Uncle Jeb had a far-off look in his eyes, as if gathering his thoughts on where to start with his missing hand story. Throughout my childhood, my mom and aunt recounted the tale of him driving down one of the dirt roads one day with his arm dangled out the window. His truck got too close to a tractor and mangled his bone. They had to amputate the entire limb.

I sat there listening to a different story. I recalled the way everyone described Uncle Jeb as tough, and how he drove himself to the hospital despite all the bleeding. My belief system was shaken.

“It was the fall of 1969,” he began. “It had been a tumultuous period with lots of civil unrest. The year prior, both Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated. Nixon was President, the Vietnam War continued, unpopular as it was, and a moon landing occurred.”

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “One thing is for sure, Uncle Jeb. Your memory is alive and well.” A chuckle escaped my lips.

“Oh, that ain’t the half of it. I hoped to go to Woodstock, but the ladies refused. Said I was too young. Fear overcame them as they read the newspaper. Charles Manson and his group had killed a famous actress and heiress back in the summer, and another killer, the Zodiac, started taunting the police with his killings. And given our family had a certain level of notoriety here in the south, they were concerned about my traveling to New York alone. Families like ours became targets.”

Uncle Jeb’s childhood reminiscence made me regret not knowing him better. I smiled as he played back his memories, and my heart filled with love for him.

“It occurred during fall, close to Samhain and before Dia de Muertos. An elaborate holiday for the ladies in our clan, holding sacred celebrations I only observed from a distance. Every weekend, they would gather, leading up to these holy days and revel in the spirits. They built a towering bonfire, its flames licking at the night sky. And as they danced around it, their bodies seemed to glow with unearthly energy. Some of them shed their clothes and writhed in ecstasy, their hands roaming over their naked flesh without shame or hesitation.”

“Others beat on drums, their rhythms pulsating through the air like an ancient call to unknown forces. And I, a typical teenage boy with raging hormones, could feel the sexual tension thickening in my veins as I watched from my hiding spot in the cemetery. It was both terrifying and exhilarating to witness these women unleashing their primal desires under the cover of darkness. But now, years later, I remember the time of year vividly, and it remains my favorite… for reasons beyond mere nostalgia.” He chuckled, his eyes glittered with a mischievous glint.

I sat there, stunned by his words. It had never occurred to me my Uncle Jeb was a man with desires. In my mind, he had always been the toothless, armless old coot who dressed in overalls and recited stories from his rocking chair. He married Thelma. She thought he had charm or appeal.

My uncle continued on with his tale. What he revealed shocked me. He shared the details of the night-long celebrations, which included feasting, drinking, and dancing around the bonfire. A group of women would disappear into the woods together, only to return later with wild eyes and disheveled hair. “My young mind struggled to grasp their actions out there in the darkness, but I sensed it was something thrilling and prohibited.”

“As I got older,” Uncle Jeb said with a smirk, “I began to sneak away from home on those weekends to join in on the festivities. I never made my presence known to the ladies.”

“One year, as Dia de Muertos approached, my curiosity got the best of me, and I followed a group of women deep into the woods. They stopped at an ancient rock circle deep in the heart of our land. No bonfire here; instead, they lit candles placed upon each stone while chanting in a language I didn’t understand.”

“But what happened next was beyond my wildest dreams – or fantasies at my age. The women stripped off their clothes one by one until they stood naked before me. They danced around the stones together, whispering incantations, sending shivers down my spine.”

“And then… they beckoned for me to join them. They were aware I had been watching them. It didn’t surprise me. After all, they were witches.”

“My heart raced as I took off my own clothes and stepped into their circle. The women surrounded me, their hands and bodies touching me in ways I had only dreamed of.”

Uncle Jeb was consumed in his memories, a distant expression in his eyes as he reimagined those wild and primal celebrations. But as fascinating as it was to relive his past, I contemplated how he had lost his arm.

I cleared my throat and asked him the question that nagged me since we started talking. “Uncle Jeb,” I began, “how did you lose the left limb?”

His expression turned serious, and a hint of sadness crept into his eyes. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought before answering me. “It happened on one of those weekends leading up to Samhain,” he lowered his voice. “I was watching the women dance around the bonfire when this loud explosion occurred. It startled me so much I stumbled backward and fell into the fire.”

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed, horrified by the image.

“Yes,” he continued. “My left arm landed right in the middle of the flames and before anyone reached me, it was badly burned. And then Thelma came rushing over with some concoction to cool my burns.” He paused for a moment with a wry smile.

That’s how those two met. I nodded my chin and smiled at the picture running through my mind.

Uncle Jeb grinned at the way I reacted and shook his head. “Anyway, I lost my arm. But it’s okay because it brought me closer to Thelma. She took care of me during my recovery, and we fell in love.”

“How sweet,” I said.

“It is,” he agreed with a contented sigh.

“I expected something more sinister, like the plate-eye caught you one night and ripped off your arm. Not that this wasn’t tragic enough. Don’t take it wrong. What happened after the explosion?”

“Since you mentioned it,” he interjected, eager to finish his story. Uncle Jeb seemed to snap out of his reverie and gave me a grin. “Well, my dear, let’s just say it took some creative storytelling to explain how I lost my arm.”

I leaned forward in anticipation as he continued. “The women in our clan believed the explosion was caused by a supernatural force. So, they sat around for days, discussin’ and theorizin’ on what triggered such a powerful blast. However, no one ever provided a logical explanation.”

“And what did you tell them?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

Uncle Jeb chuckled. “Oh, I told them it was a freak accident while I tried to light sparklers for the Samhain celebration. They trusted me, though they knew I was forbidden from playing with fireworks since I was a kid.”

I laughed at his quick wit and cunning deception.

“But in my gut,” he said with a serious look, “A darker motive was at work. And as much as it pained me to admit it, part of me was glad I had lost my arm because it meant I would never take part in those dangerous rituals again.”

He looked away for a moment before turning back to me with a determined look in his eye.

“Listen, kiddo,” he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Those celebrations may seem exciting and mysterious from afar, but trust me when I say you always pay a price for dabbling in things beyond our understanding.”

His words sent shivers down my spine and made me reevaluate my decision to participate in their traditions.

“But let’s not dwell on that,” Uncle Jeb grinned, pulling me back from my thoughts. “As the years passed, the decision to recount the truck accident instead of fireworks or ritual games became easier. Your aunt Rosie didn’t want people to form a different opinion of her.”

He picked up his now empty glass of tea and asked, “Would you like more sweet tea?” Slowly, he worked his way up from his rocking chair. I looked at my watch, surprised it had gotten so late. If I were to keep my promise to Ken to cook tonight, I’d better go to the store soon.

“Unfortunately, Uncle Jeb, can I take a rain check? Ken’s expecting dinner, and it will only happen if I make it. I enjoyed our talk, and you were able to shed some light on these mysteries for me.”

“Happy to oblige, my dear.” We hugged. “I love you, Uncle Jeb. Never forget it,” I whispered in his ear.

“Oh, I love you too, honey. I best be gettin’ on myself. Ol’ Thelma’s a worry wart.”

In the local supermarket’s parking lot, my mind reeled from Uncle Jeb’s story. I struggled to accept what he had told me. It was like a veil lifted from my eyes, and I saw my family in a new light.

I grabbed a cart and made my way through the aisles. Why had they lied?  It wasn’t for saving face. Aunt Rosie loved her town, but she didn’t concern herself with people’s judgments. “It’s none of my business,” she said whenever she heard gossip.

But then why? What could be important enough to go to such lengths to hide it?

On my list, I had written chicken, sauce, bread, milk, and eggs. As I waited my turn at the cashiers, I recalled another thing Uncle Jeb had said. Something to do with Thelma being the only one who knew the truth of how he lost his arm.

I paid for my groceries and headed to the car, deep in contemplation once again. Uncle Jeb’s fascination with naked women in graveyards suggested a more intricate story. And Thelma held all the answers.

While I drove back home, determined to get information from Thelma, I dialed their number, but it went to voice mail.

Frustrated and sensing another roadblock, I started preparing our chicken Alfredo. Nothing added up.

As much as I wanted to confront Thelma, I couldn’t ignore a persistent intuition there was something else at play.

Editor: Michelle Naragon