mala fide (lams)

sub mensa

Under the table

FUCK DINNER. FUCK HAVING DINNER WITH JOHN, with John's father, with his siblings. Fuck all of it. Fuck shaking John's father's hand and sitting beside John across from his father. Fuck the fact that John's father liked to cook for his family and fuck the fact that Alexander never knew until now that John's mother was absent from the picture, despite her photograph on the mantle. Fuck the awkward silence and the conversation that seemed to be encrypted. Fuck John's father for politely asking where Alexander's parents work and especially fuck John for not telling his father beforehand that Alexander didn't live with his parents at all.

Fuck the fact that he had to say aloud, "I live with a family friend. My parents weren't from around here, and my mother's since passed."

And fuck the fact that Henry Laurens' gaze of knives softened as he replied, "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have presumed anything. ...My wife passed just four years ago. We understand your loss."

And fuck the fact that John was looking down at his plate of balsamic chicken and veggies when Alexander tried to catch his eye. "Thank you. I'm sorry for yours."

"She was a wonderful person. She loved these kids more than they know," he said. Henry Laurens was the kind of person who coped with loss by praising the deceased. He would never let go. Alexander would not allow himself to mourn, would not dwell on it in conversation, and didn't like to admit any of it was even on his mind. But his loss would never let go of him. Henry Laurens went on, "And she loved me more than I deserve. Lord knows women do."

"What was her name?"

"Eleanor." When he said her name, it was like flowers bloomed in his mouth. He would always smile fondly remembering her. It was the most John ever saw his father smile in the last few years. "Who's this family friend you live with, Mr. Hamilton?"

"He's a tailor I've been interned with for a few years now. He's more like the relative of a boss I worked under, but small town, so he was practically family. Mulligan's his name. Hercules. He took me in as his ward, so in many ways he can sponsor me when I go to college."

"I see. And where are you thinking of attending?"

"I've applied a few places already. I have my heart set on Columbia University, Mulligan's alma mater. He's rooting for that, too."

"Columbia! Very nice. How's that looking? Is your transcript impressive?"

Alexander nodded, chewed his piece of chicken before responding. "Yes, I hope so. Not to sing my own praises, but I've worked hard to round my experience and my grades are nearly perfect."

"Well, hard work demands an advocate."

John cut in, "Alexander never stops working. He shouldn't even have to sing his own praises."

Henry Laurens mused, "Sounds like it! John, you need to start applying, like I told you today. You could easily get into Columbia."

"My extracurriculars and grades aren't anything like Alexander's. Like he said, he's perfect."

Alexander cleared his throat. "Well, my grades and SAT scores may be. But you're just as smart, John."

John noticed often the ways in which Alexander differed from Francis. Alexander never tried to make him feel insignificant, ashamed, or stupid. He praised him and stood up for him at moments in which Francis was prone to steal the spotlight and gladly sing his own praises without lifting John up with him. Around Francis, he learned to be in the background; learned to be a supporter rather than the main character.