Chapter 54: I Can See Why No One Likes You“Wiley, this is Aunt Rita,” Jackson said in a tight voice.
They had come down on the elevator together.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, feeling sheepish since I couldn’t get up to shake her hand properly. Tony slept on, oblivious. I had sat there so long my back was starting to cramp, but the poor little guy was exhausted.
Aunt Rita was short, spare of frame, severe-looking in the face—all bones and skin pulled tight. Her neck and fingers were adorned with so much gold and silver, she looked like a walking jewelry store.
“I’ve heard about you,” Rita Cummings announced in what seemed a long-suffering voice. “You’re the homosexual who wrote that book.”
“Among other things,” I agreed.
“And you’re from the South. You inflicted Bill Clinton on us, and
