Page 45 of The Inquirer

“Uncle Bradyn, when did you say Clancy was coming home?” Les spoke up from his seat at the table. “I want to write it on the calendar.”

I doubted Les actually needed me to remind him. He was the sort of kid who came up with schedules of his own and followed them to the minute. The quick glance Les shot toward his sister confirmed what I was already thinking. He was trying to change the conversation, either to distract me or to distract Betsy. The way he did it made me think that he’d done it before, probably on a regular basis.

I wasn’t going to call him on it, though. I was a one-time babysitter and an uncle. Dealing with stuff like this was his parents’ department, not mine.

“It all depends on how quickly he recovers. It’ll probably be at least a week. He won’t be playing right away, either. Your parents might have a specific date when they get home.”

Les nodded. “Do you think he’ll be better in time to go trick-or-treating? We already got our costumes.”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Maybe you two can come up with a way he can still have some fun even if he can’t go out.”

“We can give him some of our candy,” Les suggested.

“I ain’t givin’ Clancy nothin’.” Betsy’s scowl deepened. “It’s my candy.”

“We can share with him,” Les said. “It’s not like Mom and Dad can’t buy us candy.”

“It’s not the same,” she insisted. “I’m a princess, and I keep my candy.”

Damn.

She really was a little mini-Ashley.

“That’s her costume.” Les rolled his eyes. “Clancy was going to be Spiderman. Betsy was a princess.”

I had a feeling she would’ve said the same thing even if she’d been going as a ghost. I kept that thought to myself and asked instead, “What’s your costume?”

Being here with Les and Betsy just drove home how little time I’d spent with my niece and nephews. No matter what my issues were with my parents and sister, I never should have let it keep me from knowing these kids. Even the princess.

He smiled, pleased that I’d asked. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Fan of mysteries then?”

The kid’s entire face lit up. “I love them. All kinds of mysteries, but Sherlock Holmes is my favorite.”

“I. Want. Ice cream.” Betsy thumped her fist on the table, but she didn’t raise her voice.

Not surprising. One of the ‘rules’ Mom had drilled into us kids growing up was that a Southern lady never raised her voice, no matter how insistent she needed to be. It seemed Ashley had passed that lesson down to her daughter.

“Are you done with your lunch?” I asked. “Because you haven’t finished your apple.”

“I’m done.” As if to emphasize her point, she pushed her plate away.

“You’re not hungry?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Only for ice cream.”

“That’s not how this works, Betsy. You know that.” I glanced at Les, and he shrugged. “If you don’t finish all of your lunch, you don’t get dessert.”

“She’s going to throw a temper tantrum,” Les said matter-of-factly. He ate the last apple slice. “May I be excused?”

“You don’t want your ice cream?”

His eyes went wide, and he shook his head. “Not if she’s not getting hers. You don’t want to have something she wants.”

Damn. The kid was scared of his little sister. Not like ‘pee-your-pants’ scared, but he definitely wanted to be away from Betsy when she threw a fit.

Ashley had moved past the tantrum thing fairly young, so I didn’t really have any memories of her like that, but for as long as I could remember, she’d mastered the art of manipulation and cutting, backhanded insults. I had no doubt her tantrums had been just a more immature version of that.

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