George Martin - Suicide Kings

Aliyah didn’t wear Ellen with quite the same style that Ellen wore the dress.

“Yeah,” she said, using Ellen’s mouth. “I… I died back when the Caliphate army was attacking the jokers in Egypt, right before they formed the Committee? If you read about it, they might have called me Simoon. That was my ace name on American Hero. There was an ace on the other side called the Righteous Djinn? In Egypt, I mean. Not on the show.”

When Aliyah got nervous, she ran her sentences together and everything she said turned into a question. When Jonathan got nervous, bits of his body broke off as small, green, wasplike insects, so it was hard to really fault her. He took a bite of stuffing. It was a little on the salty side, as usual, but if he kept his mouth full he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. That seemed the best strategy.

“That must have been terrible for you, dear,” his mother said.

“Oh, I don’t remember it,” Aliyah said. “I wasn’t wearing my earring. At the time. I mean, I was a sandstorm when it happened, so it’s not like I had any clothes on.”

One of the twins, Charlotte he thought, leaned forward on her elbows. Her smile was vulpine. “That’s just fascinating,” she said.

“Well, Ellen can only pull me back from the last time I was wearing my earring.”

“No,” Charlotte (or maybe Denise) said. “I mean you fought naked ?”

Aliyah blushed and stammered, her hands moving like they weren’t sure where they were supposed to be. With a small internal sigh, Jonathan decided it was time to go ahead and lose his temper. “She was a sandstorm,” he said. “Big whirly scour-your-flesh-to-the-bone sandstorm. The kind that could kill you.”

Charlotte’s smile turned to him. There was a little victory in it. I could kill you, too, he thought, and Charlotte yelped and slapped her thigh. She pulled up a small, acid-green body with crumpled wings.

“Oops,” Bugsy said. “Sorry.”

“You act like you can’t control those things,” Charlotte said. Or maybe Denise. “You aren’t fooling anyone.”

“Is it possible,” Bugsy’s older brother said in a strangled voice, “to have a simple, calm, normal family meal without going into detail about the naked dead women with whom my brother is sleeping?”

“Spirit of the season,” Jonathan said. “I mean, unless there’s something else to be thankful for.”

“Excuse me,” Aliyah said, stood up, and walked unsteadily from the room.

“So, Robert,” Jonathan said. “Have you and Norma gotten knocked up yet, or have the doctors decided there’s no lead in the old Wooster pencil after all?”

“That is none of your-”

“Oh, Robert, he didn’t mean anything by-” their mother said.

“Norma!” Denise (or maybe Charlotte) said. “I’ve been so worried but I didn’t dare-”

With his brother’s penis squarely on the chopping block, Jonathan pushed his plate aside and followed Ellen to the den. The room glowed in the festal candlelight. Two wide sofas in leather the color of chocolate seemed cozy, looking out through the glass-wall picture window at the angry Atlantic Ocean. Ellen sat on one, legs tucked up under her. He could tell by the way she held herself that the earring wasn’t in.

“I told you so,” he said.

“You really did,” Ellen said. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“The nice thing about Jerry Springer is that you get to throw chairs. I never get to throw chairs.”

“And your mother,” Ellen said. “She’s the worst of all.”

“There is that Demon-Queen-Directing-Her-Monstrous-Horde quality to her. It was more fun when Aunt Ida was still around. She was much worse.”

“Aliyah felt awful. I told her I’d apologize for her.”

“For getting beaten up by my family? Doesn’t that usually go the other way?”

“It usually does,” Ellen said coolly.

Before Jonathan could think of a good answer, his cell phone started the ring tone he’d set aside for the United Nations. Committee business calling. He dug it out of his jacket pocket, held up a single finger to Ellen, and said hello.

“Bugsy! I hope I’m not interrupting,” Lohengrin said.

“Not at all,” Jonathan said. “What’s up?”

Ellen rose, shaking her head slightly, and headed back toward the ongoing train wreck of the Tipton-Clarke Thanksgiving. Jonathan put one hand over his ear to block out the voices.

“Can you come to New York?” Lohengrin asked. “There’s something we need to discuss. An assignment.”

Jonathan nodded. Truth to tell, it was moments like these that made working with the United Nations fun. “You bet, buddy. I’ll be there with bells on,” he said. Then, “You know, I could probably have fit about three more b’s in that if I tried. Betcha buddy, I’ll be by with bells on my-”

“Jonathan? Are you okay?”

“I may be a wee teensy drunk,” Jonathan said. “Or I might hate my family. Hard to tell the difference. I’ll be in New York tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

Lohengrin dropped the line, and Jonathan put his cell phone away. The voices in the dining room had changed. With a sick curiosity, he made his way back to the table.

“You always did that, Maggie, ever since you were a little girl,” Ellen said, pointing an antique silver butter knife in his mother’s direction. “Salt, salt, salt. You’d think God never gave you taste buds.”

His mother’s cheeks had flushed and her lips pressed white and bloodless. Ellen turned to consider Jonathan, except whoever she was, it wasn’t Ellen. The familiar eyes surveyed him slowly. She snorted.

“Aunt Ida?” he said.

“I like this Ellen of yours, Johnny,” Ida said. “I’m surprised she puts up with you. Sit, sit, sit. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a well with you just looming there.”

“How did-?” he began as he sat.

Ida held up the silverware. “I always said this set was mine, and now I’ve proven it, haven’t I? Robert, dear? Pass the potatoes, and let’s see if she’s oversalted them, too. Maggie, stop looking at me like that. I was right, you were wrong, and no one is in the least surprised. Thanksgiving is a time for family. Try not to ruin it.”

Stellar

Manhattan, New York

“Ana?” wally whispered. “can I sit with you?”

“Sure.”

Wally followed her through a maze of round tables draped in billowing tablecloths. The lights were set low; candlelight and the glow from the skyline glinted on wineglasses and silverware. He nodded or waved at the few folks he recognized.

Ana led him to a table near the middle of the room. Wally’s own chair creaked precariously. He sat between Ana and the Llama. They’d never worked together, but Wally had met the South American ace at other Committee events. Wally always thought he looked a little like a giraffe, what with his long neck and all, but never mentioned it. “Hey, how ya doin’, fella? Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hi,” said the Llama, chewing on something. That seemed strange, since the waiters hadn’t brought any food out yet. They didn’t even have bread on the table.

The Llama seemed distracted. Wally realized he was busy glaring across the room at the Lama.

Wally turned to Ana. “So how’s Kate these days?”

“Good, I guess. She’s glad to be back in school, but it’s probably kinda weird. I think she misses us. She doesn’t miss this stuff, though.” She pointed to the cyan United Nations banner hanging over the head table where Lohengrin, Babel, and a few others sat.

“Yeah.” The Committee had lost much of its allure for Wally over the past couple of years. For some reason he kept sticking with it, even though he’d found better ways to make a difference in people’s lives. A real difference. Plus, these shindigs weren’t the same without the old crew.