For it is very funny. The man’s penis, the flabby thighs of the middle-aged man, the stubby flesh between the thighs intended as a kind of weapon, but limp now, slack and defeated. Laughable.

It will happen another time. One more time. Your (drunken?) uncle standing naked and spread-legged in the bathroom doorway, where you can’t avoid seeing him, pulling at his penis, face red-flushed as a mask, lips drawn back—your instinct is to recoil, back away, instead you sneer at him as before, daring to take a step forward as if preparing to kick him in the groin.

Again, Oscar retreats. Your laughter rises, the cry of a fierce bird. Your ridicule of the man is merciless, joyous as you call after him—Asshole! Fat prick! Hate you! Hate hate hate you!

It is stunning, the sudden animosity between you and the adult man with whom you’ve shared a household for years. The thrill of it. Like a curtain yanked down, that has been hiding something astonishing. Once, you and your uncle-in-law had liked each other—almost. Shy with each other. Awkward. Nothing sexual in his regard for you—not at all. Almost, at times, a kind of clumsy tenderness—nothing more. In your adolescent indifference you’d scarcely noticed the man, it was your aunt Irma against whom you had to defend yourself for it was aunt Irma who’d wanted so badly for you to love her, that her love for you might not be the vain yearning of a foolish childless woman.

Oh Lula—I am trying. So hard . . .

Was Violet like this with you? Sometimes she won’t even look at me . . . And Oscar, he is trying too.

Disconcerting to recall, when you’d first come to live with the Allyns you and your uncle had often helped your aunt in the kitchen, clearing the table after the evening meal, stacking the dishwasher. Deferring to Oscar, the male, to set the dials and start the machine properly.

Oscar hadn’t been staring crudely at you then. You had not been afraid of him then. You’d have been astonished to be told that, one day, the (well-intentioned) (deeply boring) man your aunt had married would be worthy of your hatred.

Not wanting to think—But I am the one. I caused this.

When your aunt returns Oscar has left the house. In astonishment Irma asks where on earth has he gone, just before supper?

You tell her you don’t know. No idea.

But had he said when he’d be back?

No. Had not.

As jubilance fades, as your blood beats less fiercely, you begin to feel guilty. Dirty girl.

Following this, Oscar avoids you. Conspicuously. But Oscar avoids his anxious wife, too.

He has ceased going to church with Irma. Sunday mornings, Irma drives to church by herself.