Giant Men and Violent Women

I'm Cool, I Swear

ASHLEY

Presley Ann didn't come, but I'm okay with that. Her mother and father are here. Her brother and his wife showed up, but she didn't. Good. It's better that way. Sure, it makes me wonder where she is and with whom. Date? No, not him. He's no longer worth her time. I hope she sees that. But enough about her. I have business to attend to now.

The lights are off because this is a secret meeting. A fire is in the hearth, and the faint glow of candlesticks burning illuminates the office for us. We—Chap, Gram, The Governor, Louisiana, and I—stand and sit around in tuxedos and ball gowns. The candlesticks burn in aqua-blue and gold porcelain holders. Mountain women love porcelain—not because of its financial value, but because of its historical significance.

When The Twenty-Four women, men, and children moved to Darling to practice Apocrypha Catholicism in peace, the women came with porcelain, some of the pots carrying the charred and ground bones of loved ones they'd refused to leave behind in graves. Each piece that has survived through the years is considered sacred, and only family members of the original Twenty-Four possess them. The inheritance of the porcelain candlestick holder sitting on the governor's desk now is through Louisiana's paternal family. It's sacred, revered even, and it now sits on the desk of Louisiana's father, Jon-Jon Coolidge—or as we all call him, The Governor.

My fiancée, Louisiana, takes hold of this sacred porcelain candlestick holder, reverently picks it up, and hurls it against the wall.

"Louisiana..." I say, rubbing a hand over my face. Here we go again.

"Have you gone mad?" The Governor screams out to his daughter.

"So, what? She gets a free pass?" Louisiana asks the four of us as she looks around The Governor's office.

The Governor gives her a look as if to say, What do you want me to do about it?

Louisiana looks at him and then at me. "Does she get a free pass?" She asks.

I've known Louisiana long enough to know that this is a rhetorical question whose answer is punishable by death.

I say nothing.

Chap and Gram—whom the rest of the world calls The Judge and Minnie—are safely off in the distance, not that they care. Chap's looking out onto The Governor's lawn, covered in a misty fog, the consequence of living in the mountains. There, within the mist, stands a shitload of journalists taking pictures of our society's annual New Year's Eve party.

Gram sits in an Old Hampshire chair with its gold and blue baroque patterns. She has her red-framed readers on while looking through some photographs of the Rebels for the Revelation reenactment this past weekend, as the Battle of Joki Hill was reenacted. The Indians lost. Chap was chosen to open the reenactment with a battle song, and he chose "Yankee Doodle." Gram will be deciding on which pictures of Chap the media can publish. No paper in New Hampshire or Boston would be so bold as to issue a picture of Chap without Gram's prior approval. Not only is Gram apparently preoccupied with important business, but she has also chosen to ignore Louisiana. There are only so many conversations she's willing to have about Presley Ann. Again, Gram has her limits.

I look at Louisiana and see frustration growing on her face. It's a beautiful face.

Louisiana Coolidge is a beauty queen, but she's not in the least bit thin. She's also not what you'd call overweight. She's what you'd call curvy. In fact, Louisiana thinks thin women are dull, as they have nothing to them beyond what the eye can see. To her, curvy women are like New

Hampshire porcelain, created with intricate patterns.

Right now, she's dressed in a black velvet gown that clinches her waist and hips before flaring out around her heels. I know that underneath this dress is an apparatus that looks like a bathing suit. This undergarment hugs her close and smooths her out. She has the kind of figure that a mountain woman can pull off with confidence. And self-assurance, she has. It's the reason most men would describe Louisiana as sexy. She doesn't subscribe to popular ideals of attractiveness, except for one thing—her hair. It must look perfect. Mountain men are obsessed with hair, particularly the color of it. Since Louisiana's a mountain girl, her hair is her pride. It must be dark or Bad-Luck black, as we call it here. Life's too short for a good girl. Every man wants bad luck. So, Louisiana's hair has returned nearly black again and is laced with more hair that once belonged to someone else. Still, this other woman's hair is blended into Louisiana's hair, giving the appearance that Louisiana was born this way.