It was a relatively uneventful Sunday, capped off by some mindless TV watching in the evening. My husband and I had tuned in to “Mad Men,” a new series about advertising executives in the 1960s.
On this particular episode, the leading man was surprisingly confronted by his now-grown-up Little Brother, who apparently to that point thought Big Brother was dead. All details are never revealed at once, of course (otherwise we wouldn't tune in next week!), so I can’t say WHY the leading man faked his own death to his family. All we know is, he didn’t want to be found and needs Little Brother to forget about seeing him now.
Little Brother sent a note to Big Brother like “If you change your mind and want to get to know me, I’m at this hotel.” Music turned ominous at this point as Big Brother in his corner office lit up a smoke, poured a drink, and retrieved something from a locked desk drawer. A quick phone call to Little Brother and he was on his way for a sibling rendezvous.
At this juncture, my husband remarked “Well, he’s got to kill him now.” He took a sip of his Diet Coke, but offered nothing else.
“What?!” I said, shocked.
“Sure, he’s got to kill him. It’s the only way.” Another sip.
The show came back from the commercial and I watched both Big Brother and my sinister husband. The siblings talked but clearly there would be no family reunion (in this episode at least). Big Brother reached into his briefcase and pulled out…$5000 dollars for the “payoff” for Little Brother to leave town and never look for him again.
“Well?” I asked my husband.
“Oh, I guess that’s another way of handling it,” he answered drily. Another sip, and that was it.