Tack released her and his hand went to Uncle Marsh.

Uncle Marsh studied it. And while Uncle Marsh studied it, he also, I reckoned, was wondering if he should call all his fighter jock buds in order to spirit me away Mach Three. Then he took Tack’s hand and shook it.

“Marsh, Tyra’s uncle,” he introduced himself.

“Right,” Tack replied and let his hand go, stepping us back and to the side. “These are my kids, Tab and Rush.”

“Yo,” Rush said, coming forward to shake hands.

“Hey,” Tabby said, following her brother. “Cool to meet you. We love Tyra. She’s the shit.”

Aunt Bette smiled. Uncle Marsh studied Tabby then Tack. I tried not to feel the warmth sliding through my system at being “the shit” after meeting Tabby and Rush once. I also failed in not feeling that warmth.

“I’m waiting!” Naomi screamed from outside. The hammering at the door had stopped but apparently she hadn’t gone.

“This is so cool!” Lanie entered the huddle and she did this to hug Aunt Bette and Uncle Marsh while gushing. “Ty-Ty talks about you guys all the time. Says if she wasn’t related to you, she would have launched an investigation at the hospital to see if she was switched at birth. It’s awesome to finally meet you!”

Lanie stepped back and smiled brightly at them. Aunt Bette smiled back at her. Uncle Marsh directed another shit-eating grin at me.

Lanie wasn’t lying. I loved my Mom and Dad but all evidence, except the existence of Uncle Marsh, pointed to there being a mix-up at the hospital. My Mom and Dad were Republicans. My Mom and Dad were religious. My Mom and Dad were both born in Ohio. They vacationed in Ohio State Parks. They considered themselves seasoned travelers because they’d been to Cooperstown and the Indy 500. They cheered for the Buckeyes. Their TV room was decorated in red, gray and white. And, last, they intended to die in Ohio and I knew this because they told me so.

My Mom had a successful career as a housewife. She baked fabulous pies and listened to showtunes and gospel. My Dad had a successful career as a cabinet maker. He ate Mom’s fabulous pies and bragged about them to all and sundry and he watched football, cop shows and action movies, the more bad guys blown up or filled with holes, the better.

Even at my age, my Mom still lectured me that women should wear skirts, heels, never leave the house without makeup and earrings and lamented, often, through every means available (including phone, letters, e-mails and during visits) the fact that I had yet to give her grandchildren. My Dad lectured me that I spent too much time working and socializing, not the right kind (the right kind being at church mixers where I found myself a good, religious boy who liked football and God and had a job where he worked with his hands), and that I should find that boy and make sure his handkerchiefs were always perfectly ironed. This, as well as keeping a clean house and my boy in meat and potatoes, being my only reasons to exist.

My Mom and Dad had somehow managed to get thrown back to the 50’s, they liked it, stayed there and, as with the great state of Ohio, they were never, ever leaving.

My Mom and Dad were nothing like me.

Suffice it to say that if it was not Aunt Bette and Uncle Marsh in my living room at that very moment while Tack (still) had his tattooed arm around me, and it was my Mom and Dad, things would be going very differently. Aunt Bette and Uncle Marsh had the ability to hold their tongues and act with decorum. Mom would be tight-faced. Dad would be asking Tack to have a chat on my deck where he would explain I was a “good girl” and probably go into detail about how he felt about tattoos and the importance of regular grooming and the only grooming that was acceptable left your hair in a buzz cut and not a single whisker on your face. Then Tack would likely refuse Dad’s demand that he never have anything to do with me ever again. And finally Dad would promptly go to the nearest gun shop and buy a shotgun because Dad might be religious but he had no aversion to firearms.

I forced my mind from these reflections and introduced Lanie to my aunt and uncle. “This is Lanie, my best friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Aunt Bette said. “Tyra’s told me about you too, all of it good.”

Lanie beamed. Uncle Marsh transferred his shit-eating grin to Lanie.

“Family reunion! Awesome!” Tabby cried. “And you’re here just in time. You don’t have to go out to breakfast with Tyra. Dad’s making his world famous pancakes.”

Both Aunt Bette and Uncle Marsh turned eyes to Tack and even Uncle Marsh couldn’t hide that he was startled at the idea of scary biker dude making pancakes.

“Reminds me I gotta get that done ‘cause I got shit to do,” Tack rumbled from behind me, still not having let me go. “Tabby, darlin’, get these folks a cup ‘a joe. Rush, plates, forks, set Red’s table.” His arm gave me a squeeze and his mouth came to my ear where he said quietly but I knew my aunt and uncle could hear, “She’ll go away and I’ll deal with her. She doesn’t and you see her again, you call me. She is not your problem, baby, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly back.

That got me another arm squeeze, he let me go and I felt his heat leave my back as he sauntered to the kitchen.

“I have to go finish my shower,” Lanie announced. “All that ruckus, I jumped out and I still have conditioner in my hair. I’ll be back.” Then she whirled around and raced down the hall to the bathroom where she disappeared behind the closed door.

I turned to my aunt and uncle, finding myself alone in the living room with them.

“Seems you missed some things in your last e-mail,” Aunt Bette remarked.

I bit my lip. Aunt Bette grinned. Uncle Marsh looked at his shoes.

“How do you guys take your coffee?” Tabby called from the kitchen.

“Milk, two sugars,” Aunt Bette called back, moving toward the kitchen.

Uncle Marsh looked at me.

“Deck. Explanation. First chance you got,” he ordered quietly.

“Okeydoke,” I whispered.

His hazel eyes bored into mine.

Then he looked away and started toward the kitchen.

I sucked in breath.

Naomi shouted through the door, “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”

Damn.

Chapter Thirteen

Um… No

“Spill,” Aunt Bette demanded while slapping hangers on a rack in Nordstrom’s.