The Wilds Read Online Free Page A

that this tiny little woman in a housecoat and bedroom slippers had just described the end of the world.
    Still drunk from her visions, we left Meemaw crumpled on the couch, for we could hear Brunell’s motherclattering pots and pans. We drifted toward the primal sweetness of frying bacon, toward the bright kitchen, where Uncle Mike sat weeping at the Formica table, his hair slicked back in a tight ponytail. Our first impulse was to rush in and pet him all over with our small, silken hands. We wanted nothing more than to kiss him on his wrinkled brow and stroke his hair, the gray roots of which were clearly visible in the morning light. But we hung back in the darkness of the dining room to watch and listen.
    “What most disappointed me,” said Uncle Mike, wiping his eyes with a dish towel, “was that he ran off with that rich asshole, that he wasn’t the boy I thought he was.”
    “You’re better off without him,” said Brunell’s mama, hunching over the stove.
    “And to come home to find Mama off her rocker,” said Uncle Mike, “after not sleeping for a week. That was just too much.”
    “It might be that Alzheimer’s.”
    “It’s not Alzheimer’s. Just old-fashioned craziness, aka mental illness. Whether it’s biological or cultural, I don’t know, but either way . . .”
    “She’s had a hard time lately, what with Daddy gone and all. Plus, Reverend Dewlap took away her Sunday school class. He never would let a woman preach, and that’s what she’s always wanted to do.”
    “And you’re baffled by the patriarchal oppression of the church?”
    “Reverend Dewlap’s a good man. You should come to church with us today. He might be able to help you.”
    “Help me?”
    “Make life a lot easier for you.”
    “If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then I’m disgusted with you.”
    “Don’t take it personal.” Brunell’s mother turned from the stove, waved her spatula in the air fairy-wand-style. “We all have our crosses.”
    “My sexuality is not a cross,” said Uncle Mike. “And if you don’t want me to lose my shit, I suggest that you drop the subject.”
    “You’re the one who was talking about your friend.”
    “Boyfriend,” said Mike. “Boyfriend, okay? And I would think that I could discuss my relationships with my own sister. We used to talk a lot in high school, remember? When you used to sneak out with Bill and come home wasted and Mama lashed out at you. You would come to my room crying, remember? Of course, I’m a fool to try to talk to you now that you’ve been brainwashed by snake handlers.”
    “We don’t handle snakes.”
    “Whatever. Brunell’s the most reasonable person in this house.”
    “She’s just a child. And speaking of children, we ought to keep it down. We got kids in the house. Nice girls.”
    “By which you mean middle-class.”
    “What’s that got to do with it?”
    “Dear God.” Mike sighed. “Let’s just drop it.”
    “Girls!” Brunell’s mama yelped.
    When we strolled into the kitchen with our smiles of fake innocence, both adults greeted us with fierce, clenched grins. We reveled in the exquisite alchemy of bacon coated in the artificial-maple runoff from Bisquick pancakes. We drank glass after glass of Mr. Pig. We devoured the remnants of the Garfield birthday cake and ate every last Pop-Tart in the house. Uncle Mike, pretending to recover his spirits, tucked his sadness into a corner of his heart and chatted with us about Duran Duran. When he started up on California, Brunell’s mama went upstairs to get ready for church.
    Uncle Mike said we’d love the Venice Beach boardwalk, where fine ladies like ourselves roller-skated in string bikinis as palm trees swayed in the warm wind. There were break-dancers and snake charmers, mimes and jugglers, ancient movie stars with Latin gigolos and beribboned poodles that smelled of death. As Uncle Mike described the ecstasy of sipping a tropical cocktail on a beachfront cabana