Page 18 of My Dirty Father In Law
“Her name was Sally Hemings,” I bite out. “And yes, she and Jefferson had six kids together. Allegedly.”
“Yeah, so no one’s throwing stones,” Chris reasons. “Including your forefather, Meriwether Lewis. He wasn’t the be-all, end-all, although he occupies an important place in American history.”
“Right, because no one’s perfect,” I say through gritted teeth. “I never claimed he was.”
Chris shakes his head.
“It’s not just that, my man, because you’re not hearing me. Meriwether Lewis wasn’t just imperfect. He wouldn’t care about “continuing the line” and all the bullshit you’re putting yourself through because he committed suicide without procreating first. That dude definitely wouldn’t care if his DNA died out because he chose to take his own life, snuffing out his lineage. So why are you forcing the issue? Why is it so important to you to breed an heir, when Meriwether Lewis himself didn’t give two fucks? It’s strange.”
I stop to consider because when Chris puts it this way, my values do seem twisted and messed up. What the fuck am I doing?
“I guess I just thought it was important because it’s always been important in our family. When I was a kid, my dad and even my grandfather would talk to me about the necessity of continuing the line.”
My friend squints at me.
“That’s because you’re all suffering from the same delusion. I’m sorry, Jor, but I think that over the years, you guys became snobs. You see yourself as aristocrats descended from a mighty adventurer who rubbed shoulders with presidents. But that was a long time ago, and again, Meriwether Lewis himself wouldn’t give a fuck if he had no descendants because he killed himself without procreating. He snuffed out his own line. I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”
I pause before letting out a huge sigh.
“Yeah. We’ll see,” I say in a terse grunt.
Chris drains his drink and claps me on the back again.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but someone had to do it. I mean, my god, man. You’re fucking your son’s girlfriend because you want to procreate now? At age forty-five? Are you really going to stay up nights with a crying baby, not to mention wiping noses and changing dirty diapers? Fuck man! Even the thought gives me chills.”
Then, Chris shivers theatrically before reaching for his wallet and pulling out a wad of bills which he throws on the bar top.
“I gotta run, bud, but take it easy, okay? Think about what I’ve said because you don’t need to put yourself through this. Seriously, you’re just making things harder than they are. I’m not saying you should step away, necessarily. You should absolutely fuck this Juliette person hard, but just cut her loose afterwards. Set the young girl free because she doesn’t need you and your nasty old dick.”
“Yeah, but she’ll have to leave the U.S. soon.”
“So what?” Chris shrugs. “Let her leave. Or if you feel guilty about what you’ve done, get her a visa, by all means. It should be easy enough, seeing that you head a huge multi-national firm that processes H-1Bs all the time. But don’t knock her up because you don’t need this kind of hassle in your life. Seriously, motherfucker. Sometimes, simple is best.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say in a morose voice.
Chris grins again, handsome in that douchey way that rich guys have sometimes.
“In the meantime,” he sings, “I’ve got a Singapore Air stewardess waiting for me in skimpy lingerie at the Mandarin. I’m going to fuck her hard, and believe me: she’s definitely not getting a visa from yours truly.”
Then, with a loud chuckle, Chris strides off, his broad back disappearing into the crowd. Meanwhile, I contemplate his words. Am I fucked up in the way he claims? Have I been raised wrong, with an overemphasis on family pride, glory, and honor, when Meriwether Lewis was a mentally unstable person to begin with? Why does it matter whether his line continues anyways? My dad and grandfather would blanch if I asked these questions, but my guess is that they wouldn’t have any good responses. We’ve always been committed to the continuation of the Lewis line, and it’s always been a given. Only recently, has that idea been turned on its head.
Still, it doesn’t solve the problem of the beautiful Juliette Lechain. The thought of the young woman brings a glow to my chest as a smile plays about my lips. The curvy girl is feisty, playful, and incredibly intelligent. She keeps me on my toes with her wit, and makes me laugh even when I’m in a black mood. Although my son was gay, Harry obviously had good taste in women because this is a female that I would choose for myself. But what do I do now? The sixty day deadline is drawing near ... and Juliette will have to leave unless I take decisive action.
10
Jordan
I get back to the mansion and key open the door. It’s oddly silent inside, but maybe it’s because the staff’s off for the day. We’ve started giving them random holidays because Juliette and I prize our privacy. Besides, there’s only two of us, and we don’t need an army of household help hovering over us every hour of every day.
But the silence continues as I make my way upstairs.
“Juliette?” I call. “I’m home.”
Usually, I can hear the curvy girl in some way, shape, or form. Sometimes she’s curled up in the library, reading a book, or she’ll be listening to jazz in our study. Other days, she’s in the pool out back, and I enter the master suite before striding over to the window. But there’s no ivory figure slicing through the water, and I’m stumped. What the hell? Is she out for a run? Pruning some of the roses in the garden? Gone out for a coffee? But it’s 8 p.m., and she doesn’t drink coffee this late in the day. What the fuck?
My heart begins to hammer as my ears ring. Where the hell is the curvy girl? I pull open the closet door and that’s when my heart drops because Juliette’s side is empty. Her half is a bunch of empty hangers, and where her shoes used to be lined up neatly against the wall, there’s blank space. The closet looks haunted, to be honest, with only my suits and casual wear occupying the left half. Fuck fuck fuck! Where could she have gone?
I clatter downstairs, my mind racing furiously. Juliette doesn’t have her own apartment because I convinced her to give it up. Her lease was coming due, and I suppose we were optimistic about getting pregnant. She figured she’d find a way to stay here somehow, and my house was as good as any. Not only that, but I was fucking her non-stop, and I demanded access to her curves 24/7.
