SLACK: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston (Rook and Ronin Spin-off) by JA Huss

and find my mother’s face staring back at me. I reluctantly press answer. “Hi Mom.”
    “Ford?”
    “You called me, Mom. You know it’s Ford. I’m the only son you have.”
    “It’s just an expression, Ford. Can you go to the store and pick up some shallots? I thought I bought them yesterday, but they’re not here.”
    “Shallots? Where the hell am I gonna find shallots at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve?”
    “Eli’s Market is open. I called him and he’s waiting for you now, shallots in hand. He’s that nice Jewish man—”
    “I know who Eli is. He’s lived next door to us for twenty years.” I huff out a breath and then my turn-light goes green. “Fine, I’ll swing by Eli’s and bring you some shallots.”
    I hang up, annoyed. It’s a ploy, I know it. To get me to go to church. But it’s not gonna work. I flip a bitch and make my way over to Park Hill where my mom’s house is. Eli’s Market is a couple blocks down from us, off Colfax. Twenty minutes later I pull up to it and true to her word, Eli is standing there in the blowing snow, bag of shallots in hand. I pull up to him and roll my window down like this is a drive-up vegetable stand. “Thanks Mr. Maus,” I say as I grab the bag, simultaneously hand him a twenty, and tell him to keep the change as I roll the window back up. I have forty minutes to get back home for my pet date.
    Our street is lined with old trees that tower above the houses. Not all the houses are huge like ours. Spencer’s, for example, is just a modest four bedroom bungalow.
    Modest is not the word I’d use to describe our house. Pretentious, that’s more like it. A huge American foursquare—which is almost a contradictory statement, since foursquares are supposed to be humble. It has symmetrical windows on the first, second, and third floors, and I suspect this is why my mother wanted it. We both like orderly designs. The porch is deep and massive, spanning the entire front of the house. It has a wide, welcoming opening, and thick columns on either side of the steps that lead to the front door. It’s got seven bedrooms, six bathrooms, a carriage house where I lived for my senior year in high school, and an elaborate basement set up for dinner parties so the first floor can be used for chatting.
    It’s walled in with brick on all sides with a massive wrought iron gate that is open at the moment. There are parking attendants waving me off-property for parking, but I pull in anyway. I roll the window down and he immediately goes into his spiel about no parking in the driveway. “I live here. I’m pulling up, get out of my way.”
    Maybe my tone is a little much for a Christmas Eve party, or maybe he sees the flash of anger in my eyes—but his eyebrows go up in surprise and he moves off to the side. I pull up the driveway and park next to the kitchen door, then get out with my bag of shallots, and head inside.
    It’s like the North Pole threw up in here, that’s how fucking festive it is. People are laughing, someone is playing Christmas songs on the piano in the front room, the whole house smells like food, and the commercial kitchen is packed with cooks and servers.
    “Who needed shallots?” I call out to them.
    They stare at me, and then ignore me.
    “Right.” I set the shallots down on the counter and go find my mother. Traditionally, foursquare homes are divided into four rooms per floor, which includes the kitchen, the formal dining room, living room, and family room. Our living and family rooms have been remodeled, so it’s just one great-room. My mother is standing in front of the windows, next to a man playing the piano. In fact, she’s standing a little too close to this man playing the piano. She’s laughing down at him with a twinkle in her eye and she’s got a champagne flute in her hand.
    Could my day get any more fucked up? Since when does my mother have a boyfriend?
    Maybe if you came around more than twice a year you’d know.
    People are