“I can’t stand the way they look at you. So accusingly!”

“The fish, you mean, their glassy eyes?”

“The fire was Wednesday night.”

The sudden disclosure caught me by surprise. The same night as my dream, I thought, my sweaty skin feeling cold. I sat down at the table again.

“Where did it happen?”

“Near Tilby’s Dream — the old farm. The car’s been rusting there for years,” she added. “Sheriff said it took some work to pry open the trunk.”

“Uncle Will was inside the trunk?”

She nodded. “Poor William, he hated Buicks. He always insisted on Chevrolets.”

“Did someone. . put him there — did someone kill Uncle Will?” I asked.

“ I said he hated Buicks. You don’t think he climbed in willingly, do you?”

“No,” I said slowly, “not even if he liked the car.”

Obviously, Aunt Iris was not the most reliable source of information. I had to talk to the police — the sheriff, she had said. Then what? If my great-aunt was losing it mentally, what was I supposed to do? Mom would know; but she would come rushing home from a vacation she needed badly. I could handle this — at least for a little while, I could.

“How long are you going to stay?” Aunt Iris asked.

“I’m not sure. I have college orientation—”

“Your clothes are in Papa’s room, in the mahogany bureau.”

“Oh!” I visualized myself in a kindergartner’s clothes. “I don’t think I’ll fit them anymore.”

“Well, don’t expect me to buy you any. We’re going to need every penny for the child.”

“What child?”

“She’ll be here soon enough.”

I gazed at my great-aunt, mystified. Then I realized I must have slipped back into being Joanna. My mother was attending college when I was born. The child who was coming was probably myself, and she had been speaking of my mother’s clothes in the mahogany bureau.

When Uncle Will had written that Aunt Iris was doing poorly, he wasn’t kidding. Was she senile or just plain crazy?