The Predicament of Persians - A.G. Henley Page 0,33
as soon as I can, sir.”
I give James a look. “Can you please try to be polite. Just try.”
“What? This is me being polite.”
And that’s the worst part. I think he might be right. I’d tried to argue with my brother that being rude doesn’t help anything. You don’t get it, Kathleen, he’d said. It makes me feel better. I wonder, and not for the first time, if something broke in James when our parents died.
Joe returns with a glass of pink champagne for me and beers for himself and James. He hands my brother his. When James doesn’t thank him, Joe doesn’t let go. James tries to pull it out of Joe’s hand with no luck. Joe’s expression is mild, but I notice the ends of his fingers turn white with the intensity of gripping the bottle.
“What?” James says after two attempts to pull the drink from Joe’s hand.
“What do you say when someone does something nice for you? Like your sister bringing you here and paying for you and inviting you to this nice dinner and all?”
“Um, thanks?” James tries to take the bottle again, but Joe still doesn’t let go. “What now?”
“Don’t thank me. Thank her.” He tilts his head to me. The guests seated on the other side of the table, who are wearing matching orange catsuits with ears, watch us curiously. I would, too, I guess.
“Thanks, Kathleen,” James says. “And oh, by the way, I think Joe is a really nice guy.” He says the last with a glare at Joe.
“Me, too.” I touch Joe’s arm, and he lets James have the beer. I lean toward him and lower my voice. “Thank you. I have a hard time setting boundaries with James.”
“I don’t.” He winks. “But let me know if that was overbearing. I’ve been known to be that from time to time.”
“He’s been known to need it.” A loud voice catches my attention.
“And then, I got the idea to dress him in little leggings and one of those vest things and start an Instagram account.”
Boyd, that horrible man, sits at the next table. He has a drink in hand and practically shouts at his table mates. How tacky. I notice Joe listening in, too, and he looks pissed. It’s so sweet of him to hate Boyd on my behalf.
“But . . . what gave you the idea?” A woman at Boyd’s table asks him.
Romeo’s owner leans back in his chair, beer in hand. “Well, I loved plays and poetry and stuff in school. And while Romeo and Juliet were childish and immature, it was a great tragedy. Did you know he’d only written one tragedy before that play? And it wasn’t even his idea. He ripped off the plot from some other writer before him.”
Joe’s shoulders and arms tense as he stares at Boyd.
“Ripped off?” I mutter to Joe. “What about him? He didn’t get the idea from some love of Shakespeare, he got it from Juliet and me!”
I’m tempted to stand and shout that at the man, but I’d just finished admonishing James for being rude. I can be the bigger person tonight. I take a few long breaths and calm down. We’ll see who has the final say when they announce the award winners.
Joe turns to me, the redness in his face fading. He touches my face with the backs of his fingers. “Don’t worry about him. You’ve got this, I know it.”
The server delivers our meals—fish for me, beef for James, and chicken for Joe. As we eat, I chat with the woman next to me, the wife of a blogger who writes about cat health. He’s nominated for the Best Cat-vocate award.
“His article on hairballs won a Fur-itzer Prize,” she says proudly. I have no idea what that is, but I congratulate him anyway.
As we dig into our dessert, cheesecake with a cherry drizzle on top, an African American woman in a sleek black jumpsuit complete with pointy four-inch heels, a tail, and cat ears clicks across the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for being here for the sixth annual CatFest convention!”
Thundering applause and quite a few screeches and howls—human, not feline—answer her words. She beams from the podium. When she pushes her long hair behind her shoulder, I can see from here that thin, black nails curl from the ends of her fingers, like the fan’s in the lobby. She went all in with her outfit while managing to look professional at the same time.
“I’m Margot Johnson,