Giant Men and Violent Women

Relax, Darling

ASHLEY

"Let them eat cake!"

I open my eyes. Pink flowers. Purple flowers. Blue flowers.

Wallpaper.

What time is it? I glance at the clock on the bedside table and see that it's eight o'clock in the morning. Quiet. It's quiet now. I close my eyes. "How dare she allow this to be written up!" My eyes shoot open again.

That's Presley Ann's voice. I slide my legs out of bed, both of them feeling like logs. I've only had two hours of sleep. I sit up, close my eyes, and wait. Quiet. I fall back onto the bed.

"I swear to God, I'm going to Boston now!"

I pop back up. At the same time, the bedroom door bursts open. Pope hurries in with a change of clothes for me. I knew I should've stayed at my place last night.

"You need to get dressed," Pope says in a rush. "Ms. Minnie's instructions. Do you know what date it is? It's January 12. Come on." "What happened?" I ask as I take the T-shirt he's handing me.

"Boston Society. It's the talk of Darling." He puts the rest of my clothes down on the bed and rushes out.

What now?

I dress quickly in sweatpants and a T-shirt and head downstairs. Women. I hear voices of women. A lot of them. Not good. I hit the bottom of the steps and see Presley Ann standing there by the kitchen island, holding the Boston Society newspaper in her hands. Her mother, my mother, Dainty, Gram, Hyacinth, Great Aunt, Mercer's fiancée, and my brother's wife are gathered around her. This ain't good. I make my way to the kitchen.

"Good morning," I say with a smile. Everyone's head shoots over to me.

I stop in my tracks. "What happened?"

"I'm going to finish The Widow," Presley Ann says. "I understand that she has this grudge against Darling ever since her husband was finished— sorry to bring that up, Great Aunt—but that has nothing to do with me. Nothing." She holds up the cover of Boston Society.

It looks like they bought an image from the photographer of Boston Daily, the guy who took pictures of us eating cake last night. I walk into the kitchen and slide the paper out of Presley Ann's hand. I look at the cover and—wow, she's beautiful. In fact, there isn't a picture out there that flatters her more than this one. In it, she's enjoying a slice of cake, a pristine silver fork halfway out of her mouth. She seems to be caught in the moment while I'm standing next to her, hands in my pockets, eyes on her. The background is dark, except for glints of light coming from the chandelier in the foyer and the lights in the kitchen. Looks like they were going for a fairy-tale image. A princess and the prince?

The caption over this picture, in bold print, is, Let them eat cake—no doubt a reference toward New Hampshire thinking they're about to enter a period of poverty while Presley Ann obviously is not. Pop is write. We need to make it clear that New England will not starve.

"Why Marie Antoinette?" I ask, as though I don't know.

Presley Ann violently flips open the page for me. There's a picture of her in a black ball gown, giant gemstone earrings on, and tamed Bad-Luck black hair set in soft waves. She's surrounded by Jewels, Pop, and the president of the United States. They're in tuxes. The New Year's Eve ball? She's in the center of them, and they're all laughing at something. She looks like impeccable Bad Luck. The kind of Bad Luck we New Hampshire men pray and fast for.

Bad Luck and Lucky Devils, is the caption.

But all I see is Jewels. There's no human alive other than Date whom I hate.