Aunts Needs

Aunts Needs

The term "tightly wound frump" was popular in sixth grade, and I always thought it applied to my great-aunt Emma (who is actually my grandmother's sister) as well. Wearing an understated blouse that shows just her ankles and curled or bound hair, she exudes an air of "I'm so holy" without access to flashy jewelry and wears her hair in a peculiar style. It should be mentioned that Uncle John was a preacher who was famous for his traditional "fire and brimstone" services.

I used to enjoy their friend's lively performances at Christ the Saviour Church, when everyone would be jumping up and down and he would be all red-faced and shouting "HALLELUJAH." Aunt Emma would sit in the front row and join in on the hand-wringing, too. And make music. Her voice was so innocent and powerful that it brought to mind Grace Slick.

It was a world apart from city life, spending summers in that little community. It seemed like I was spending my summer at a long-term camp. I spent at least six days a week (or more, if the weather became chilly) at the municipal pool, where I began to swim when I was eight years old. My uncles John and Chet taught me to shoot when I was ten years old, and at fourteen, I learned to drink whiskey out of an old pickup truck. Overall, it was quite awesome.

It was crystal clear that I was heading down the road to crime when my mother's liver failed when I was sixteen years old, and I had no idea whether they would send me to live with one of them or not. To my surprise, my dad—whom I hadn't seen in what felt like an eternity—showed up and whisked me away to Chicagoland. Despite being an only child, I found myself thrust into a household with five brothers. I enrolled in the Air Force after surviving and, somewhat unexpectedly, graduating from high school.

For four years, I served in the Air Force. I was a tech student in Texas for a year. Following that, I spent three years in northern Japan. Before deciding to go back to school, I had a job interview with the National Security Agency (yes, THAT NSA).

Thus, I found myself back in the little town of Colorado.

My attempt to rap on the door was futile. For the most part, I had always had complete freedom to come and go as I liked. However, I figured I should be polite since it had been six years since I last saw these people. Consequently, I waited, knocked, and took a step back.

There was no discernible change in her when she approached the door. Her attire consisted of a black dress adorned with a delicate floral pattern. The dress fell far below her knees, and the collar was fastened with buttons. Moreover, that beautiful strand of hair on top of her head was still the odd combination of elegant and attractive that I had always thought charming.

Her sudden opening of the screen door, embrace, and kiss brought out the faintest hints of recognition, which I could hardly discern. I had to contort myself in her presence to hide the fact that I had an erection out of nowhere.

"Donnie," she remarked before stepping back to face me and then delivering a forceful punch to my shoulder. "Five years without so much as a letter?!"

I made an effort to appear gullible, which was easy because I actually felt that way.

Simply staring her in the eye allowed me to say, "I'm sorry," and she knew I wasn't exaggerating. "I should have written, I know, but it was, well, you know, not a good time."

I raised my hand as she began to speak.

"Aunt Emma," I told her while maintaining eye contact, "I was an asshole, and I am terribly sorry. Please," I extended my hand to clasp hers, "accept the apology of a known asshole."

I was right; it brought out her signature wide smile, which revealed those slightly gapped front teeth that elevated her beauty to a more merely attractive level than her absolutely stunning one.

Her eyes welled up with tears, and I held her while she sobbed gently against my chest. My hands were softly on her back as I held her, massaging her. I confess that I harbored a subtle crush on her as a child, but I couldn't understand her cries for help. It was obvious that she wanted comfort.

I could not resist planting a gentle kiss on her lips and re-embracing her after the storm had passed, and she gazed up at me with crimson eyes, streaks of mascara and eyeliner, and a runny nose.

Dear Aunt Emma, I wanted to know what was wrong.

Her voice resembled a cough or a chuckle, and I felt a dampness in my chest.

"The main issue is that your aunt is an eccentric elderly woman," she remarked, her laughter barely audible as it brushed against my breast.

While she sobbed, we remained in that position for a few moments. It was actually rather pleasant. The spray she used to hold her thick mane of hair in place made it a bit stiff. And, to be honest, I enjoyed how we complement each other.

After the storm subsided and she stopped sobbing, she averted her gaze, covering her face.

She cried out, "Oh my God, Donnie, stop staring at me and come in and take a seat while I clean myself up."

I gathered my duffel bag, followed her inside the house, and chuckled. I walked to my usual bedroom and dropped my suitcase on the bed while she used the restroom. Afterwards, I went on a rampage through her fridge, or icebox, as she called it, and retrieved a glass of the iced tea that I anticipated being there, as well as the small Tupperware container containing sliced cucumbers and onions marinated in vinegar. As I sipped my tea, sliced cucumbers, and onion rings and pretended to be thirteen years old, I sat at her kitchen table and tuned out the world around me. The radio station was KOA in Denver.

She was surprised to see her hair down and a freshly cleaned face when she entered the kitchen. Halfway down her back, it hung magnificently in a thick and light brown shade, heavily stained with gray. Even though she hadn't touched up her makeup since washing her face, she looked even more stunning than before.

It was with a smile that I asked, "Now, you want to tell me what that was all about?"

Weakly, she grinned.

What utter nonsense, she exclaimed to Donnie.

"I don't know that I ever saw you cry before Aunt Emma," I commented, "so give."

I really wish you could have reconciled with John. "Oh, I'm just being a silly old woman." Until the very end, he was furious with you, she added.

I was taken aback. I hadn't given it much consideration, but I assumed that Aunt Emma and Uncle John were in their 60s. He had always seemed like one of those large, sturdy, everlasting presences in my life. The prospect of his death was hard for me to process.

"And when?" Excuse me? Oh my. I fumbled my words and stammered.

She gave me a feeble smile and muttered, "Damn fool, he got himself electrocuted."

I exclaimed, "Oh my God! I apologize."

"Not your fault, Donnie," she said while laughing with her characteristic raspy, low laugh. I warned him that he was much too old to climb those poles, but he still didn't listen. We sat there, staring at one another and giggling like a pair of fools as she said, "Nooooo." Her delivery made me laugh, which in turn made her laugh.

At last, both of us were able to regain our composure.

She thanked Donnie while still holding back her laughter. "I needed that."

We sat, spoke, and reminisced after the big news was out of the way. I caught up with the rest of the family. Cousin Monica had a whirlwind marriage, divorced, and remarried, and is now a single mom of four who lives two towns over. Cousin Berry was the town clerk, and the list goes on and on.

It wasn't long before I noticed that night was falling.

"Come on, toots," I said. "I'll accompany you to dinner." Perhaps I will intoxicate you and exploit you.

"Give me ten minutes, honey," she asked with an infectious giggle.

She spent fifteen minutes on it, but it was time well spent. Her hair and face are picture-perfect; her blouse is buttoned but adorned with lace trim; and her skirt falls just below the knee. What really shocked me was that she was wearing high-heeled shoes that accentuated her legs.

I extended my hand as she hopped into the passenger seat and then trotted around to the driver's side of my tiny blue PT Cruiser Convertible, which is both entertaining and surprisingly practical. I appreciated her little smile as she spotted my car.

“From the top down? As I stepped inside, I inquired, and to my surprise, she smiled.