Page 94 of Family Affair

He sauntered up to the group of random rich people who surveyed him with interest.

“Evening,” he slurred the word a little. It wasn’t intentional; his mouth was just too dry.

Cade gave him a sharp look, then glanced pointedly at his glass. He wanted to flip his brother a bird but instead tossed back the remaining juice like it was whiskey. Cade’s eyes narrowed. Frank smiled.

“Frank is an aspiring artist, and he is actually very good,” his father waxed eloquent. “He has interest in early pop art and even does illustrations.”

“Really?” one lady asked, her eyes alight. Her youth likely fell on the early 1960s, the emergence of pop art, so she could relate.

“I do, yes ma’am,” he said contritely. “I’m only an amateur.”

Never mind that the huge landscape of Yosemite Valley by Thomas Hill hanging majestically behind her, as diverging in its romantic tradition from the pop art as the sixties were different from the nineteenth century, was finished only last month. He had run out of one particular blue color, tried to mix up other blues to achieve the desired shade, and hadn’t been satisfied with the result. But Ward had decreed the work perfect, and that was that.

He looked at it now and all he could see was that oddly wrong-blue corner of the sky. An authentic imperfection, Ward had said. Whatever.

“And what do you do for a living, Frank?” the old lady asked.

“Not much of anything,” he smiled crookedly, perversely enjoying everybody’s surprised reaction at his admission and his father’s barely concealed annoyance.

“I see. Well, you’re young, you still have time to figure out what you want to be when you grow up,” the lady said philosophically. “Perhaps you’ll become an artist. Invent a new direction, like Andy Warhol.”

“I’m more likely to open a gallery, ma’am,” he blurted. And where did this come from? He had never considered owning a business.

His father gave him a funny look and Cade’s eyebrows arched.

Juicy Abe chose this moment to waddle to their side with Ward Williamson in tow.

“Everyone is here,” Abe exclaimed in his stupid nasal voice. “Excellent turnout, ladies and gentlemen. I am your most grateful host. Allow me to get a moment of your attention.”

He deftly positioned himself in between the party, wedging his bulk next to Frank and completely blocking the old lady from the view of the cameras.

The reporters lined up, ready to memorialize the occasion. Ward Williamson took a step forward.

“Thank you Abe, and your gallery, for hosting this event. I am honored to be here tonight, in God’s name, for a worthy cause. I am eternally grateful to the Sheffield family for their contribution that will go a long way to perpetuating our faith in Jesus Christ. Rick and his sons, Cade and Frank, are passionate about the art and are always willing to offer patronage to new and established artists. But they feel strongly about God. They’re believers. And onto the believers they give.”

Frank wanted to hurl. His headache breached the meds’ defenses and attacked with a vengeance.

When Ward was done praising the Lord and the Sheffield family, Abe gestured to the Yosemite Valley panoramic display, making sure the reporters had a clear shot at the price tag. “Ladies and gentlemen, for each purchase tonight, I’m donating ten percent of the profits to Reverend Williamson’s church. When you buy this beautiful art, you will know that your money benefits the faithful.”

A murmur of voices rippled through the crowd. The cameras flashed.

Frank placed his empty glass on the floor and wandered away.

Abe’s gallery was nothing more than a money laundering scheme, yet stubbornly, Ward forced Father and Abe to share some money with the church, and even though Rick complained, he complied. But even that one good deed was spun to generate positive publicity and attract more buyers. Truly, everything was for sale.

Frank wanted to leave.

Suddenly, one of the reporters materialized by his side, a tall skinny fellow with overlong greasy hair.

“Frank Sheffield?”

“Who wants to know?” He wasn’t in the mood to talk. His hands started shaking again, a sign that even after five full days of sobriety, he wasn’t done detoxing.

“Stevie Stark, reporter.”

“Huh. Never heard of you. What agency are you with, again?”

“I work freelance.”