The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,45

said she’d been going through her old photo albums all week, and if she hadn’t lost so much weight Mrs. Greene would think she almost seemed like her old self.

“I found it,” Miss Mary said, smiling. She rolled her boiled-egg eyes up to Mrs. Greene. “Do you want to see it?”

An old snapshot rested facedown on her knee. She stroked its back with trembling fingers.

“Who’s it of?” Mrs. Greene asked, reaching for it.

Miss Mary covered it with the flat of her hand.

“Patricia first,” she said.

“You want me to brush out your hair?” Mrs. Greene asked.

Miss Mary looked confused by the change of subject, considered it, then jerked her chin down once.

Mrs. Greene found the wooden hairbrush and stood behind Miss Mary’s chair, and while the old lady looked at the TV and stroked her photograph, Mrs. Greene brushed her sparse gray hair, surrounded by the noise of the rushing fans.

* * *

—

Grace’s parties were everything Patricia thought parties should be when she was a little girl. In the living room, Arthur Rivers had taken off his jacket and sat at the piano playing a medley of college fight songs, which were greeted with boos, cheers, and raucous singing along, depending on the college. He wouldn’t stop as long as people kept bringing him bourbon.

The party spilled from the living room into the dining room, where it swirled in a circle around a table overflowing with miniature ham biscuits, cheese straws, pimento cheese sandwiches, and a tray of crudités that would be thrown out untouched tomorrow morning, and then it flowed through the kitchen and pooled on the sun porch with its panoramic view of the harbor. The white tablecloth-covered bar stood at the end of the room where the crowd was thickest, and two black men in white jackets made an endless stream of drinks behind it.

Every doctor and lawyer and harbor pilot in the Old Village had put on their seersucker and their bow ties and they held glasses and bellowed about what was wrong with Ken Hatfield this season, or if those businesses the hurricane had shut down along Shem Creek a few years ago would ever reopen, and when the Isle of Palms connector would be completed, and where all these damn marsh rats were coming from. Their wives clutched glasses of white wine and wore a veritable jungle of clashing prints—animal prints and floral prints and geometric prints and abstract prints—talking about their children’s plans for the summer, their kitchen renovation projects, and Patricia’s ear. This was the first social event she’d attended since the incident and she felt like everyone was staring at her.

“I can’t tell unless I stand right in front of you so I can see both ears at the same time,” Kitty reassured her.

“Is it that obvious?” Patricia asked, reaching up and smoothing her hair down over her scar.

“It just makes your face look a little cattywampus,” Kitty said, and then she caught Loretta Jones’s elbow as she shouldered past them in the crush. “Loretta, look at Patricia and tell me if you notice anything.”

“Well, that man’s grandmother bit off her ear,” Loretta said, cocking her head to one side. “What do you mean? Did something else happen?”

Patricia wanted to slink away, but Kitty gripped her wrist.

“It was his great-aunt,” Kitty said. “And she just took a nibble.”

Loretta cocked her head and said, “Do you need a good plastic surgeon? I can get you a name. You look lopsided. Oh, there’s Sadie Funche. Excuse me.”

“Loretta always was a pill,” Kitty said as Loretta disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

—

The big box fan stood in the door of the den where it was supposed to suck in hot air and blow it out cool in the garage room, but it barely stirred the sludge. It was intolerably hot. Ragtag lay, miserable, under Miss Mary’s bed, panting.

Maybe she would give Miss Mary a cool bath, Mrs. Greene thought. The water would feel nice for both of them. She started to get up when she felt a living gaze on her. She looked to the den