“I’m sorry, Uncle Arthúr, but I’m going to have to use your toilet.” I made the mistake of imagining my father’s body floating around in my uncle’s flimsy fiberglass coffin. On my money.
He followed me to the bathroom. “Can you translate that for me into college English? We’ll print up a dummy pamphlet before you go to Bodnár’s.” He stopped talking when he heard the sound of gagging and the toilet flush. He backed off as I came out. I told my uncle I needed the money first, the three thousand, then and only then could we talk about how I could help the Heritage Vault Corporation.
My uncle sized me up, smiled. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? That cute little girl has been teaching you a few tricks, hasn’t she? Come on, tell me. Hasn’t she?”
I told him that actually we broke
