
gasshole
” was growing more popular by the day, and even our ancient Greek grandmother was arriving at the breakfast table with suspicious-looking
circles beneath her eyes.
Gretchen took the book and hid it under the carpet of her bedroom, where it was discovered by our housekeeper, Lena, who eventually
handed it over to our mother.
“I’ll make sure this is properly disposed of,” my mother said, hurrying down the hallway to her bedroom.
“Fecking,”
she laughed, reading aloud from a randomly selected page. “Oh, this ought to be good.”
Weeks later Gretchen and I found the book hidden between the mattress and box spring of my parents’ bed, the pages stained
with coffee rings and cigarette ash. The discovery seemed to validate all of Gretchen’s suspicions. “They’ll be coming for
us any day now,” she warned. “Be prepared, my friend, because this time they’ll be playing for keeps.”
She was undoubtedly referring to the episode in chapter eight where Mr. and Mrs. Rivers offer their children to a band of
crusty gold miners with foul breath and rough, callused hands. The Rivers children seemed to enjoy it, but then again, they’d
been raised that way.
We waited. I’d always made it a point to kiss my mother before going to bed, but not anymore. The feel of her hand on my shoulder
now made my flesh crawl. She was hemming a pair of my pants one afternoon when, standing before her on a kitchen chair, I
felt her hand graze my butt.
“I just want to be friends,” I stammered. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
She took the pins out of her mouth and studied me for a moment before sighing, “Damn, and here you’ve been leading me on all
this time.”
I read the book once more, trying to recapture my earlier pleasure, but it was too late now. I couldn’t read the phrase “He
a lounge chair at the country club, she would narrow her eyes, speculating on the children crowding the shallow end of the
pool. “I have a sneaking suspicion Christina Youngblood might be our half sister. She’s got her father’s chin, but the eyes
and mouth are pure Mom.”
I felt uneasy implicating our parents, but Gretchen provided a wealth of frightening evidence. She noted the way our mother
applied lipstick at the approach of the potato chip delivery man, whom she addressed by first name and often invited to use
our bathroom. Our father referred to the bank tellers as “doll” or “sweetheart,” and their responses suggested that he had
taken advantage of them one time too many. The Greek Orthodox church, the gaily dressed couples at the country club, even
our elderly collie, Duchess: they were all in on it, according to Gretchen, who took to piling furniture against her bedroom
door before going to sleep each night.
The book wound up in the hands of our ten-year-old sister, Amy, who used it as a textbook in the make-believe class she held
after school each day. Dressed in a wig and high heels, she passed her late afternoons standing before a blackboard and imitating
her teachers. “I’m very sorry, Candice, but I’m going to have to fail you,” she’d say, addressing one of the empty folding
chairs arranged before her. “The problem is not that you don’t try. The problem is that you’re stupid. Very, very stupid.
Isn’t Candice stupid, class? She’s ugly, too, am I wrong? Very well, Candice, you can sit back down now and, for God’s sake,
stop crying. All right, class, now I’m going to read to you from this week’s new book. It’s a story about a California family
and it’s called
Next of Kin.
If Amy had read the book, then surely it had been seen by eight-year-old Tiffany, who shared her bedroom, and possibly by
our brother, Paul, who at the age of two might have sucked on the binding, which was even more dangerous than reading it.
Clearly this had to stop before it got out of hand. The phrase “Tight willin’
gasshole
” was growing more popular by the day, and even our ancient Greek grandmother was arriving at the breakfast table with suspicious-looking
circles beneath her eyes.
Gretchen took the book and hid it under the carpet of her bedroom, where it was discovered by our housekeeper, Lena, who eventually
handed it over to our mother.
“I’ll make sure this is properly disposed of,” my mother said, hurrying down the hallway to her bedroom.
“Fecking,”
she laughed, reading aloud from a randomly selected page. “Oh, this ought to be good.”
Weeks later Gretchen and I found the book hidden between the mattress and box spring of my parents’ bed, the pages stained
with coffee rings and cigarette ash. The discovery seemed to validate all of Gretchen’s suspicions. “They’ll be coming for
us any day now,” she warned. “Be prepared, my friend, because this time they’ll be playing for keeps.”
She was undoubtedly referring to the episode in chapter eight where Mr. and Mrs. Rivers offer their children to a band of
crusty gold miners with foul breath and rough, callused hands. The Rivers children seemed to enjoy it, but then again, they’d
been raised that way.
We waited. I’d always made it a point to kiss my mother before going to bed, but not anymore. The feel of her hand on my shoulder
now made my flesh crawl. She was hemming a pair of my pants one afternoon when, standing before her on a kitchen chair, I
felt her hand graze my butt.
“I just want to be friends,” I stammered. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
She took the pins out of her mouth and studied me for a moment before sighing, “Damn, and here you’ve been leading me on all
this time.”
I read the book once more, trying to recapture my earlier pleasure, but it was too late now. I couldn’t read the phrase “He
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