BIA Ch. 25

Cedric’s mansion was said to have been built by his now-deceased father, Liam Kalisz, forty years ago. (According to Chester,) at that time, Liam was the leader of the Irish mob that controlled the eastern United States, and his house was always bustling with Irish immigrants seeking help. Following the Irish proverb, “The only way to heaven is through giving,” Liam always invited guests to his home to dine together and enjoyed grand dinner parties, and this enormous kauri wood table was made purely for that purpose.

“New Zealand kauri trees are the most vibrant of all trees on Earth. This one is probably about 1,800 years old. The older it gets, the wider and harder the planks become, making for a good dining table.”

Cedric spoke proudly but even without knowing its history, one would know it was a good table. The wood grain was pristine, there were no knots and of course, no sign of joints.

Yes, there was nothing wrong with the table itself. The problem was that nearly thirty adult men were crammed around a table made for twenty.

And density wasn’t the only issue. From Isaiah’s perspective, the seating arrangement was even more serious. Cedric sat at the head of the table with Chester and Bran flanking him. Isaiah’s seat happened to be next to Chester. And next to Bran sat Samuel and next to Samuel sat Gilman.

Isaiah felt like he would suffocate. He was sitting across from Bran with Chester beside him and Gilman was watching it all unfold right in front of him. It was literally like being trapped between a rock and a hard place with a wolf watching.

He already could not tell if the food was going down his throat or up his nose when Cedric delivered the final blow. Cedric seemed to regard Isaiah as a mere cufflink on his son’s sleeve. In other words, he treated him as if he did not exist. As the meal began, even when Cedric greeted the men sitting nearby, he did not so much as glance at Isaiah and completely excluded him from the conversation. Isaiah had not particularly wanted to be treated like a daughter-in-law—that would have been horrifying—but being treated as though he were invisible did not feel good either.

“Now that I think about it, nothing happened overnight, right?”

Cedric asked, serving himself colcannon^[1].

“Yes. There was a brief commotion at the Fiddler Lounge in the early morning but we had it under control before the police arrived,”

“What?”

Before Bran had even finished speaking, Chester slammed his fork down.

“That’s my establishment. Why were you handling it?”

“Someone had to look after it.”

Cedric said, clicking his tongue, before Bran could respond.

“Were you just going to leave it unattended because you are in mourning? Do you think those thugs care about such things? They wait for the owner to be away and then rob the place. You have to be even more vigilant at times like these.”

Cedric, who feigned a scolding tone to appease his son, spoke only in a benevolent and affectionate manner when looking at Bran.

“Just wait a little longer until the funeral is over.”

Bran smiled as if it wasn’t much of a hardship. With that, Chester now had one more reason to kill him.

…By the way, how long would they continue eating?

Isaiah was miserable. The chair was uncomfortable, he felt the gazes of everyone around him and the atmosphere was suffocating. If only the food had been delicious, he would have enjoyed it mindlessly but he could hardly bring himself to touch the unfamiliar Irish dishes. The only somewhat familiar item was the French fries that accompanied the fish and chips but even those were too bland.

Isaiah checked the location of the salt shaker and quickly reached for it.

…Or so he thought, but someone had already grabbed the salt shaker before him. It was Bran. Consequently, Isaiah ended up holding his hand.

Isaiah was startled and withdrew his hand. Bran gestured toward the salt shaker he had just taken, as if offering it to Isaiah first.

“Ah, thank you…”

As Isaiah spoke, Chester snatched the salt shaker and began sprinkling it on his own stew. With an obnoxiously flamboyant wrist snap, Chester liberally seasoned his stew then proceeded to douse Isaiah’s fish and chips with salt as well. He seemed to be attempting to play the role of a caring lover but the problem was that he had ignored the French fries and subjected only the cod cutlets to a salt shower.

“Would you like some too?”

Chester, who had instantly transformed Isaiah’s cod cutlets into bacalao, asked Bran while holding the salt shaker.

“Thank you, but it’s okay.”

Bran politely declined. Chester, with a dismissive air, offered the salt shaker to Bran. Or rather, he pretended to offer it and then dropped it in front of him.

“Oh, excuse me.”

Unfazed, Bran picked up the salt shaker with his usual relaxed manner. As he seasoned his salmon steak, he seemed to notice Isaiah watching him and looked up. He then lightly shook the salt shaker as if asking if Isaiah needed it. When Isaiah hesitated, Bran glanced at the fish and chips in front of him, specifically at the pile of French fries on the side of the plate and shook the salt shaker again.

How did he know…?

Embarrassed, Isaiah belatedly recalled their conversation at the restaurant earlier that day and thought, Ah.

‘Isn’t it too salty?’

‘Really? I like my potatoes a little salty.’

‘These are too salty.’

It had been an offhand comment but Bran had apparently remembered it. Or perhaps the intensity of the saltiness had been so memorable that it was impossible to forget.

Isaiah wanted to take the salt from Bran and season his fries immediately, but somehow, it felt wrong. Of course, Chester’s watchful glare was a factor but more than that, it was just…a feeling. He wasn’t inclined to do it.

It wasn’t a perfect analogy but it felt like exchanging secret signals with someone he was having an affair with, right in front of his lover. Moreover, it felt like they were whispering about shared memories and inside jokes from their date, unbeknownst to anyone else. It was just an example, of course.

He wasn’t sure why he felt this way about something as simple as putting salt on his French fries but he did. He knew it was strange and self-absorbed to think this way but he couldn’t help it. He had already thought it, so what could he do?

But regardless of anything else, while it was one thing for Chester to brazenly call himself a lover, comparing Bran to some fling was a serious misstep. Above all, it was a great insult to Bran. What could possibly be lacking in a man like Bran for him to be cast in the role of a mere affair? Anyone could see that Bran was the far superior man. Even if they were judged as potential husbands, Bran would win by a landslide. If Bran was the ideal husband, Chester was more like… the fourth, no, the fourteenth concubine, one not even worth sparing a thought for.

This realization made the absurdity and disrespect of his analogy even more apparent. To atone to Bran, Isaiah decided to punish himself by eating the bland French fries.

The agonizing meal finally ended, and everyone moved to the living room. According to tradition, they would spend the night in the wake house^[2], drinking and sharing stories to remember the deceased. Everyone seemed relieved to escape the hellish dinner table but for Isaiah, the real hell was just beginning.

“Honey, why have you lost so much weight? Don’t tell me you haven’t eaten anything and just cried for two days? Oh, please don’t. Aunt Angelina would be even more heartbroken if she knew. Of course, she treated me like a son. So, you’re like a son to her too.”

From the moment Chester deliberately chose to sit right next to him, ignoring all the empty space, Isaiah had a bad feeling. Chester didn’t stop for a second, showering him with “honey,” “darling,” and “baby” while stroking his waist, stomach, and thighs. On top of that, he loudly carried on about how they were family, eternal brothers, as if he wanted everyone to hear. It was obvious what the purpose of this nauseating display was. To lay the groundwork for some scheme, likely anticipating on Isaiah to deal with Bran at the funeral.