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up and I gotta clean it up.” He throws the brush in the stale
bucket of water. “Step over me. Your Aunt Grace is upstairs.”
    It makes me laugh how he always calls
her “my” Aunt Grace.
    The stench of the building forces me to
breathe in and out of my mouth. Maybe I should’ve gone to my new apartment
before I came to visit. Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all. Not only will I
have to plug in my Clapper as soon as I get there, but I won’t sleep for all
the night terrors I’ll have about Uncle Jimmy’s nasty crack.
    They sure could fix this place up, I
stand in the tattered building where I grew up. The three-story building has total
of twelve apartments that Aunt Grace is responsible for.
    The once vibrant red carpet that runs
down the hallway is now black and bald in most spots. The gorgeous dark
woodwork is now dull and nicked up. Aunt Grace’s apartment number is hanging by
a thumb tack. I roll my eyes. How in the hell did I escape such a place? I pat my Prada and knock on the door.
    “Aunt Grace.” I tap again, careful not
to knock off the number plate.
    The television is so loud that I have to
knock louder and my knuckles turn red.
    “What?” she screams in a cranky get-the-hell-out
voice that’s all too familiar.
    “It’s me Hallie, Aunt Grace.” I hear a
chair squeak.
    “Hold on, honey. I need to put my teeth
in.” I never know what’s going to come out of Aunt Grace’s mouth. Now I have to
worry about what’s going in, too.
    To the chagrin of my parents, Aunt Grace
told me all about the birds and the bees. Unfortunately she did it without my
parents knowing, only to find out when the school principal told them she had
received several parent complaints about “their daughter” telling stories at
recess about an inappropriate topic. The way I figured it, we all had a right
to know where we came from.
    “Wow. You look great.” I pat Aunt Grace
on the back trying not to hug her. I don’t want to take any unwanted bugs to my
new pad.
    But she doesn’t look great. She is thin
and pale. Not the boisterous Italian body I’m use to.
    “Let me look at you.” She holds my arms
out to my side.
    It is hard not to stare at the crooked
black wig on top her head, showing off a little of her gray wiry hair. I’m still
shocked by how frail she looks.
    Her fox stole rests on her shoulder with
the tail neatly tucked in the teeth of the fox’s mouth. There is more skin than
fur on the pelt. I can imagine Aunt Grace sitting around in her chair petting
the fox like a real pet.
    “Come in. Let me fix you something to
eat.” She creeps back in to her apartment.
    The hot plate sitting on the TV tray
next to her chair is full of dried-up pasta.
    “I can turn the plate on. God knows you
need to eat.” She looks over at me, shaking her head. “No Italian in you at
all.”
    “No, no. I just ate.” I lie, remembering
all the times my parents warned me not to eat anything Aunt Grace ever offers.
Little did they know she would be raising me and that I didn’t have a choice.
But I have a choice now. 
    “Come here,” she commands, walking past
her chair and moving near the empty china cabinet.
    The bottom drawer flies open. I duck at
the flying china plates that are being thrown at me.
    “Hurry! Put those in that big bag of
yours,” she said in a small frightened voice.
    Crap. I frown, looking over at my purse.
I shovel them in as fast as I can, trying not to look the fox in the eyes. I
swear it’s staring at me letting me know something fishy is going on.
    The Jefferson’s theme song plays in my
head as I watch the roaches dance around. “We’re-a-movin’ on up…” Yeah! Moving
up in a Prada!
    “Hurry. Faster, before he comes up
here.” She is quick.
    I can hardly keep up with her. I’ll bet
a million dollars this is the fastest she has moved in a long time.
    “Who, Aunt Grace?” I question.
    My handbag straps begin showing signs of
strain. I swear I can hear my purse start to cry. “How