Arthur
Arthur rolled over, pressing his pillow over his face, trying futilely to block out the riotous noises emanating from the party downstairs. His parents were away for the weekend, which translated into a 36 hour party, and Arthur locking his door and hiding in his room. He hated all Joey's drunken friends and their drunken parties. The only thing he hated more was Joey's gambling.
A huge CRASH! from downstairs made Arthur jump. He could hear more laughter. Mom and Dad were going to be furious. Arthur couldn't count the number of times they had had shouting matches with Joey about his behavior. The problem was that there was nothing they could take away from him. Joey had his own money source, which his parents had still not been able to identify. He had his own car, and did all his own chores. He still maintaining straight A's in school, and he was still the only baby-sitting Arthur would accept. This was because, despite all of Joey's short-comings and wild friends, he was the only person in the world who didn't treat Arthur like a nine-year-old, didn't patronize him or sugarcoat things.
But at times like this, Arthur thought, when Joey was out of control, he felt much more on his parents' side, and wished that Joey would come to his senses.
Suddenly, Arthur became aware of footsteps climbing the stairs. He tensed, and curled closer to the wall, wrapping his comforter protectively around himself. His door was locked. Any drunk couple looking to mess around in a free room would soon be deterred after a few tries on the handle. But these footsteps didn't sound drunk. They were slow and even, and belonged to only one person. The handle clicked, and the door swung inward, slicing the room's darkness with the bright yellow of the hall lights.
"Hey, Arthur," said Joey softly, his voice barely audible over the loud thumping music and wild shouts.
Arthur felt a sudden surge of anger at his brother, and didn't reply.
After a moment, Joey said, "I know you're awake. You're holding your breath."
Arthur sighed and pushed his covers away from his head, glaring up at Joey, who smiled. "Sorry about the noise."
Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Joey, you're every Ivy League schools' ideal student. Why do you waste your time with bacchanals like these? I doubt ninety-five percent of the people downstairs even know what bacchanal means."
"I've always treated you like an adult, haven't I?" said Joey.
Arthur nodded grudgingly.
"But there are still some things, genius as you are, that you don't understand. I'm doing this for you, for your future."
"You deliberately piss off Mom and Dad and have obnoxious parties so that I'll have a good life?"
"Something like that," said Joey. "Come on, don't be mad. Tomorrow, I'll make it up to you. We'll play cards."
Arthur gave a reluctant smile.
Joey held up a translucent red die. "What's the first rule about rigging a game?"
"Don't get caught?"
"Don't get cocky," Joey corrected. "A con only lasts as long as you can sell it. And if you bet thou on sevens every turn, people will get suspicious. So you stay smart, and play it safe."
Arthur nodded.
"Good." Joey reached for a small rectangular package. "Cards."
Neither had ever really said it in so many words, but both brothers knew that the other was really the only one who understood him. Arthur was smart far beyond his years, but unlike other prodigies, whose talents alienated them from others, he'd learned exceptionally fast not to call attention to his. Joey was the only person around whom Arthur could be himself.
And likewise, Joey spent so much time around people the intellectual equivalents of cavemen, as he called them, pretending to be as drunk and crazy as the rest, when in fact he, too, was quite intelligent. So every opportunity they got, Arthur and Joey challenged each other in intellect. Like counting cards. And Arthur was very good.
"What's the count?" Joey asked a ten-almost-eleven-year-old Arthur.
"Plus sixteen," said Arthur without missing a beat. It was three days before Arthur's eleventh birthday, and four before Joey left for Belgium. He'd told their parents it was to got to a young entrepreneurs' conference, but Arthur knew that he'd been offered a position as junior book keeper and financier for Jacques Maurnier, the head mob boss in Western Europe. Or, as Joey corrected Arthur every time he said mob boss, the main "director of disreputable activities." "Or mob boss," Arthur would shoot back, and Joey would concede, "Or mob boss."
It was a tribute to how well Arthur had learned to suppress his emotions that he had not let on how upset he was about this arrangement. The plan was for Joey to stay in Brussels for a preliminary week, during which he was be rigorously tested and background-checked. If he was unsatisfactory, they'd send him back to continue on with his life as though nothing had happened. But if he passed, as Arthur knew he would, his parents would be informed by the Belgian police of a tragic accident, and their son's death. They would receive a box of his ashes.
At the same time, as pre-arranged by one of Joey's many contacts, Arthur would take out a subscription to National Geographic.
His parents never even questioned Arthur's sudden interest in the wonders of ancient Guinea, or in the mountain men of Caucasus. They agreed that it would be a good interest for Arthur, something to occupy his mind.
It had been two months since the funeral, two months of "heartfelt sympathy" and nervous looks from friends and family, as though they thought Arthur's parents might shatter like porcelain dolls at any moment. It was annoying for Arthur, but he knew his parents were close to breaking. And he had no intention of opening up to them, for both his mother and father seemed to think that he was the most fragile of all, and had taken to asking gently "how he was" in five minute increments. Arthur had begun to spend nearly all of his time in his room, hiding from their concern behind his locked door.
Arthur raced home from the bus stop on a Friday afternoon and yanked open the mail box. He'd been waiting all week for this day. And there it was. the yellow-edged, glossy cover of National Geographic, depicting some photograph of a bioluminescent fish. Arthur ripped open the plastic sleeve and flipped hurriedly to page 168. There lay a folded piece of paper. Arthur pulled it open. it was full of Joey's handwriting.
Hands trembling with excitement, he quickly folded it back up, stuck it back in the magazine, and ran inside.
All readers and reviews appreciated. There will be more for both Arthur and Ariadne. And I have Eames. Any suggestions for Cobb and Yusuf and anyone else you'd like to see are more than welcome. Peaces for the Reeses.
-esking
