The Bropeachment

“We need to arrange a family meeting,” Mom declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. She set about calling and texting our relatives, inviting them to come to our place. Blessed with a commanding presence, combined with the intellectual heft of a well-trained lawyer, people tended to do what she asked. I had to track down Jason, who had moved into the UW dorm last year, and talk him into attending.

On Sunday, all my aunts and uncles sat around our living room, sipping their diet sodas and glasses of white wine, and trying to figure out what to talk about before mom started her big deal.

The front door buzzed, and in walked my older brother Jason, carrying a huge bucket of chicken fingers with a side of coleslaw. “What’s up, Mom? I got us some takeout from downtown.”

“Thanks, Jason.” Mom pointed to the coffee table, where the rest of the food was already laid out.

Jason set his food down, and flung his body into the remaining unoccupied chair. “Hey Uncle Jake, Aunt Beth…” He greeted each of our relatives by name. No one responded with more than a nod. Jason shrugged, and reached out to grab a handful of mixed nuts.

“Have a seat, Jason,“ Mom said, giving him permission to sit, retroactively. “We’re about to have a vote on whether to remove you from this family.”

He blinked, twice. Jason scanned our gathered family, bewildered, as if searching his memory for what he had done wrong. “Is this a joke? Am I being pranked for YouTube?” He checked for anyone filming, but Mom had told everyone to put away their mobiles before her. “Is this an intervention? I don’t take drugs, I barely drink.”

 Aunt Beth, the peacemaker of the family, fidgeted nervously. She was prone to nervous chatter. “Isn’t it interesting these days how young men–”   

“— Shhh,” Mom shushed. 

The force of Mom’s shush was enough to induce my other aunts and uncles to sit back in their chairs. 

My grandparents were there too, sitting behind everyone else, halfway into the kitchen. They looked on rather disapprovingly. They might, or might not have disagreed with this meeting, but they lacked the energy to do anything about it. Grandpa’s diabetes had taken a toll, and he barely had the energy to pull himself upright lately.

“Firstly, Jason needs to admit to his wrongdoing,” Mom declared, arms crossed defiantly. “He must admit to his crime.”

“Crime? What crime?” Jason stammered, clearly bewildered.

“Abetting a crime is a crime.” 

Jason looked utterly confused. “Was it the time I nearly ran over the cat with the lawnmower?” Jason looked around at everyone. “The cat did jump out of the way.” He looked at me for a clue if he was on the right track, but I had nothing to offer. Jason continued, “I know. Is this about, when I was ten minutes late to pickup Emily at the airport?”

Mom shook her head. The increasing dip of her chin revealed an ever-growing dissatisfaction with my older brother, as he listed his own misdemeanors.

A realization hit me. 

“This is a bro-peachment!” I said. “I remember seeing this on TikTok.” 

Mom gave me a look as if I had just said something utterly preposterous, and below the dignity of our family. 

Mom herself upright in her chair, and said, “I regret to inform you all the Jason, in the US election, voted for that man,” Mom hissed the final two words. She wouldn’t allow herself to even say his name. 

“How do you know?” Jason blurted out. 

Those assembled quickly assumed Jason’s rhetorical question to be a confession of guilt. My aunts and uncles mumbled the words “shameful” “disgusting” “outrageous”. I was too young to vote, and couldn’t understand why middle-aged people would become so emotional about politics. And we live in Wisconsin, and not on the East Coast or anything.

“How could you do such a thing?!” Mom demanded, her voice growing louder, like a TV lawyer giving a closing argument.

Jason bit his lip, at last showing some genuine worry about what Mom was driving at. “I just pushed a button. Honestly, I went with Brad and didn’t think about it much.”

Mom stared silently, a maternal death sentence spelled out in her scrunched, squinting eyes.

“You always said I should do my civic duty, and vote,” Jason pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice.

“For three generations, this family has supported a single political party. I don’t think we have anything more to discuss.”

In the middle of this tense debate, Dad slithered into the room. He had slipped out just as Mom was getting started. He spoke in a soft, fatherly tone, “You won’t stop being who you are, if you are no longer a member of this family, Jason.” 

Mom couldn’t hush her own husband, so she tapped her fingers until a polite interval of time had elapsed. “Now that your father has had his say,” she said, “Let’s get down to making a family decision. By a show of hands, we will vote on whether Jason will no longer be part of this family.” 

A deathly still fell over the room. 

A wave of fear washed over me. I imagined life without my brother, or me having to sneak around like a criminal just to see him. Our living room was so quiet I could hear the creaking of the furniture and my heart pounding in my ears. No one wanted to go fist.

A loud thud resonated through the room. It took us a few seconds to realize that Grandpa had fallen off his chair.

Mom rushed over, grandma stooped down. Grandpa had died, just like that. The stress of his grandson’s trial was too much for him.

Then, I noticed his eyes were still open a sliver. He looked at Grandma and said weakly, “Hon, there’s a secret I’ve been keeping from you all these years. I’m sorry.”

Grandma’s face was filled with worry. “What is it, Stan?”

“But, I don’t want to ruin all our happy years together.”

“Just tell me.”

Grandpa, panic in his eyes, said, “In 1972, I voted for Nixon.” 

Grandma’s face turned crimson red. Her face lit up with the political passion of her youth. If her legs weren’t hobbled, she likely would have stomped her foot on the ground hard enough to make the house shake. 

“How could you?” she hissed. Despite grandma laying sideways down on the floor, she began to summarize key details about the 1972 election, seemingly, half for him, and half for us.

Her voice was loud and clear, she almost sounded like Mom. “In ‘72, remember, Shirley Chisholm was the first black woman running for president. McGovern wanted to give everyone a living wage. And George Wallace would have won if he hadn’t been shot during the primaries,” she said. “Amid all of that, you voted for Nixon, a lying criminal? I am getting a divorce!” 

The flicker went out in Grandpa’s eyes. His eyelids drooped down, and his body went limp. 

Mom rushed to Grandpa’s travel bag. She took something small out and handed it to Grandma. Grandma unwrapped a butterscotch candy and put it into Grandpa’s mouth. Slowly, ever so slowly, he returned to consciousness. We all breathed a sigh of relief, and she held his hand. “Low blood sugar,” she explained to me. 

Uncle John helped him get back into his chair, and sat next to him to make sure he didn’t slip out again.

No one knew what to say for a while. I checked Wikipedia, then decided to chime in. “If Grandpa voted for McGovern in 1972, I don’t think it would have altered the election. Or really have changed anything today.” 

Mom ignored my update and shuffled off to the kitchen. She busied herself with brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Perhaps she was contemplating what expelling Grandpa from the family would mean to her. 

When she returned, Mom served everyone a drink, and last, handed Jason a cup of coffee and said, without looking at anyone in particular, “I think we’ve had enough politics today.” Her voice was returning, to its normal cheerful tenor, and she asked, “Who has been to that new restaurant on the corner of 45th and Layton?”

Uncle Mike chimed in, he had been there on opening night. Suddenly the room was filled with spirited chatter about where to eat the best Friday fish fry and Sunday Roast Beef, talk about cousin Liz’s late shifts at the hospital, and Jason’s classes at university. Uncle John gave us am update about his backyard rabbit hutch, a new hobby of his, and Grandma told us about her book club and her new recipe for low-carb potato salad packed with celery and radish. I ate half of the bucket of chicken tenders, and couldn't wait until I could return to my computer game, but, of course, Mom was keeping an eye on me.