Chapter 8 - Aunt Mij's Intervention
The front screen door banged open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
Aunt Mij marched into the kitchen carrying a cardboard box filled with paper plates, leftover potato salad, and a six-pack of Point Special beer. She set the box on the counter, took off her purple sunhat, and tossed it onto the microwave.
"Well," Mij said, looking around the somber room. "Looks like a funeral in here. Who died? The five-hundred-dollar smoker?"
"Mij, please," Mom sighed, leaning against the counter with a damp dishtowel. "Not today."
"No, Martha, today is exactly the day," Aunt Mij said, popping open a can of beer and setting it firmly in front of Dad. "Chuck, drink that. You look like a ghost that just realized he's dead."
Dad didn't touch the beer. He just stared at the red can.
"I’ve been waiting six years for this bubble to burst," Aunt Mij said, pulling up a chair between Dad and me. "Chuck, you remember when the boys were twelve and fourteen, and Donnie claimed he rebuilt that old John Deere riding mower all by himself?"
Dad frowned slightly. "Yeah. I gave him fifty bucks and bragged to the co-op about it."
"Donnie didn't touch that mower," Mij said flatly. "Donnie was behind the grain bin smoking stolen cigarettes with the Miller boy. Jake spent three days in that shed with skinned knuckles and a flashlight, replacing the starter solenoid and cleaning the carburetor. When I caught Donnie taking your fifty dollars, Jake told me not to say anything because Donnie had promised to let him ride his bicycle to the swimming quarry."
Dad slowly turned his head to look at me. "Is that true?"
"It was thirty years ago, Dad," I said with a slight shrug. "Doesn't matter now."
"It does matter!" Aunt Mij snapped, slapping the table with her open palm. "Because you set up a system in this house where Donnie got the trophies and Jake got the grease! You built a monster, Chuck! You taught Donnie that as long as he had a smile and an excuse, someone else would pay the bill! And you taught Jake that no matter how hard he worked, he’d always be second-best!"
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Mij pointed a finger at Dad's chest. "You owe this boy more than an apology. You owe him twenty-nine years of back pay for all the credit you let his brother steal."
Dad didn't argue. For the first time in my life, Aunt Mij had the last word, and Chuck Carter had nothing to say.
