One Christmas I lurked in corners nursing a twisted splinter in my foot, permitting no one to come near me.
When Uncle Jack caught me, he kept me laughing about a preacher who hated going to church so much
that every day he stood at his gate in his dressing-gown, smoking a hookah
and delivering five-minute sermons to any passers-by who desired spiritual comfort.
I interrupted to make Uncle Jack let me know when he would pull it out,
but he held up a bloody splinter in a pair of tweezers and said he yanked it while I was laughing, that was what was known as relativity.
“What’s in those packages?” I asked him, pointing to the long thin parcels the porter had given him.
“None of your business,” he said. Jem said, “How’s Rose Aylmer?”
Rose Aylmer was Uncle Jack’s cat. She was a beautiful yellow female Uncle Jack said was one of the few women he could stand permanently.
He reached into his coat pocket and brought out some snapshots. We admired them.
“She’s gettin’ fat,” I said. “I should think so. She eats all the leftover fingers and ears from the hospital.”
“Aw, that’s a damn story,” I said. “I beg your pardon?”
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