believe, then they might not return. They might leave us forever. After
Mom and Dad left, Erma became even more cantankerous. If she didn't
like the look on our faces, she would hit us on the head with a serving
spoon. Once she pulled out a framed photograph of her father and told us
he was the only person who had ever loved her. She talked on and on
about how much she'd suffered as an orphan at the hands of her aunts and
uncles who hadn't treated her half as kindly as she was treating us.
About a week after Mom and Dad left, we kids were all sitting in Erma's
living room watching TV. Stanley was sleeping in the foyer. Erma,
who'd been drinking since before breakfast, told Brian that his britches
needed mending. He started to take them off, but Erma said she didn't
want him running around the house in his skivvies or with a towel
wrapped around him looking like he was wearing a goddamn dress. It
would be easier for her to mend the britches while he was still wearing
them. She ordered him to follow her into Grandpa's bedroom, where she
kept her sewing kit.
They'd been gone for a minute or two when I heard Brian weakly
protesting. I went into Grandpa's bedroom and saw Erma kneeling on the
floor in front of Brian, grabbing at the crotch of his pants, squeezing and
kneading while mumbling to herself and telling Brian to hold still,
goddammit. Brian, his cheeks wet with tears, was holding his hands
protectively between his legs.
"Erma, you leave him alone!" I shouted.
Erma, still on her knees, twisted around and glared at me. "Why, you
little bitch!" she said.
Lori heard the commotion and came running. I told Lori that Erma was
touching Brian in a way she ought not to be. Erma said she was merely
mending Brian's inseam and that she shouldn't have to defend herself
against some lying little whore's accusations.