“You’ll tell me if there’s any… trouble over this?” She pauses. “In school?”
So this is why his mom is so worried. It makes sense now.
“Sure.” Calan wants to add that whatever they end up saying about his dad can’t be worse than what they’re already saying about him, but somehow that doesn’t sound right, not even in his head. It is true, though. Calan is used to the snickers, the taunts. He’d hoped it would be different this year, now that he’s a sophomore, but school has been in session since Tuesday and so far it’s been pretty much the same. He’s still either ignored or picked on. Candy Flakes. That’s what they call him.
Here’s what they call his dad at school later that day: nothing. Calan’s Friday is unremarkable in every way. His classmates either don’t know or don’t care. Calan is relieved, but he’s also angry. Because now he won’t get to call his dad a hypocrite. Nothing bad seems to stick to his dad. Calan has inherited all the bad luck in the family. Maybe because of the curse.
Aunt Alice opens the door with her usual detached expression. Calan has seldom seen her smile, and he can’t remember ever seeing her laugh. If she were a superhero, she’d be the Glass Sparrow. Glass because she is cold and sparrow because she is tiny and birdlike.
The first thing Calan hears as Aunt Alice leads them to the patio is his grandmother’s voice. Speaking is Grandma Tish’s superpower. She isn’t a loud person, but her voice echoes through the room with the implicit threat that all other voices will be drowned if they try to compete. Calan can’t think of a single superhero who is like her. Maybe he’ll create one.
“If it was good enough for the world during centuries, why should it be any different now?” she is saying from her seat in the teak low-back sofa. Even though the sun is still out, there’s a fire roaring in the firepit table.
“For the same reason that slavery, child labor, and multiple other social aberrations are no longer considered acceptable,” Uncle Nick says. He is seated across from her, looking relaxed in one of the two oversized rocking chairs.
Grandma Tish clucks. “I would hardly call being a part of a dynasty an aberration.”
“There you are!” Uncle Nick gets up and walks towards them.
“Bobby, my dear, will you show Yolanda your trousers? Gina does wonders pressing yours.” Grandma Tish gives his dad a long appraising look. “I’m sure Nick would be grateful.”
Uncle Nick is wearing khakis, a red sweater, and a pair of brown, fine-leather loafers that match his belt. He looks just like his dad, except Uncle Nick is holding a cigar and his dad doesn’t smoke (also, his dad is wearing a blue sweater). Calan doesn’t like the smell of cigars, but he has to admit they are very cool-looking. Grandpa Charles smokes them, too—and he’s very cool, especially for an old guy. His dad says their cigars are unpatriotic—both Grandpa Charles and Uncle Nick smoke Cubans.
“My pants are fine, Mom.” Uncle Nick returns to the rocking chair. Aunt Alice is next to him, sitting up straight. She is so stiff, it almost looks like her rocking chair has frozen.
“Hi, Grandma.” Calan gives her a kiss. “Where’s Grandpa?”
“According to her, licking his wounds,” Uncle Nick says.
“What?” his dad asks. He settles on the edge of the lounger.
“What wounds?” says his mom. She takes a seat next to his dad, placing her purse on the floor. Calan feels strangely relieved to see them sitting together.
“He has a migraine. You know how he can get.” Grandma Tish purses her lips as she stares at the flames dancing in front of her. There’s a finality to her tone. She turns to Calan. “Let me look at you, my dear. You know, biology is a funny thing. You don’t look the least bit like your dad, but you smell just like my Nick did when he was a young boy.”
“L’eau du gym socks, Mom?” Uncle Nick grins.
“No.” Grandma Tish lets go of his face. “Crisp maple leaves in autumn, if you must know.”
Calan feels his face flush. He’d give anything to be like Uncle Nick.
“He’s got the Dewar coloring,” says his dad.
“And the height,” Grandma Tish adds. “But his eyelashes are Gina’s.”
“I’d kill for those eyelashes.” Aunt Alice’s voice is barely above a whisper, but everyone laughs. Everyone, that is, except for Calan, who resents the reminder that his features are girly-looking. His mind flashes back to the day someone drew a stick figure wearing a dress with CALAN written below it on the boys’ bathroom. The illustration had puckered lips and long eyelashes. It had made Calan want to cut his lashes and suck in his mouth.
Yolanda shows up with green tea for his mom, whiskey for his dad, and a Coke for Calan. Still standing, Calan looks around, hoping to see Malaika playing with Allegra in the living room. No such luck. He takes a seat on the ottoman facing the sliding doors. Maybe Malaika will walk by.
“Bobby, back me up here, dear,” Grandma Tish says. “I was explaining to your brother the importance of ensuring the continuity of the families that built America into this great nation.”
“Aka racism.” Uncle Nick brings his cigar to his mouth and wiggles his eyebrows at his twin.
“I beg your pardon,” Grandma Tish says. “I am not a racist. Nor does this have anything to do with race. I’m simply referring to preserving tradition. Much like the one we’re engaging in now, mind you.” She pauses but doesn’t wait for anyone to comment. Grandma Tish does not need validation. “Calan, dear, you’re the first of your generation. Tell
