HamLIT

2. Way of the World, My Ass!

Chapter Two

Way of the World, My Ass!

We’re already a chapter into the story, and we haven’t even met our protagonist! I don’t want to keep you waiting, so now let us take a moment to get acquainted with Hamilton Leroy Dane III, better known as Ham by his family and friends.

Like his best friend, Harry, Ham is a rising junior at Wittenberg Academy, a fancy boarding school in central New Hampshire that’s just as famous for its academics as it is for its s*x scandals (you know, the usual—teachers preying on students, seniors preying on freshmen, — bad things all around). Ham has it all: seemingly endless money, top-notch academic resources, and plenty of attention, which he likes very much. And that’s not even counting the prestige that comes with being the son of Hamilton Dane II.

Hamilton Dane II, the richest person in Massachusetts. Hamilton Dane II, the thirty-second name on the Forbes 400 list of the wealthiest people in the United States.

Or, that’s what he was. Now he’s just a corpse in a grave.

When Ham is not at Wittenberg, he lives in Elsinore, the wealthiest town in Massachusetts.

Ham’s house is the biggest, most expensive house in all of Elsinore—if you can even call it a house. The Dane family residence (as I should probably refer to it, just so I can sound more official) is a massive Victorian mansion. It’s graceful but monstrous with its hard stone walls, its sharply angled copper trim, and looming brick chimneys. The many-paned windows glitter even in darkness, like eyes watching all that moves within and without. On the western side of the mansion, the eyes are shaded by tall, ancient pine trees. On the eastern side, they look out over the sparkling waters of Elsinore Lake. The vast grounds of the estate cover some ninety acres in total—ninety acres of graceful forests, fields, and lakeshore.

The mansion was built in 1885. It once belonged to the daughter of an oil baron, a Gilded Age heiress. In her day, she was the closest thing to a princess that existed in the United States. Today, it’s home to another heir, another prince of another gilded age.

Ham can sit in his room on the third floor of the Dane mansion and look down at the world. He’s at the top of America’s social pyramid, and if he looked over the side, he would see the drop down to the ground. After all, the higher you are on a pyramid, the further you have to fall.

Now, back to the story. Ham is turning his black Tesla Model S into the driveway. Before his house was even in sight, he entered his neighborhood’s high-security gate and navigated the car along a dark, winding pathway through the woods. Usually at eleven o’clock in the evening, the driveway is illuminated by small ground-level lights that can be switched on remotely. Tonight, though, nobody has turned them on, so the Tesla is little more than a silent shadow in the dark.

Ignoring the circular drop-off area in front of the house’s dramatic facade, Ham drives into the garage, an ugly structure that was built by Ham’s late grandfather, Hamilton Leroy Dane I. He parks the Tesla and turns off its noiseless engine. His parents got him the car brand new for his sixteenth birthday last fall. As he unbuckles his seat belt, his Rolex sparkles in the car’s dim light. It’s his fifth Rolex; he’s cracked four of them since he got his first one at age twelve.

But it’s not all sports cars and expensive watches for Ham. Such things are distractions, shields to hide behind. And the past month, Ham has been relying on those shields more than ever. It’s too bad money can’t banish pain the way it can banish virtually everything else.

Ham droops forward and rests his elbows on the steering wheel. He’s exhausted, anxious, and depressed. He just spent an entire evening complaining about his miserable life to his new girlfriend, but since Lia isn’t the type to express what she’s thinking or talk about herself or really do anything other than sit there with a blank expression on her face, he’s starting to wonder what kind of impression he made. Probably a bad one.

He’d hoped that maybe going out with Lia Polonio would take the edge off the pain, but so far that hasn’t worked. At all.

He tries not to look at the cherry-red Ferrari in the back of the garage. He doesn’t want to face that hollow, aching feeling he gets in his chest every time he sees it.

Ham drags himself out of the car and enters the house through the garage door. As he steps over the threshold and trips over the scattered shoes in the entranceway, he sighs dramatically.

“My life is so goddamn hard,” he mutters to himself. “Mmph. Sounds like the title of my next vlog.” Forgetting to shut the door behind him, he heads toward the kitchen. Right now, all he wants is a bag of Cheetos. Preferably Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, if possible. That way, he can just burn away all the pain.

All of the lights in the house are off. It feels like no one lives here. The vast open spaces are gray and formless, the polished wooden staircases spiraling into the shadows above. Ham has to hold his arms out in front of him to avoid bumping into an antique armoire or a cabinet full of crystal wine glasses or a priceless porcelain vase or something. As he makes his way slowly but surely toward the kitchen on the eastern side of the house, a revolting sound reaches his ears. It’s the sound of tinkling eighties keyboards, a slow but powerful beat, and an annoyingly catchy melody. (Disclaimer: it’s Ham who thinks it’s revolting, not me.)

Ham’s eyebrows rise. The house is usually dead quiet at this hour, since the help have all gone home. Dread builds in his stomach as he advances toward the kitchen and the music gets louder and louder and louder. He wishes he didn’t recognize the song, but it’s actually one he knows well: “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Starship, the ultimate eighties power ballad.

Ham arrives at the kitchen door. He thinks he has an idea of what he’s going to find in here, and he definitely doesn’t want to see it. But he knows there’s no escaping his fate now. Plus, he really wants those Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. So he braces himself and peeks through the door.

The kitchen is decorated like a fancy restaurant on Valentine’s Day, with candles lining the countertops and rose petals strewn across every surface. It’s all very peaceful, romantic, and dimly lit. The source of the music is a small Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen island. Beside the speaker is an empty wine bottle.

Though he already knows what’s going on, Ham still feels a jolt of nausea when he sees the dancing couple. They move slowly between the island and the stove, their movements cautious yet horribly, horribly sensuous. They cling to each other gently, like they’re worried they might lose one another but don’t want to show it. The woman, of course, is Ham’s mother, Gretchen Dane. But the man is not her husband, Hamilton Dane II. No, Hamilton Dane II is dead. The man is the late Hamilton Dane II’s younger brother, Claude Dane.

When Gretchen sees Ham standing at the door, she jumps violently and breaks away from Claude to turn off the music, her fingers fumbling with the speaker. She flashes Ham a sickly sweet smile—not sweet enough, however, to conceal the guilt in her eyes.

“Honey!” she cries. “I didn’t think you’d be back so early!”

Ham glances warily at his uncle, who has retreated out of the candlelight and into a particularly shadowy part of the kitchen, before looking back at his mother.

“Mom, it’s eleven,” he says.

“Oh! Really?” Gretchen’s wide, wide smile starts to look strained, like her stretched face is starting to hurt. “But it’s still early for a boy your age, right?”

“No.”

It would probably be wise for Gretchen to just drop the subject, but Ham’s expression of disgust—disgust toward her—is too much for her to bear. She babbles on, “I’m sorry, honey, I just thought you’d stay with Lia a little longer. Actually, I kind of assumed you’d stay the night at her place.” She winks at him like the cool mom she is. (Disclaimer—those are her words, not mine.)

Ham blushes. “Mom!”

“I have no issue with it,” Gretchen declares unnecessarily. “I’m cool, you know? All I ask is that you stay safe—”

“Mom!” Ham gasps. “Will you please stop? I don’t want to talk about Lia! This isn’t about Lia!”

“Oh.” Gretchen falters. “Then what would you like to talk about, honey?”

“Nothing!” Ham declares, storming across the kitchen and grabbing the bag of Cheetos from the top of the fridge. “I just wanted some Cheetos.” On his way back, he stops to glance at Gretchen’s phone, which is faceup on the countertop, even though he already knows what the song is. He mostly does it for effect. His nose wrinkles in a show of disgust.

“One Hundred Best Love Songs of the Eighties? What is this? Starship? Ugh!”

Gretchen looks hurt. “It’s a good song!”

“I can’t believe you guys!” Ham gestures wildly at the candles and the wine and the roses and the Bluetooth speaker. “It’s eleven p.m., and you’re in the kitchen, slow dancing to Starship? Starship, Mom? Really?”

“What’s wrong with Starship?” says Claude.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with Starship?” echoes Gretchen.

“Everything is wrong with Starship! Why don’t you listen to something good for once?” Ham struggles to steady his breathing.

Gretchen and Claude exchange a knowing look, a look that says, Uh oh, Baby Ham is upset again. He misses his daddy. He’s so fragile. UwU. Ham has learned to recognize this look by now, and it always makes him feel much worse.

“Ham,” Gretchen begins slowly and cautiously, “I know you’re sad—”

“Sad? Sad, Mom?”

“Don’t interrupt me! Just listen, please. I know you’re upset about what happened to your dad. Trust me, we all are. Claude and I loved him just as much as you did.”

Claude, leaning out of the shadows and into the dim light, chimes in, “She’s right, Ham. He wasn’t just your father. He was my big brother. I never…I never imagined what it would be like to live without him.” He sniffles convincingly and wipes away a tear.

Ham glares at him.

“See? You’re not alone in all this,” Gretchen continues. “But you need to understand that we’ve all got to move on. It’s natural! Everyone dies eventually. You can’t avoid it.”

Ham rolls his eyes and makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I know that.”

“Then why would you let it get to you?” Gretchen attempts to put a hand on her son’s shoulder. Ham shrugs her off. Undeterred, she goes on, “I want you to at least try to be happy. There’s no need for you to act like this. If your father were still here, he wouldn’t want you to make yourself miserable, right?”

“You’re…” Ham’s voice has lowered a little. He can barely believe his ears. “You’re telling me to just forget about Dad?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” says Claude. “But remember that a few years back, your father and I lost our father. And before that, our father lost his father, and so on. It’s the way of the world. It’s hard, but you need to accept it. It’s okay to move on.”

Ham bristles. Sure, his mother is annoying, but his uncle makes him truly angry. He wants to tell Claude, “Way of the world, my ass!” and smack that patronizing look right off his face. But despite being a pushy, obnoxious loudmouth, Ham has never much liked confrontation—at least, not when the person he’s confronting is more powerful than he is.

He grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and forces out a lie: “Fine. I’ll try.”

Gretchen beams. “I’m your mom, Ham,” she says. “I just want you to be happy. I have an idea! Why don’t we all go out some time, just the three of us? Maybe we can get something to eat in Boston! Your father loved that pasta place in the North End.”

Ham tries to smile, but he’s struggling so much to contain his intense feelings of disgust that it comes out as more of a grimace. Thankfully, Gretchen and Claude don’t notice.

“Sure, Mom. Anything you want.”

“Oh, and that reminds me, I had another thing to ask you.”

“Ugh. What?”

“What do you say we dismiss the help for the summer?”

Ham blinks. “Eh?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll come back eventually. I just thought it would be nice to have the house to ourselves this summer. And in the meantime, they could all have some time off to go on vacation with their families.”

“But, like…who’s gonna cook if Lorraine’s not here? And who’s gonna clean?”

Gretchen waves a hand. “Oh, we’ll manage. It’s just for the summer.”

Ham looks at Claude. “Was this your idea?”

Claude doesn’t respond. He’s retreated conveniently back in the shadows, his blue eyes a glimmer in the dark. Blue eyes like mine, Ham thinks, and not like my father’s.

“So, anyway,” Gretchen continues, “I just wanted to keep you in the loop, you know. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yeah. Sure,” he says sulkily. It’s not like he has any choice.

“All right, then. Thanks, hon.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, sweetie. I love you so much.”

“By the way, Harry should be here soon.”

“Oh, right.” Gretchen has a tendency to forget that her son’s best friend exists. “Well, you can take him straight to the spare bedroom next to your room. Your uncle and I will say hi to him tomorrow morning.”

Ham turns and shuffles out of the kitchen, trying his best to look tired. Of course, he is tired, so it’s not totally an act, but he doesn’t really feel tired anymore. The only thing he feels at the moment is pure blinding rage.

His uncle and his mother watch him go, and when he’s definitely out of earshot, Claude says softly, “He really is a great kid, Gretchen.”

Gretchen looks up at Claude with shining eyes, touching his shoulder gently. Hesitantly, almost. “I know. I’m proud of him. He’s been having a hard time, but I think he’s finally turning a corner.”

Claude turns the music back on. The next song is “Can’t Fight This Feeling” by REO Speedwagon. As the sappy keyboards kick in and the singer starts to croon about, well, not being able to fight this feeling any longer, Claude takes Gretchen in his arms again.

“Does this song bring back any memories?”

Gretchen sighs happily. All thoughts of Ham are already out of her head. “Yes, I remember. Harvard, 1985.”

“The day we first met,” says Claude. “I’ve always felt like it’s our song.” He leans in for a kiss.

In case you thought I was going to subject you to more unnecessary PDA from the bizarre in-law couple, don’t worry. I won’t. Let’s get back to Ham.