them for a little bit. After we finish cheering as Bruce Willis shoots up a bunch of bad guys, I say in what I hope is a casual tone, “So that’s a shit ton of beef stew you got in the kitchen. Which one of you is gonna eat the most of it?”
This seemingly innocent question is all it takes to set off a series of boasts, put-downs, and finally challenges to decide once and for all which of the Hinkton boys can put away the most Dinty Moore in one sitting.
I reluctantly agree to officiate the contest.
One hour later, Uncle Dune is in the lead by two cans. This isn’t a huge surprise. All three of my uncles shop at the Big and Tall store, but Dune’s the only one who has to duck when walking through your average doorway.
“Lennie!” he bellows, even though I’m standing right in front of him. “Make me another.”
Uncle Jet and Uncle Rod, refusing to fall further behind, shovel their last bites into their mouths and shove their bowls at me as well. “Mine too.”
In the kitchen, I open and upend cans thirty-eight, thirty-nine, and forty. The stew plops into the bowls with a wet and rather unappetizing slurping noise. I pull the last three melatonin pills from my pocket and stir them in. I’ve already given each of my uncles the maximum dose of sleeping pills, but the melatonin is natural so I’m pretty sure a little extra won’t cause them to OD.
After a few minutes in the microwave, I put the bowls on the sheet pan I’m using as a makeshift serving tray and carry them back out to my uncles.
I gasp in shock when I turn the corner and see all three of them slumped sideways, fast asleep. I mean, yeah, that’s what I was going for, but I didn’t expect it to work so quickly or so well, and I feel an unexpected twinge of guilt.
Sure, the uncs may not be the most nurturing people out there, but when my dad disappeared and Mom made it clear she was pretty much useless, they stepped in and took care of me. Of course, you could argue that I’ve paid them back by mostly staying out of trouble and keeping the complaints to a minimum. I never whined when they skipped out on school events or protested when they thought it was funny to play connect the dots on my arms when I had chicken pox or sulked when I had to remind them it was my birthday. I always sort of understood that my uncles were doing the best they could. Now, I can only hope they extend the same courtesy to me.
I grab a pile of blankets and take a few minutes to tuck them in. I also check their pulses, just to make sure I didn’t overdo it on the pills. When I get to Uncle Jet, his eyes flutter open.
“Lennie,” he rasps.
Even in his sleepy state, I can hear the threat in that one word and I take a step back.
“Dead,” he says, and then repeats it so the message is clear. “Dead.” His eyes close again and he begins to snore.
Feeling reassured that my uncles will survive the stew incident, although considerably less certain that I will, I tip-toe upstairs to get ready for the party.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in clothes that don’t have a noticeable Dinty Moore stink to them, and I’ve added some pink stuff to my lips and cheeks and sparkly goop to my eyelids. After running my fingers through my half-curled, but mostly just tangled hair, I decide that I am officially as prettied up as possible.
Still, I can’t stop myself from taking one last detour—this time crossing the hall into my mother’s bedroom.
“Mom,” I call, tapping on the door. I don’t really expect an answer. The knock is more of an announcement that I’m coming in.
As I crack the door open, I am instantly hit with the stench of stale cigarette smoke.
Mom’s in her usual place at the window, her head and shoulders leaning out into the warm night air. Everything about her looks washed out, from the mess of ash blond hair spilling down her back to the gray robe wrapped around her body. It’s like she’s trying to disappear into the cloud of smoke that always surrounds her.
Walking closer, I notice that she’s sucking on the last quarter inch of a cigarette. That’s my mom—so dedicated to each cigarette she’ll