Day 150

Cliches

…

So, standard practice tells us that as writers we must avoid cliches at all costs.

It’s a great idea. Because you are writing to potentially a great many people, the notion that most of them will have no idea what you are talking about, or understand the relevance, it’s best not to leave them perplexed when they read something they don’t understand.

A great example of this was many years ago when I worked with a chap who was a recent immigrant from Russia. His English was reasonable, that is, he could speak in a manner I could understand, but there were times when he stopped, searching for the English equivalent.

I would have called it a quaint accent. Others would be less accommodating.

But…

I found that I tended to speak with a lot of English idioms and cliches, some of which he did not understand, and so I spent a lot of time translating them. He was not at all ashamed of not knowing them, but wanted to.

Thus, for a few months, I became an ESL teacher and found it quite amusing, especially when he told me what the Russian equivalents were. And, yes, Russians do have their own cliches, and we westerners cop a few really interesting ones.

And, yes, I use cliches in stories, or at least until the third draft when I realise that they don’t belong, and even when they last a little longer, the editor’s blue pencil gets them every time.

But, and there’s always a but…

What if your protagonist speaks in cliches?

Day 149

Why does someone pick up a book?

…

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, the read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind of the hum drum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Are they wanting to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop and firstly to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.

Day 149

Why does someone pick up a book?

…

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, the read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind of the hum drum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Are they wanting to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop and firstly to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.

Day 148

Could any of the classics inspire you?

…

Given that they were written in a different time, with different people, and far different circumstances, the logical answer would be no.

But, the real question is, had the human condition changed any?

Could we believe that people are still the same people, the same feelings, the same hatreds, the same biases, there’s still poor and rich, and probably somewhere a comfortable middle class.

The rich people still rule the world.

Politicians are still the same greedy, insensitive, uncaring, self serving asses they always have been and always will. Who wants to be a politician? No man or woman in his or her right mind would want, no decent man or woman that is.

Men still covet their neighbour’s wife, or anyone else’s for that matter, we still get jealous, and a certain group still murder other people for sometimes the stupidest of reasons.

Whether it is 1720, 1830, or 1940, it doesn’t matter. We might have moved from horse and cart to automobiles, from stagecoaches to Concord SSTs, thatch cottages to mansions, tinkers to supermarkets, and a life span that used to be 40, to now somewhere in our 80s, but people, the actual human beings, have not changed.

Not one iota.

So, go and read a few of those classic novels, Charles Dickens, T.S. Eliot, George Eliot, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, Laurence Sterne, just to name a few.

Check out what people were doing 200, 300 years ago, and if you read between the lines, you’re going to find they are no different to us. They just dress funny and talk funny, but then so do we, these days.

Scary, isn’t it?

Day 148

Could any of the classics inspire you?

…

Given that they were written in a different time, with different people, and far different circumstances, the logical answer would be no.

But, the real question is, had the human condition changed any?

Could we believe that people are still the same people, the same feelings, the same hatreds, the same biases, there’s still poor and rich, and probably somewhere a comfortable middle class.

The rich people still rule the world.

Politicians are still the same greedy, insensitive, uncaring, self serving asses they always have been and always will. Who wants to be a politician? No man or woman in his or her right mind would want, no decent man or woman that is.

Men still covet their neighbour’s wife, or anyone else’s for that matter, we still get jealous, and a certain group still murder other people for sometimes the stupidest of reasons.

Whether it is 1720, 1830, or 1940, it doesn’t matter. We might have moved from horse and cart to automobiles, from stagecoaches to Concord SSTs, thatch cottages to mansions, tinkers to supermarkets, and a life span that used to be 40, to now somewhere in our 80s, but people, the actual human beings, have not changed.

Not one iota.

So, go and read a few of those classic novels, Charles Dickens, T.S. Eliot, George Eliot, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, Laurence Sterne, just to name a few.

Check out what people were doing 200, 300 years ago, and if you read between the lines, you’re going to find they are no different to us. They just dress funny and talk funny, but then so do we, these days.

Scary, isn’t it?

Day 147

Writing Exercise

…

We sat across the table, with six feet of air between us, staring each other down, like the old days when we tried outstaring each other.

Usually I lose, but not today.

There was nothing at stake here but pride, and over the last thirty-two years, I had mine trodden on, beaten out of me, and have people proclaim in no uncertain terms it would be my downfall.

My downfall had been the cruelty dealt me by an unforgiving and monstrous father, and equally as monstrous sister, every bit her father.

The lawyer at the end of the table didn’t want to be there.

I didn’t want to be here; only someone had to stop the evil witch from destroying everything my mother had created for us, and the world around us.

“You’re pathetic.” It was the tenth time she’d said it.

“You are a monster.” It was the first time I used it, but it was water off a duck’s back.

She would claim she’d heard worse, and I would believe her. I was not the only one who thought she had gone down the wrong path.

“Jesus, Henry, is that the best you can do?”

“No. But you don’t bring out the big guns until you have to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just sign the papers and consign the building and contents to the historical society. It was mother’s wish and we will be adhering to it.”

I had a brief moment, back in her room, on her deathbed, holding my hand and telling me that the house should not under any circumstances go to anyone but the historical society. That had been in her will, but our father had contested it and won. Now, he was consigning it to a bunch of country club charlatans who wanted a hotel, spa, and golf course.

I’d worked out a deal with the historical society, and as beneficiaries, all we had to do was sign it over. Harriet wanted to sell it, take her half, and go on a first-class tour of the world, among other things.

“She was as pathetic as you are. She had no idea what the worth of the place was, and how it would help us.”

“It won’t help you. Whatever you get, you’ll have spent in a year. Do the right thing. It’ll be the only thing left of Mother to remember her.”

“She wasn’t a mother to me.”

“You weren’t a daughter to her.”

She stood up suddenly, and the chair fell backwards with a crash. “Then I’ll see you in court.”

“You go out that door, I will, but not in the way you would imagine.” I stood too. “Please. I dare you.”

A dare would do the job. It was time for the big guns.

She crossed to the door and had her hand on the handle. The lawyer was looking out the window. He knew what was coming and didn’t want to be a witness.

“What have you got up your sleeve?”

I looked up my sleeve. “An arm. Why do you ask?”

She came back and sat down. Then her manner completely changed. Yes, I’d seen that before. My father was very good at playing the game; he might not know what was going on, but in the end, he’d wheedle it out of you.

Harriet was no different. Except this time, I was immune. It was my mother’s affairs, and she was watching over me.

“What have you got up your sleeve, young Henry?” The same tone and manner as my father, in fact, it was like looking at and listening to him.

“Clue: 2022.”

“You were a bigger nincampoop then than you are now. So?”

Clue: Fry.”

“What? Fish and chips. Have you gone completely mad?”

“Clue: $20,000,000.”

A flicker. Fry was the accountant she employed to syphon twenty million dollars out of the business account, ostensibly to invest in the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund in 2022, as part of a tax dodge. Instead, it went into an offshore account in her name, while the paperwork covered the tracks. Then in 2024, we received advice that the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund had crashed, and the investors were left out of pocket. Convenient for her. Hardly a blip on the horizon for the business.

Except it looks like she’s spent it all, and is now back for more. Except, I had a visit the week before from some very nasty people telling me if I didn’t pay up her debts, to the tune of ten million and rising at the rate of one million a month, then someone was going to get hurt.

No smart ass reply. Yet.

“Last clue: Benny. I’m sure you are aware of who Benny is, grating voice, several prominent scars, no manners whatsoever.”

“When?” A whisper.

“Last week. Came to my house. Scared the living shit out of Willie. What happened to the twenty million you stole three years ago? No one can spend twenty million in two years.”

“I have a lifestyle and image to maintain.”

“Tell me how that can happen after Benny and his friend cut you up into twenty pieces and drop them into the sewer?”

“Is that what he threatened?”

“No, that’s what I told him I would do to you when I saw you next. What the hell do you think he was going to say?”

“Just sell the place, give me my share, and I’m in the wind. You won’t see me again.”

“No. You’ll sign the papers to hand this place over to the historical society, I will pay the debt, and you will surrender yourself to the police.”

“Hell will freeze over first. I got away with that free and clear. No one knows.”

“I do.”

“And I’ll make sure no one else does. I thought you might have done something like this. Rhonda told me you were acting strange and asking all these stupid questions. Well, I took out some insurance, just in case.”

I looked over at the lawyer. “You can leave now. You don’t want to be here until after we’ve sorted this out. By the side entrance.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

“Now,” I said, “You can try to do your worst.”

She picked up her cell phone and speed-dialled a number. Nothing happened.

“There’s no service in this room.”

She got up and went over to the door and opened it. A second later, she slammed it shut and turned around.

“What have you done?”

“I told Benny we were settling your debt today, one way or another. I had your boyfriend and his mates arrested, attempting to kidnap one of my children. That’s low even for you, Harriet. You’ve been under surveillance for the last three months, but not by me. You seem to have some terrible enemies on both sides of the law. By the way, Dad knew you took the money. He thought it showed initiative. So did I actually.”

“I’m happy to go to the police and tell them you were the one who did it. My name is not on any of the paperwork.”

“No. That was a deft touch. Fry took a little convincing before he told us what you did. Any more surprises up your sleeve, Harriet?”

Yes, one. A gun. In her handbag. A gun that she pointed at me.

“So,” she said, “This is how this is going to go. We are going to sign the resort deal, and I’m going to leave with it, and you’re not going to stop me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll do what I’ve always done, and sign for you. You have the easiest signature to forge, Henry.”

The last piece of the puzzle, and the confession I needed. “But if you can’t take it, then I know I can’t either.”

“What?”

“It’s what my mother told my father just before he killed her. I was there, by the way, by accident. I had no idea what she meant, but apparently he did. The thing is, I killed him, and he died before she did, outlasting him by a day and a half. And now you have to die.”

It was hardly a sound, just a plop that could not be heard outside the room. Behind me, the shadow materialised into a human shape. My mother. She had not been killed, just badly wounded. She was not going to suddenly reappear now Harriet was gone; that was never her plan. The monsters were dead, and she could retire to a shack in the Bahamas. The business was mine.

I went over to Harriet, now a crumpled heap on the floor. Dead. It was not my sister; she had been murdered and substituted three years ago. We knew it wasn’t her because my sister would not have stolen twenty million, but that aside, Harriet was her father’s daughter, but with a little more compassion.

A nod to Benson, my mother’s bodyguard, who was also hiding in the room, and he took Harriet away, leaving the room empty except for the papers on the desk. I signed the historical society document, first as Harriet and then as myself, and called the lawyer back in. He checked the signatures and then countersigned as a witness.

Then I went out and handed Benny a check for his debt, with the threat that if I saw him again, it would be the last time he saw me. Benson saw them out. Given all that had happened in the last three months, Mother and I needed a holiday.

In a little shack in the Bahamas.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 147

Writing Exercise

…

We sat across the table, with six feet of air between us, staring each other down, like the old days when we tried outstaring each other.

Usually I lose, but not today.

There was nothing at stake here but pride, and over the last thirty-two years, I had mine trodden on, beaten out of me, and have people proclaim in no uncertain terms it would be my downfall.

My downfall had been the cruelty dealt me by an unforgiving and monstrous father, and equally as monstrous sister, every bit her father.

The lawyer at the end of the table didn’t want to be there.

I didn’t want to be here; only someone had to stop the evil witch from destroying everything my mother had created for us, and the world around us.

“You’re pathetic.” It was the tenth time she’d said it.

“You are a monster.” It was the first time I used it, but it was water off a duck’s back.

She would claim she’d heard worse, and I would believe her. I was not the only one who thought she had gone down the wrong path.

“Jesus, Henry, is that the best you can do?”

“No. But you don’t bring out the big guns until you have to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just sign the papers and consign the building and contents to the historical society. It was mother’s wish and we will be adhering to it.”

I had a brief moment, back in her room, on her deathbed, holding my hand and telling me that the house should not under any circumstances go to anyone but the historical society. That had been in her will, but our father had contested it and won. Now, he was consigning it to a bunch of country club charlatans who wanted a hotel, spa, and golf course.

I’d worked out a deal with the historical society, and as beneficiaries, all we had to do was sign it over. Harriet wanted to sell it, take her half, and go on a first-class tour of the world, among other things.

“She was as pathetic as you are. She had no idea what the worth of the place was, and how it would help us.”

“It won’t help you. Whatever you get, you’ll have spent in a year. Do the right thing. It’ll be the only thing left of Mother to remember her.”

“She wasn’t a mother to me.”

“You weren’t a daughter to her.”

She stood up suddenly, and the chair fell backwards with a crash. “Then I’ll see you in court.”

“You go out that door, I will, but not in the way you would imagine.” I stood too. “Please. I dare you.”

A dare would do the job. It was time for the big guns.

She crossed to the door and had her hand on the handle. The lawyer was looking out the window. He knew what was coming and didn’t want to be a witness.

“What have you got up your sleeve?”

I looked up my sleeve. “An arm. Why do you ask?”

She came back and sat down. Then her manner completely changed. Yes, I’d seen that before. My father was very good at playing the game; he might not know what was going on, but in the end, he’d wheedle it out of you.

Harriet was no different. Except this time, I was immune. It was my mother’s affairs, and she was watching over me.

“What have you got up your sleeve, young Henry?” The same tone and manner as my father, in fact, it was like looking at and listening to him.

“Clue: 2022.”

“You were a bigger nincampoop then than you are now. So?”

Clue: Fry.”

“What? Fish and chips. Have you gone completely mad?”

“Clue: $20,000,000.”

A flicker. Fry was the accountant she employed to syphon twenty million dollars out of the business account, ostensibly to invest in the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund in 2022, as part of a tax dodge. Instead, it went into an offshore account in her name, while the paperwork covered the tracks. Then in 2024, we received advice that the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund had crashed, and the investors were left out of pocket. Convenient for her. Hardly a blip on the horizon for the business.

Except it looks like she’s spent it all, and is now back for more. Except, I had a visit the week before from some very nasty people telling me if I didn’t pay up her debts, to the tune of ten million and rising at the rate of one million a month, then someone was going to get hurt.

No smart ass reply. Yet.

“Last clue: Benny. I’m sure you are aware of who Benny is, grating voice, several prominent scars, no manners whatsoever.”

“When?” A whisper.

“Last week. Came to my house. Scared the living shit out of Willie. What happened to the twenty million you stole three years ago? No one can spend twenty million in two years.”

“I have a lifestyle and image to maintain.”

“Tell me how that can happen after Benny and his friend cut you up into twenty pieces and drop them into the sewer?”

“Is that what he threatened?”

“No, that’s what I told him I would do to you when I saw you next. What the hell do you think he was going to say?”

“Just sell the place, give me my share, and I’m in the wind. You won’t see me again.”

“No. You’ll sign the papers to hand this place over to the historical society, I will pay the debt, and you will surrender yourself to the police.”

“Hell will freeze over first. I got away with that free and clear. No one knows.”

“I do.”

“And I’ll make sure no one else does. I thought you might have done something like this. Rhonda told me you were acting strange and asking all these stupid questions. Well, I took out some insurance, just in case.”

I looked over at the lawyer. “You can leave now. You don’t want to be here until after we’ve sorted this out. By the side entrance.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

“Now,” I said, “You can try to do your worst.”

She picked up her cell phone and speed-dialled a number. Nothing happened.

“There’s no service in this room.”

She got up and went over to the door and opened it. A second later, she slammed it shut and turned around.

“What have you done?”

“I told Benny we were settling your debt today, one way or another. I had your boyfriend and his mates arrested, attempting to kidnap one of my children. That’s low even for you, Harriet. You’ve been under surveillance for the last three months, but not by me. You seem to have some terrible enemies on both sides of the law. By the way, Dad knew you took the money. He thought it showed initiative. So did I actually.”

“I’m happy to go to the police and tell them you were the one who did it. My name is not on any of the paperwork.”

“No. That was a deft touch. Fry took a little convincing before he told us what you did. Any more surprises up your sleeve, Harriet?”

Yes, one. A gun. In her handbag. A gun that she pointed at me.

“So,” she said, “This is how this is going to go. We are going to sign the resort deal, and I’m going to leave with it, and you’re not going to stop me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll do what I’ve always done, and sign for you. You have the easiest signature to forge, Henry.”

The last piece of the puzzle, and the confession I needed. “But if you can’t take it, then I know I can’t either.”

“What?”

“It’s what my mother told my father just before he killed her. I was there, by the way, by accident. I had no idea what she meant, but apparently he did. The thing is, I killed him, and he died before she did, outlasting him by a day and a half. And now you have to die.”

It was hardly a sound, just a plop that could not be heard outside the room. Behind me, the shadow materialised into a human shape. My mother. She had not been killed, just badly wounded. She was not going to suddenly reappear now Harriet was gone; that was never her plan. The monsters were dead, and she could retire to a shack in the Bahamas. The business was mine.

I went over to Harriet, now a crumpled heap on the floor. Dead. It was not my sister; she had been murdered and substituted three years ago. We knew it wasn’t her because my sister would not have stolen twenty million, but that aside, Harriet was her father’s daughter, but with a little more compassion.

A nod to Benson, my mother’s bodyguard, who was also hiding in the room, and he took Harriet away, leaving the room empty except for the papers on the desk. I signed the historical society document, first as Harriet and then as myself, and called the lawyer back in. He checked the signatures and then countersigned as a witness.

Then I went out and handed Benny a check for his debt, with the threat that if I saw him again, it would be the last time he saw me. Benson saw them out. Given all that had happened in the last three months, Mother and I needed a holiday.

In a little shack in the Bahamas.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 146

Seeking answers in writing stories or novels

…

Would I? Yes.

I am in the middle of researching my family history. For a long time, I didn’t have any interest. My parents never talked of their relatives, and the only relatives I remember seeing are my mother’s mother, one uncle, my mother’s brother, and vaguely, my father’s older sister.

I knew that my older brother was dabbling in the family history over the last 40 years, and got to meet and talk to a lot of people I never knew existed.

Then he sent me some family trees, and I was hooked.

There was stuff my paratns said, perhaps when they never realised we were listening, that my mother had an older sister whm she was extremely jealous of, and I think I met her once or twice, that my mothers father had committed suicide and his son found him, still alive, and was traumatised beyone imagination.

I could believe it. We stayed with my grandmother in her country house, and it was an oasis away from my normal life, and it fed an imagination that inspired many stories. And that I began to live in lots of different worlds, any world but reality.

But…

My father’s mother! Wow!

What 25 year old girl, in England, who was not wealthy, and in the year 1914 whe the world was in upheaval and war clouds were gathering, left her safe job as a milliner in Gillingham, Dorset, to get on a ship with 1,300 other strange souls to spend a month with, and come to of all places Melbourne Australia.

This was my grandmother, the adventuress!

There’s a story to be told, and I’m writing it.

So yes, I will be writing the story, based on fact, but a little embellishment, but someone I never knew, and I think if I’d ever realised who she was, I would have talked to her about it. I was sixteen when she died, and I never really knew her, or rarely saw her.

If I only knew then what I know now…

Day 146

Seeking answers in writing stories or novels

…

Would I? Yes.

I am in the middle of researching my family history. For a long time, I didn’t have any interest. My parents never talked of their relatives, and the only relatives I remember seeing are my mother’s mother, one uncle, my mother’s brother, and vaguely, my father’s older sister.

I knew that my older brother was dabbling in the family history over the last 40 years, and got to meet and talk to a lot of people I never knew existed.

Then he sent me some family trees, and I was hooked.

There was stuff my paratns said, perhaps when they never realised we were listening, that my mother had an older sister whm she was extremely jealous of, and I think I met her once or twice, that my mothers father had committed suicide and his son found him, still alive, and was traumatised beyone imagination.

I could believe it. We stayed with my grandmother in her country house, and it was an oasis away from my normal life, and it fed an imagination that inspired many stories. And that I began to live in lots of different worlds, any world but reality.

But…

My father’s mother! Wow!

What 25 year old girl, in England, who was not wealthy, and in the year 1914 whe the world was in upheaval and war clouds were gathering, left her safe job as a milliner in Gillingham, Dorset, to get on a ship with 1,300 other strange souls to spend a month with, and come to of all places Melbourne Australia.

This was my grandmother, the adventuress!

There’s a story to be told, and I’m writing it.

So yes, I will be writing the story, based on fact, but a little embellishment, but someone I never knew, and I think if I’d ever realised who she was, I would have talked to her about it. I was sixteen when she died, and I never really knew her, or rarely saw her.

If I only knew then what I know now…

Days 144 and 145

Take or normal reunion and discussion, then add what it is the speakers are not saying

I hated reunions.  My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back.  She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet.  Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep.  I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a Humpty with no one and nothing to show for my life.  Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard.  I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything.  I would have accepted that, except for her tone.  It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, in Washington.  Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair and I was the result of it.  She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could.  He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance. 

Until my father saw me.  “James.  I’m so glad you could make it.”  He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’   It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it.  I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True.  I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse.  “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t. 

Roger and Merylin had already arrived.  The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine.  It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over.  “You know this isn’t going to end well.  You look well.”  No hand shake, no hug, nothing.  It was like we were not relayed.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced.  Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, were definitely not relayed.”

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug.  She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, ‘you’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that agency’.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world.  Maybe I would.

Now, if I left now and went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo.  You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death.  I had no choice.”  And wait for it…

“Everyone had a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo.  The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing.  I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up.  His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks.  He was a ‘player’.  Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight.  Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave.  Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers was a long-time partner, had no wedding date in sight, with a phony French accent. 

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact.  I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago.  She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.”  She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three?  I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.”  She smiled.  “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on.  Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat.  Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door.  “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need.  I’m going up to my room to sulk.  You lot feel free to talk about me.  My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I’ve nothing to add.”

“Donr be like that.  You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line.  What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’.  Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged.  “I’ll be down for dinner.  It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage.  Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why.  You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine.  But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why?  Because you have a low life brother.  I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does.  No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?”  I hardly thought an ex porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out.  And you bring the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room.  I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you.  Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them.  There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck.  But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold.  It’s politics at its finest.  So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me.  Shake on it.  Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it.  I do.  But yes.  I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face.  Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order?  They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave.  And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025