Giant Men and Violent Women

We Need To Talk

PRESLEY ANN

"We need to talk about this relationship," my mother whispers to me.

"Are you breaking up with me?" I ask.

"Funny. I mean, your next relationship."

"My what?"

"The senator," she says impatiently, glancing around The Governor's office, hoping no one can hear her.

"Jewels."

"Yes, him." She waves me off, as though she couldn't care less what his name was. "I want him here. Now."

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily say we're in a relationship, Ma." "Well, get in one. Trust me. I'm your mother." My mother is speaking of damage control.

Today, Pop Bragg, Ashley's grandfather, has called a meeting of all three members of the House of New Hampshire—The Governor, The Attorney General, The Secretary of State. Included in this meeting are the heirs to their thrones—or, in other words, The House's children and their children's spouses. Everyone, except for one person, is here in The Governor's office, waiting for Pop to begin. Guess who that person is.

Pop is standing near the governor's desk, chewing on a cigar, appearing lost in thought, as he gazes down at the dancing red moose on The Governor's rug below his feet. I think I know what he's thinking. The president of the United States of America did not show up to The Judge's funeral. It was a slight. It was a partisan move. It was the president saying that he supports the anti-slavery movement. It was president saying that he blames The Judge's death on The Judge himself. He was the man who thought of The Prison Work Program and got Louisiana's father, The Governor, to approve it, though the last governor, Governor Wheat, refused to support it. This is The Judge's fault. Pop is staring off because the president is the leader of a nation that Pop has served since he was eighteen. A nation that Pop would have surrendered his life to. The president is a man Pop has dined with and attended galas for. Yet, the president did not show. Pop is thinking about that. He continues to chew on his cigar.

Pop's wife, Dainty, stands beside him on his right, her hand resting on his biceps, as though she's passing any positive energy she might have over to him. Minnie is on his left, her arm wrapped inside of her son's. By the look on her face, I can tell that her dead husband has not visited her yet, as the Apocryphas anticipate when someone dies. But however sullen her face might be, she, as usual, is standing erect, chin raised, appearing like the Queen Mother that she's sure to become.

Minnie, a woman of wealth and respect, has just lost her husband. She is now The Dowager of New Hampshire, as her son claims the social throne that her husband was killed over. Because let's make no mistake; Pop is declaring himself the de facto head of the House of New Hampshire. I see it coming, and so does my family. It's all we were gossiping about on the ride here.

My brother, Hunt, and his wife, Hyacinth, were asked to attend this meeting because Hunt is a rising star in the world of medicine after saving Senator Mars's life last summer when a hunting trip went wrong. Hyacinth and Hunt are counted among the most renowned Boston socialites alive. They're young, childless, and beautiful. The New England press loves them. Pop required their attendance. It's a ratings thing. They bring in the eighteen to thirty-five-year-old audience.

My father is here—not only for my mother but also because he's the head surgeon at Boston Catholic Hospital. His position alone makes him the talk of ladies' luncheons and social functions—or so he believes. It's my father's job as a heart surgeon and his looks that have gained him such acclaim and names, such as The Love Doctor. He looks good on paper and camera. Pop requested his attendance.