Chapter 45

But not even that unnerving sight could block out the sounds of Uncle Artur and Paris’ lovemaking, nor another sight that Quinn witnessed one night as he made his way to the lilac-papered and scented bathroom, that of an open door and Paris—naked, her dark skin glistening, her full breasts with their dark nipples hanging like ripe eggplants—and Uncle Artur—paunchy, pasty, hairy, sweaty, and naked in his wheelchair—wriggling rhythmically, pleasurably. She rode him as he clasped her buttocks to move her up and down as if she were a carousel horse, their bloated faces like puffer fish fixated on each other.

In bed, the covers pulled tight around him, Quinn shut his eyes and ears, but the experience was burned into his memory. As was the sight of Aunt Sarah and one of her obnoxious beaus—who looked upon her little, brown-skinned chaperone with contempt—pawing each other in the backseat of her old Mercedes or the balcony of the Bijou.