David Sedaris

Am I wrong?

Very well, Candace.

You can sit back down now.

And for God's sakes, please stop crying.

Okay, class, now I'm going to read to you from this week's new book.

It's a story about a California family, and it's called Next of Kin.

If Amy had read the book, then surely it had been seen by eight-year-old Tiffany, who shared her bedroom, and possibly by her brother Paul, who at the age of two might have sucked on the binding, which was even more dangerous than reading it.

Clearly this had to stop before it got out of hand.

Even our ancient Greek grandmother was arriving at the breakfast table with suspicious-looking circles beneath her eyes.

Gretchen took the book and hid it under the carpet of her bedroom, where it was discovered by our housekeeper, Lena, who eventually handed it over to our mother.

I'll make sure this is properly disposed of, my mother said, hurrying down the hallway to her bedroom.

Penetration, she laughed, reading out loud from a randomly selected page.

Oh, this ought to be good.

Weeks later, Gretchen and I found the book hidden between the mattress and box springs of my parents' bed, the pages stained with coffee rings and cigarette ash.

The discovery seemed to validate all of Gretchen's suspicions.

They'll be coming for us any day now, she warned.

Be prepared, my friend, because this time they'll be playing for keeps.

We waited.

I'd always made it a point to kiss my mother before going to bed, but not anymore.

The feel of her hand on my shoulder now made my flesh crawl.