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 me, do you know the blood that runs in your veins?”
Suddenly, Calan is grateful Malaika isn’t around. He doesn’t want her to see him being put on the spot like this.
“Of course he does, Tish,” says his mom. “Calan knows all there is to know about the Dewars. Don’t you, honey?” She beams at him.
“But what about the other great families you are a part of?” Grandma Tish pats the seat cushion to her right, inviting Calan to sit down next to her. “You see, my dear, my mother was a Carmichael before she married my daddy, a Baron. He was not the eldest of the Baron boys, but at the time, Mama believed that Daddy would be chosen to inherit the family’s oil empire. Now, it’s true that Uncle Jack surprised us all by stepping up and filling in the shoes that were meant for him as the firstborn, but regardless of succession matters, I am a descendant of two prominent families that are as close to blue bloods as one can be in America, which means that you, my dear, are as well.”
His dad looks at Grandma Tish with a funny face. Calan thinks he knows why: Grandma Tish rarely talks about her side of the family. He once overheard his dad say that it brought back bad memories, but Calan never learned exactly why.
“I’m going to have to side with Nick on this one, Mom,” his dad says, whiskey glass in hand. “If you’re using terms like blue bloods, then, yes, it’s racism.”
Grandma Tish tuts. “The point here is not race, but history. Why do you think I was so warmly accepted into Alma society when I married Charles? Because Almanacs can recognize when someone has been born to fill a certain kind of role, that’s why.”
“And you were born to reign!” Uncle Nick rises to his feet and does a mock salute and Grandma Tish purses her lips to contain a smile. “Wait, that’s wrong.” He takes a half-step back and bows, chuckling. Everyone claps as he returns to his seat. Calan feels his cheeks stretch into a grin. Uncle Nick’s superpower is that he can make everyone feel relaxed—even Calan.
“Reign in a town no bigger than a mall?” Aunt Alice’s voice cuts through the fizzling laughter. Her lips are pressed closed, her brow furrowed. Not even Uncle Nick can pierce Aunt Alice’s icy veil.
“My dear,” Grandma Tish begins, “Alma may be a small kingdom, but a queen is a queen regardless of the size of her territory. If Charles had brought back some other woman—a lesser woman—Almanacs never would’ve accepted her.”
“Besides, we’re much bigger than a mall,” his mom offers.
“The Dewar name would be nothing without the preservation of the Dewar name,” Grandma Tish says. “They are one and the same. I helped preserve it, just as I always hoped my sons’ wives would.”
“Mom lives and breathes Alma,” Calan whispers.
He doesn’t add that he wishes his mom still had a family of her own. Calan doesn’t know much about his mom’s parents, except that they had died when she was eighteen. He would’ve liked to have met them, to have them in his life. Maybe they were like him—different. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so weird if his family were bigger.
“Yes,” Grandma Tish says. “And one day you’ll run Alma Boots, my dear, so you should follow her example.”
Calan chews on his lower lip. He has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with the family business, but they seem set on ignoring him. Alma Boots is a fine company, one that Calan is proud of. But Calan is going to be a graphic novelist. There is a zero percent chance of him being stuck in a soul-sucking office all day filled with uncreative followers like the kids at his school. Plus, he doesn’t want to live in Alma. Aunt Alice is right: it’s too small. If they lived in a big city, Calan wouldn’t stand out as much.