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Aunt Grace was my father's older sister. She was ugly, fat, and scary. I never had much to say to her. She didn't come around often, only when Daddy was desperate for a baby sitter. He told us she had problems, but never elaborated. It didn't take a genius to figure out she was a drunk.

That afternoon we came home from school to find Aunt Grace sitting in Daddy's recliner, eating chocolate covered cherries and watching talk shows as she sipped a margarita. She didn't even acknowledge us when we walked in the front door. I was the one who made peanut butter sandwiches for dinner. I was the one who helped Marley do her homework, take a bath, and say her prayers. All the while useless Aunt Grace drank herself nearly comatose.

After Marley was asleep, I settled down on the couch with a page full of multiplication tables and my intoxicated aunt. She was probably on her fifth glass of wine by that time.

"Francesca, you look like your mother, you know," Aunt Grace said, startling me. It was the first spoken word in nearly twenty minutes.

I glanced up at her. I hated being called Francesca. "That's what Daddy says."

"Damn spitting image. I'm telling you."

I gave her a half-hearted grin and returned to my homework.

"Walter was never the same after that." Her words were slurred. It was strange to hear Daddy called by his name.

I was intrigued. "After what?"

She picked up the remote and began idly flipping channels, finally stopping on some cheesy primetime soap opera. "After June died."

It was even stranger to hear anyone speak about my dead mother. Daddy had never once mentioned her in my presence. My knowledge of her consisted of sneaking up to the attic, rifling through old photo albums and dingy love letters.

She filled her glass yet again and took a long, slow swig. "Man, this crap burns. Don't ever start on the hooch, little missy. It's Satan."

I nodded as she tipped the glass in my direction.

"I never wanted Walter to lie to you girls. I thought it would be better if you knew the truth, but he didn't want to hurt you."

My curiosity was aroused, both by what she said and by the steamy love scene on the television. Daddy always turned it when something romantic came on, calling it smut. "What did he lie about?" I glanced at Aunt Grace. Her heavy eyelids were illuminated by a candle on the table next to her. Her fat face looked eerily like a jack-o- lantern.

"About your mother. The way she died. You girls had a right to know that."

It suddenly struck me that I was having

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