Our father told her we’d already eaten supper. We hadn’t, of course. But he didn’t want her hanging around, bloated with pleasure, watching us devour her food.
“We’ll have it tomorrow.” He nodded at me to put it away. “Thank you, Ren.”
I picked up the platter reluctantly. Nate darted under my arms and opened the refrigerator door.
Our aunt stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “We’re all family here. Let’s don’t pretend.” She fixed our father with an insinuating gaze.
“Pretend what?” he said, a polite smile tacked to his face. “Put that chicken back on that table,” Aunt Rennie told me.
“Nate, you shut that door.”
For several hard seconds I continued to grip the platter while my brother held the refrigerator door open, causing its aged motor to let out an embarrassing series of knocks and clangs. Cold air drifted through the room.
At last, our father surrendered. “That’s enough, son. Close it up.” He nodded at me to put the chicken back on the table. I did.
“See,” Aunt Rennie said. “That wasn’t so hard.”
She turned to Nate and me. “All right, you two. I have to get back to my own family now. Come give your favorite aunt a kiss.” With a grunt, she squatted, opened her arms, and presented the side of her face.
A graduate of Warren Wilson College, Karen Tucker is the recipient of an Elizabeth George Foundation Grant for Emerging Writers. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina.