But Uncle T wasn’t a decent person.
“Saint Devon,” T’d taken to calling him last time he was there.
Devon tried to ignore him and steer clear, hoping against hope that he’d eventually go away. So far, he always did.
But tonight his luck had run out. When he got home from school and Mr. Allen’s, Uncle T’s brown Cadillac was in the driveway.
Devon tried not to drag his feet as he walked in to the smell of cooking meat and spices. Not only was T there but his friend, too, a man with a patch over one eye who T insisted Devon call Uncle Ray. The two were laughing and clinking glasses when Devon walked in.
“Where’s Memaw?”
“Whassa matter wit’you, boy? Got no manners? Say hello to your Uncle Ray here.”
Uncle Ray grinned, the silver on his teeth all shiny in the kitchen light. Devon saw a line of coiled, viney-looking tattoos run clear up the length of the man’s arm. All black, except two blood-red eyes. Right in the head of a cobra.
A shiver ran down Devon’s back. He tried to move past them, but T blocked the way.
“I said say hello to your Uncle Ray.” T’s words were like ice, and a hand reached out then, clamped Devon by the neck. Squeezed so hard Devon almost thought he was going to have to yell, but at the last second T let go, and all he let out was a breath.
“Hi, Uncle Ray. Hi, Uncle T.” He muttered the words, wouldn’t meet their eyes, just hoped they couldn’t see the pounding of his chest beneath his shirt.
T stepped aside, and Devon slipped past, clutching the cords of his backpack.
“No respect, these kids,” Devon could hear T mutter to Ray. “Gonna hafta teach ’im a thing or two, you feel me?”
He made a beeline for his room.
Memaw wasn’t on the couch. He dropped the backpack on his bed, then tapped gently on her bedroom door.
“Memaw?”
No answer.
He tapped again, then gently opened the door.
Memaw was in bed, the covers drawn to her chin. Devon looked at the clock on her wall. Five-thirty. Memaw was never asleep at this time.
“Memaw?” He approached the bed. Still no answer.
He could see her chest rise and fall, but when he reached her, he saw she was shivering. Touching her brow, he pulled back. She was burning up. Fear fluttered in his belly.
“Memaw, are you okay?” He shook her slightly, but she didn’t budge.
Darting out to the bathroom, he rummaged through the drawers and then the cabinet, looking for Tylenol or Advil. Something. Anything that would help bring down the fever. He looked in the trashcan, saw an empty bottle.
Heart pounding, he dashed back into Memaw’s room, searching.
There.
In the corner, he saw her familiar black pocketbook. Digging inside, he grabbed a few bills, stuffed them inside his pockets.
“Memaw’s sick,” he told T back in the kitchen.
“Shoo, when’s she not?”
“Uncle T, she’s burning up.”
T’s jaw set. “She’s fine.”
