Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
“This will shock you,” Gray announced, “but I have thoughts. And questions. Some thoughts. And many questions.”
“Hit me.”
“Okay, but first, how fucking brave and awesome was that kid? I can’t imagine going through a tenth of that.”
Amara said nothing but, like Gray, had thoughts. Your childhood wasn’t exactly all awesome all the time, my love. Your mother almost accidentally killed you more than once. And your father was worse. Time had shown Gray didn’t welcome comparisons, or discussion of any kind, about his childhood.
She would never understand how such hateful wretches produced someone so loving and kind.
I’m constantly whining about my parents, but they never threw a hot pot of elbow macaroni at me.
They never made me drink glass after glass of raw eggs until I threw up.
Never locked me out in the snow, or made me sleep in the car during a heatwave.
Though Mom’s lutefisk is pretty awful, and her feelings get hurt if you don’t ask for seconds . . .
“So of the people who died,” Gray was saying, his expression adorably intent, “some of them know exactly who you are. Or who your father is. Sometimes they know you right away, and sometimes they recognize you after you start talking to them. But a few have no idea who you are. What’s up with that? ”
“The older families know Death, and pass that knowledge to the younger generation.”
“Older families like Native Americans? The Mandan and the Sioux?”
“No, Natives have their own death gods. Europeans—immigrants from France, Norway, Germany, Sweden, to name a few—have been here for centuries. And they bred fast, since 90 percent of their children died before they could walk, and also a splinter could lead to your lingering demise. So they wanted their line to continue, no matter how quickly it aged their wives. Which is why there are still Le Sueurs and Radissons running around. Pike and Carver have descendants, too; offshoots from the original settlers. And some of them passed down what they knew about Death.”
“Huh. Okay. Thanks for explaining. What’s the plan for the Reap-ees who were MIA today?”
“Reap-ees?”
“Well, we have to call them something, and the Reapettes sounds like a 1950s girl group.”
“We really don’t. And I need to think about it.”
“D’you want to think about it while gobbling a fistful of Buster Bars?”
“I do not.” Some things, even Dairy Queen was no good for.