Uncle Vampire by Cynthia D. Grant Page B

speak. She moved around the kitchen quickly.
    Then she looked directly at me.
    â€œNothing’s wrong, is there, Carolyn?”
    â€œNo. I was just thinking.”
    â€œWhat do you suppose your brother’s doing? It smells like he’s burning down the neighborhood.”
    â€œI hope so.”
    She smiled at me and fled from the kitchen. I pictured Richie loping from house to house, christening each one with lighter fluid; in the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost.
    Which reminds me: I’m supposed to write and deliver a Thanksgiving grace. I’ve done that since I was a little girl.
    Maybe I would ask Honey to do it. She was bustling around, being useful. Uncle Toddy, is there anything I can do? Could I pour you a glass of blood?
    Grammy says forgiveness is the soul of a true Christian. But how can I forgive the unforgivable?
    Sensing tension in our happy home (what a mind she has, she’s so perceptive!), Honey skipped to the piano and played “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.” She played exquisitely. Everyone stopped bickering and listened.
    â€œThat was wonderful, Honey,” Papa said when she was finished. “Rich, help me get the extra chairs.” Uplifted by the music, he added, “please.” Honey beamed with relief.
    Richie drove over to pick up Gram and Grampa. In the old days, Gram would’ve been here early, cooking up a storm.
    Sometimes I feel angry at her. I want to grab her and shout: “Don’t get old! Don’t die!” We used to have such good times together. We picked armloads of daisies in the field behind her house. That field is full of apartments now. Gram played dolls with me for hours. We sang songs about Jesus, and she told me funny stories about Mama’s mischief when she was a little girl. I’d lie on the couch beside Grammy and giggle.
    That’s all over now. Richie guided Grammy and Gramps into the house. They came in slowly and sat by the fire.
    â€œCarolyn, you look splendid!” Grammy said. “Honey, I love that dress. Richie, dear, would you hand me my purse? Thank you, dear. I need some tissue. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Margaret could be with us?”
    â€œShe called this morning,” Mama said, and related the conversation.
    Our relatives arrived. Papa and Aunt Marion gave each other smacking kisses. Papa’s voice gets loud when he greets his sister and her husband, Uncle Wayne, and their teenage sons, Mark and Damon.
    We all swam around like fish in a tank. There was lots of talking and snacking and noise. A football game blared on the TV. I circulated with appetizers and brought Gram and Gramps cups of decaffeinated coffee, which is also the only kind that Mama drinks. She claims caffeine ruins her sleep.
    Papa, Uncle Wayne, and Uncle Toddy watched the football game. Once in a while they jumped up, shouting: “Yes!” Richie smoked cigarettes on the porch with Damon. Mark, who’s thirteen, rode Richie’s old skateboard up and down the driveway.
    I hung out with Richie and Damon for a while. When you talk to Damon, he won’t look you in the eye. He glances at his feet or off to the side. Richie does that too. He didn’t used to.
    There was a nip in the air, so I went back inside. Mama and Aunt Marion were at the dining room table, talking about how expensive everything is these days, and how crummy things are made; they fall apart as soon as you make the last payment.
    â€œGood thing for you!” Uncle Wayne boomed in his wife’s ear. “If it weren’t for that, I’d be out of business!” Uncle Wayne owns a car dealership.
    â€œYou might be out of business anyway, if the economy doesn’t pick up,” Papa said.
    â€œYou’re telling me.” Uncle Wayne nodded grimly.
    â€œHow’s business, Bill?” Aunt Marion asked abruptly.
    â€œJust fine,” Papa said. “I can’t complain.”
    Papa thinks Aunt Marion