Giant Men and Violent Women

She's NOT Happy

ASHLEY

It's January 2. The Mayor and I had a sleepless night the night before as we attempted to develop a speech to calm the people of Boston. I sat in his kitchen while God was sleeping, reworking his words, making them firmer where they appeared weak. The Mayor is a man who's short in stature, so his words needed to be robust.

Like Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was paralyzed due to polio, The Mayor has to appear full-bodied and spirited, just like his son did until the day he died. Roosevelt would have been considered a cripple in his day and unfit to lead America through World War II and against Hitler. But Roosevelt had a way with words, and his speeches not only calmed America's fears, but it also highlighted his vigor and strength, though he was actually sickly and weak.

At the moment, The Mayor is scared and lovesick, but his speech needed to sound resilient and firm. He and I worked on that speech the entire time God was sleeping. Chap was nearby at the kitchen table, organizing his opening speech for this month's Rebels for the Revelation battle, taking place in Chippewa.

Hours later, The Mayor and I released a speech to the media, imploring the people of Boston to calm down, go home, and meet with their community leaders. The Mayor would then have a town hall meeting with all the major civil rights and religious men and women of Boston, of every race and faith, so that all grievances could be aired and settled. The people of Boston agreed.

I drove back to Darling to get a few hours' sleep, but that never happened. Mercer's father called me in a panic. He's being sued by a woman whose son died of alcohol poisoning while binging on Hampshire Ciders.

"She doesn't have a case," I assured him. "She's a grieving mother; let her mourn. I'll speak to her lawyer privately, get him to drop the suit, and tell him there are no hard feelings." Such is my life.

Tonight, Louisiana and I are driving through the streets of Boston, heading to my brother's restaurant, Rabbit Trap, a spot that serves the best to Boston's best. They've got money; hell, let them spend it. Goat and moose—gathered and same-day delivered from as far away as Washington and South Dakota, Montana, and Maine—make their way to our tables by dinnertime. Afterward, honey from North Dakota and cream gathered from Vermont are blended into desserts that are served with coffee spiked with tequila.

Since the menu is seasonal and sold at market price, my brother, Stone, makes a killing. I get away scot-free because I eat for free—a perk of being the brother of the owner and an investor. Louisiana and I head to Rabbit Trap—not only because it's good marketing for my brother, but also because it's the most expensive spot in town that plays blues instead of Beethoven. I'm a mountain boy at heart.

I head past Fiddle Street and notice the scorched homes. It's only been hours since the riots died down, and the owners are already rebuilding as construction workers and architects surround the street, like police officers at a crime scene. I have the music in my truck at a faint volume and tuned to reggae-folk. I have the volume down so that I won't bother Louisiana. She's busy.

There was a time when she and I could blare a hip-hop station in my truck and zoom down the streets of Boston, rapping along to every song that came on. These days, she isn't much into the rap of our youth—or any other music for that matter. Honestly, I'm not sure what she's into other than being on the organizing committee of beauty pageants, creating smoothie recipes for readers of Darling Daily, mentoring beautiful girls with beauty-pageant dreams, and hosting media-infused pet-shelter visits. Her life is now about exposure and business. Because, make no mistake, even this marriage of ours is now a business.

I watch her flip through papers. I can see that the papers have something to do with our bell-ringing in two days. I noticed last week, as she silently flipped through papers in bed, that the bell-ringing colors were black and white. Or, in other words, the bell-ringing is completely colorless. Odd for Louisiana who always liked colors—from her floral dresses to her floral bedspread—but I said nothing. I know that a bell-ringing is a party for women; men are invited by default. Still, I wondered if I was supposed to do anything special for it.