The Black Sheep

This year’s family reunion would have been boring as ever, if not for Bennington. “Ben,” he offered as he sat beside me. Ben? My family provided their children with impressive names, and they used them – Callahan didn’t go by Cal; people might believe him average or even poor.

Ben was clearly the black sheep of our family. He wasn’t stodgy like my brothers and the rest of the male heirs, but animated and interesting. Not pale and pudgy, but fit. Handsome, even. “You’re a breath of fresh air,” I told my new cousin (well, new to me) as we waited for our first course. “It’s the first time I haven’t been stuck with Uncle Donavon’s boys who ramble about the stock market.”

Ben’s dimples popped as he chuckled. “Yeah, lots of money talk around here. I never fit in; I wouldn’t know a bull from a bear. You want to talk poetry or baseball, I’m your man.” Pity he’s related to me; I’d throw myself at such a boy and drag him to the altar, were it legal.

Ben gazed into my eyes, like a smitten boy admires his first love. Like I’d always wanted a boy to see me. A boy who wasn’t related to me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. He’s your cousin.

Buffy touched my shoulder. She wanted me to gush about her Giorgio Arman, as if she toiled her whole life to buy it. I didn’t. “Have you ever met Ben? He lives here now, in New York.”

“Whose son are you?”

“Burt’s.”

“Who?” Buffy leered.

“Ben! Get your ass back to the kitchen. We’re starting salad service!” An older fellow in the same tuxedo as Ben's tugged at his collar.

“Wait!” I nearly clapped with glee. “Can you join me for dessert?”