Aunt Rita is in the kitchen the next morning when I go for breakfast. Unlike Mary Beth, she looks the same way she did two years ago when we went to Nebraska for Christmas. She’s as tall as my mom when she wears high heels, and she always wears them. Opposite of Aunt Mary Beth, she’s skinny, and her face is all tight like her bones are about to pop through. This morning, she’s talking fast and searching through the kitchen cabinets, just as fast.
“I can’t believe it. My plane gets in late. Then I find out the damn ferry quits running at seven o’clock. Can you believe that?” She goes on before anyone has a chance to answer. “I even told the guy running the fuel pumps at the dock that I was willing to pay fifty bucks to get across the bay. But apparently, gas jockeys make so much money he c
