The second time he came, he was dead. Uncle Charlie was my mother’s uncle, an eighty-something bachelor who I saw only at Baltimore family gatherings: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. The men wore suits, button-down shirts, and ties. Uncle Charlie always came wearing a frayed checkered shirt, red suspenders, khakis, and worn loafers with tassels. What’s more, his clothing was generally rumpled, and not very clean. A small guy with a lean face, pug nose, and gloomy eyes, he didn’t exactly party. More often than not, he sat alone in a corner, listening intently to the chatter while clasping and unclasping his small, bony hands, but not saying much. When people asked him how he was doing, he’d talk vaguely about some group he’d just joined or the strange book he’d recently read, like Anglo-Saxon Magic or The Egyptian Art of Death. People tended to leave him alone. When he did not show up at those outings, I’d hear adults saying, “Any news about Uncle Charlie?” “Don’t ask”
What do You think about School Of The Dead (2016)?
