Chapter 2: Meat for the Coffin

It was painted pale blue, the color she always said reminded her of the sky over Kentucky. There were daisies tucked into the handles, already wilting in the heat. The sight of it made my throat ache.

A cold wind blew against the back of my neck. I grabbed the fire poker—the same one we used to stoke the candle flames—and jabbed Uncle Ray hard.

The poker felt heavy in my hands, but I swung it anyway, poking Uncle Ray in the side until he groaned and shifted in his chair. I whispered his name, my voice barely more than a squeak. He just grumbled, rolling over and pulling his jacket tighter.

"Quit bothering me!" Uncle Ray rubbed his eyes, scowled, and snapped at me.

His breath stank of whiskey and old regrets. He glared at me, eyes bloodshot, and I shrank back, wishing I’d just let him sleep. But I was too scared—I needed someone else awake, someone to tell me I wasn’t just imagining things.

Seeing Uncle Ray stir, I let out a shaky breath. "Uncle Ray, Grandpa—Grandpa spoke again!"

My voice trembled, but I managed to get the words out. Uncle Ray just snorted, rubbing his stubbled chin, and looked around the tent like he half-expected Grandpa to pop out and yell “gotcha!”

"Kids are always making stuff up! Just like your crazy mom!" Uncle Ray burped and laughed, the whiskey thick on his breath.

He leaned back in his chair, cackling, and I felt my cheeks burn. I hated when people talked about Mom that way, but I didn’t say a word. It wasn’t worth it.

Then he got up, reached out, and patted Grandpa’s casket. "If that old man really talks to you, then ask him where he hid the cash!"

He thumped the lid twice, grinning like he’d just told the best joke in the world. The sound echoed in the tent, and I flinched. Uncle Ray didn’t notice—he was too busy laughing at himself.

The old voice rang out again: "Craving... want to eat whiskey-soaked meat first."

It was louder this time, sharper, like it was coming from right behind Uncle Ray’s ear. I clapped my hands over my mouth, stifling a scream. Uncle Ray just kept laughing, completely oblivious.

I didn’t dare say another word, but Uncle Ray, drunk as he was, started making a scene—slapping Grandpa and Grandma’s caskets and shouting.

He cursed Grandpa for being stingy, for never sharing his winnings from the poker games down at the VFW. He stomped around the tent, waving his arms and spitting out old grudges like he was trying to exorcise ghosts. I pressed myself into the corner, wishing I could disappear.

He listed every slight, real or made-up, from the time Grandpa “forgot” his birthday to the time he caught him cheating at checkers. The words got meaner, slurred with drink, until he was just shouting at the night.

I wanted to call Uncle Mike and the others, but I was too scared to walk the back road at night.

That gravel path behind the house twisted through the woods, and every shadow looked like it might reach out and grab me. I thought about running, but my legs just wouldn’t move. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for morning.

I made myself hold on until dawn. As soon as I saw movement in the neighborhood, I stumbled and ran to Uncle Mike’s house.

My legs were shaky, and my throat was raw from holding back tears. The sun was barely up, but I didn’t care—I just needed someone to believe me, someone to make it all stop. Uncle Mike’s porch light was still on, and I banged on the door until he opened it, bleary-eyed and grumpy.

But after I finished telling Uncle Mike, he just laughed and said I can’t tell dreams from real life yet. "Your grandma lived with your grandpa her whole life, so she wanted to go with him—she took her own life!"

He tousled my hair, trying to smile, but his eyes looked tired. He poured himself some coffee, sloshing it on the counter, and told me not to worry so much. “That’s just how it goes, kiddo. Folks get old, get tired. Sometimes they just want to be with the ones they love.”

"You’re only seven this year, still a kid. It’s normal not to understand everything. Just listen to Uncle and don’t worry about the rest."

He crouched down to my level, his face softening. “You’re just a little girl, Maddie. Let the grown-ups handle it, alright?” I nodded, but the knot in my stomach only got tighter.

Uncle Mike leaned in and reminded me again not to talk nonsense. "Maddie, you’ve been tired from keeping vigil these days. It’s a shame your dad passed early, so you have to help out more."

His words stung, even though he tried to make them sound gentle. I looked down at my sneakers, wishing Dad was still here, wishing I didn’t have to be so grown up all the time.

I was anxious, scared something would happen to Uncle Ray in the funeral tent, just like what happened to Grandma. I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Grandma’s burned face and heard the crackle of the stove. I begged Uncle Mike to hurry, to check on Uncle Ray, but he just waved me off, telling me not to be so jumpy.

Thinking of Grandma’s burned head, I shuddered and begged Uncle Mike to hurry to the tent.

He grumbled, stuffing his feet into his old work boots, but didn’t move any faster. I paced the kitchen, wringing my hands, feeling like the minutes were stretching out forever.

But Uncle Mike took his sweet time, eating his eggs and toast before heading out.

He chewed slow, reading the sports section, like nothing in the world could hurry him. I wanted to scream, to knock his plate to the floor, but I just bounced on my toes and waited for him to finish.

We hadn’t even reached the funeral tent yet when we ran into Uncle Pete, panic written all over his face.

He came barreling around the side of the house, wild-eyed and out of breath. “Mike!” he shouted, voice cracking. “You gotta come quick!”

"Mike, Ray’s dead!"

The words hung in the air, heavy as thunder. Uncle Mike’s coffee cup slipped from his hand, shattering on the porch steps. For a second, nobody moved.

Only then did Uncle Mike panic, taking off after Uncle Pete, running behind the house.

He bolted past me, nearly knocking me over. I chased after them, my heart pounding, the grass cold and wet beneath my feet. The world felt tilted, like we were all sliding downhill and couldn’t stop.

That’s where we kept the drinks for the funeral reception, for after Grandpa and Grandma’s burial.

There were stacks of soda, cases of beer, and the big old whiskey barrel Grandpa had rolled home from an estate sale years ago. It was supposed to be for celebrating, but now it felt like a bad omen.

I was slower. By the time I got there, a crowd had already gathered behind the house.