Page 127 of Fire for Effect

“Hello, I’m Kaleb,” My brother materialized out of the ether and plopped himself beside me. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure…”

We were tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum.

“I’m Makem Smith,” the old man obliged. “From the great state of New Hampshire! I was just coming over to say hello and inquire after your father.”

Like clockwork.

“Our father is up on the top deck, probably smoking a cigar,” I lied. My father was probably in the downstairs study, which also had a deck. Though he was, indeed, probably smoking a cigar.

“Well, that sounds fun. I think I’ll go join him,” Makem said, giving us both a polite nod. “It’s swell to see you boys.”

He clapped us each on the arm, before leaving.

Kaleb looked at me and rolled his eyes, and I shrugged, “Their elevator pitches are getting shorter.”

“It must be the old generation’s need for immediate gratification.”

“Damn their loud music, and palm pilots,” he said, dryly. “Good to see you, big bro.”

“Good to see you too.” I said, and without turning my head commented, “Nice tie.”

“Think anyone will notice?”

“Nope.”

My brother had a very subtle scarlet “A”. Which, on its own, was not meaningful. But the presence of paint blotched looking circles, all hidden within the texture gave a very punk rock impression of the Anarchist sign. It was, no doubt, a quarterlife crisis rebellion against our father and everything he stood for.

Unfortunately, no one in this lauded gathering were likely to notice.

“Listen, Kaleb…” I finally turned towards my brother. “You’ve got my back, right? I know you and I don’t always see eye to eye, but when it comes to our parents…”

“Oh, Jesus. Did you get married without telling them?”

“Close, but no cigar.”

“Oh, shit!” Kaleb said, amusement coloring his features.

“Shh!” I said, “It’s all new, and I don’t want mom scaring her off.”

“Bad news, brother,” Kaleb said, tilting his whiskey glass in front of him, as if he was pointing at something, but I wasn’t sure what. “It’s not mom you have to worry about. It’s… her.”

“Speak of the Devil and the Devil will come,” I groaned, just as her voice swept over me like CS gas, choking me with its Ralph Lauren musk.

“Kai, so sweet to see you,” Kristin said, coming over to adjust my tie. I batted her hands away and rolled my eyes.

I clamped my mouth shut, ever walking the tight rope of being cordial, while also not slapping her in the face.

Kristin, leggy, blonde was perfect for some social climbing weasel. What had I ever seen in her? Even back then, during our white-tie wedding, with champagne in the Grand Acadaemia ballroom, facing the lake, and filled with two thousand of our parents’ closest business associates and potential campaign donors, I had been sick to my stomach. The clenching in my gut, and the way I white knuckled through our arrangement still made every fiber of my being tense up that I feared I’d cramp all over.

An arranged marriage. An arranged marriage that I thought was real. An arranged marriage that was designed to put together electoral votes for the perfect candidate for the country’s highest office. An office I didn’t even want.

“Nothing to say?” Kristin’s curved brow shot up, and if you didn’t know her, or us, you’d think she was sweetly making conversation.

That was what she was good at. Seeming sweet, and all-American. Wholesome.

“Nope,” I said, taking a deep pull of my whiskey, hoping she’d get the hint.

“Hey, Kristin,” my brother said, his smile somewhat genuine. Like he was giving her a lifeline, but she ignored him.

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