U Is for Undertow Read Online Free PDF Page B

envelope in the same way I had. He slid a finger under the flap and lifted it, then removed a card with an overleaf of tissue. Inside, there was a smaller card with a matching envelope, so the recipient could RSVP. “Says, ‘The Parsonage. Groundbreaking and Dedication Ceremony, celebrating the removal of the Kinsey Family Homestead to its new location at . . .’ blah, blah, blah. May 28, 1988. I believe that’s the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Four P.M. Cocktails and dinner to follow at the country club. Very nice.”
    He turned the invitation so it faced me and I could read it for myself. “Big family do,” he said. “Doesn’t say black tie optional, so that’s good news.” He picked up the smaller card with its stamped envelope. “They’d appreciate a reply by May 1. Couldn’t be easier. The envelope’s already stamped so that will save you return postage. Well, now, what do you think of that?”
    “This is just not going to go away, is it?” I said. “Why do they keep harassing me? It’s like being nibbled to death by ducklings.”
    He pulled his reading glasses down low on his nose and looked at me over the rims. “Two contacts a year isn’t ‘harassment.’ This is an invitation to a party. It’s not like someone put dog turds on the front seat of your car.”
    “I barely know these people.”
    “And you won’t if you keep avoiding them.”
    Reluctantly, I said, “I’ve dealt with Tasha and she’s not so bad. And I’m fond of Aunt Susanna. She’s the one who gave me the photograph of my mother and then sent me the family album. I’ll admit I was touched by that. So here’s what worries me. Am I just being stubborn for the sake of it? What do they call that, ‘cutting off your nose to spite your face’? I mean, most families want to be close. I don’t. Does that make me wrong?”
    “Not at all. You’re independent. You prefer being alone.”
    “True, and I’m pretty sure that’s considered the opposite of mental health.”
    “Why don’t you sleep on it and see how it looks in the morning.”

3

    DEBORAH UNRUH

    April 1963

    Deborah Unruh hated the girl on sight. Her son Greg had dropped out of Berkeley in his sophomore year, claiming his academic courses were irrelevant. Since then, he’d hitchhiked across the country, calling home when his funds were low and he needed money wired to the nearest Western Union office. Deborah and Patrick had last seen him the previous fall, and now, without warning, he’d reappeared, driving a big yellow school bus with a girl named Shelly in tow.
    She had a gaunt face, a mass of dark tangled hair, large hazel eyes, and barely visible brows. She wore heavy eye makeup, a black turtleneck sweater, and a long gypsy skirt, the hem of which was torn and gray from trailing on the ground. When she wasn’t barefoot, she wore black tights and ragged tennis shoes. She had a little boy with her, Shawn, who was six years old. She was quick to tell Deborah the child wasn’t Greg’s. When Deborah made the mistake of asking about her ex-husband, Shelly told her she had never been married and had no idea who the boy’s father was. Her tone implied that only uptight middle-class bores would be concerned with an outdated concept like paternity.
    Deborah let the matter pass without comment, but the girl’s brazen attitude netted her a black mark in Deborah’s eyes. Greg took their welcome for granted, offering no explanation of why they’d come or how long they meant to stay. Deborah offered them the guest room, but he and Shelly declined. They preferred to sleep in the bus, which they parked out behind the garage.
    The vehicle was little more than a shell. They’d removed all the seats and outfitted the interior with beds, a low table and chairs, and a camp stove, though Shelly never lifted a hand when it came to meals. They used a milk crate to hold canned and dried goods and had cardboard boxes for everything else. Shawn slept on a tatty futon