Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“That’s why I’m here, I guess . . .” I hold up the well-creased letter that Burt offered me a few days shy of a month ago.
“Inside of this,” I gesture to the envelope, “is the identity of Momma’s murderer.”
Blood rushes from Charles’s light-skinned flesh, leaving him an ashen gray. “Open it.”
I let out a panted exhale. I needed Uncle Red to know before my own father, as he loved Momma more than anything.
I glance over the mostly blank paper. “There’s only a name. Eugene Or—”
“Eugene Orson!” Uncle Red’s eyes instantly water.
“What? Who? You know him?” I pounce from my chair, too restless to sit. “Who is he?”
Uncle Red offers a scarce nod as if weighted down by a wrought iron horse bridle.
“Eugene served our country in the war. Army, I believe. He always wears one of those caps. He went to the same church as your mother. Always thankful for someone’s help when he was down on hard times. He was homeless off and on. I, uh, would wander by the soup kitchen over the years. Get a glimpse of Gina. I’d see him there.”
“So, he knew Momma well?”
“Maybe, I suppose. I-I knew him in pass-passing.” Uncle Red’s words come out in short, desperate pants as if his lungs are deprived of all oxygen. He folds over for a moment, tugging in air that no longer seems to be there. Once seated, he says, “Luxury, I could’ve stopped Eugene from murdering your mother. I walked right past—”
“Wh-what?”
Kneading the side of his neck, he mutters, “My mind’s reeling, Luxxie. Let me collect my breath and start from when your mother and I got back together.”
“Yes, please.” I can hardly hear my reply.
This is finally happening. Gleaning the truth behind Momma’s death was a dream I had long ago lost faith in. I thought Momma was consigned to a statistic.
A cold case.
That only she and God knew what happened.
And now, I will.
23
Luxury
Completely still, I listen to the sound of the same voice that encouraged me to transition from training wheels to a friggen Radio Flyer bicycle. The damn thing had pink tassels and everything. The same voice that soothed my tattered heart after a bad day at school. But today, Uncle Red’s voice tightens as he says, “A few months before it happened . . . Gina was at my favorite restaurant. Ya know the one, Luxxie? Where I always met you around the corner from NYU?”
My psyche’s bombarded with questions, such as had her being at the restaurant placed her in Eugene’s path. Had I caused this? But I slow down the feelings of guilt ready to bulldoze me away and reply, “Yeah, I told her about the fresh pasta.”
“She was sitting alone when I walked in—went for my usual table. And you know your momma, damn near cursed me out, made like I thought she had the plague if I didn’t sit with her.”
Burt snorts. “Cheeky like her daughter.”
“Cheeky, for damn sure. Gina was the whole package.” Uncle Red nods. “All during our lunch together, I was self-conscious, and she was arguing with me for avoiding her. Counting up all my infractions over the years. I’d sat in the seats on the opposite side of the stadium during your high school graduation. She had a whole list.”
Although he’s complaining like Momma would, I slide back into my chair, captivated by the look in his eyes. It’s like watching a widower irritated by their departed lover's bad habits, but only because they’re distraught that they cannot hold that person close anymore. You can tell they’d take the bad habits every day of their life if it meant more time with the one they adore.
“While Gina nitpicked me during the entire meal, I couldn’t even explain that I was respecting your parents after . . . well . . .” Uncle Red shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
After Dad had your laboratory set on fire.
Uncle Red’s enthralled by the past and continues. “We walk out of the restaurant, and here comes the second round of Gina laying into me! She says we can get the same Uber. That she’d walk the few blocks—”
“Home? A few blocks?” I gasp. Oh, Momma, always exaggerating.
“That’s what I said. So, in the middle of getting my ass handed to me—verbally—the Uber driver’s uncomfortable, and I’m offering for her just to take the damn car. Then she’s crying, saying she’s lonely. I couldn’t make her walk.”
Oblivious, Burt mutters aloud, “Oh? So, the two of you rekindled the old flame?”
Always lost in literature, Burt’s ears burn as he realizes he’s spoken out of turn. Like me, he’s enraptured with Momma’s love story.
Uncle Red goes quiet, not willing to admit it. Shit, Dad called Momma every disparaging synonym available once he knew that I knew she cheated, despite his infidelity. And here my fake uncle is, too damn humble.