Chapter 8
Behind him I could hear shouting and crying and things breaking.
“He has Gwen cornered in the kitchen, telling her she cannot go to the funeral dressed like that because what will people think! Come in, whoever you are.”
The tall young man, who must be my older nephew Jacob, looked us both up and down like we had just entered a gay bar or a meat market. He had very expressive eyebrows and was dressed all in black. His feeble attempt at a goatee was the only thing that marked him as the age I knew him to be: sixteen. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or amusement in his eyes.