Remembering Christmas (9 page)

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Authors: Drew Ferguson

BOOK: Remembering Christmas
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He jumped up and bolted from the room, returning with a guitar and sheet music.
“You're lucky. I've got a score, but it's arranged for a guitar quartet. A bunch of us whore ourselves out, doing crap like Sunday brunches at the Ritz. We don't even have to practice since no one really listens. They'd rather eat waffles and get shit-faced on mimosas. Hang on. It's gonna take me a minute to work this out.”
He screwed his face into a pantomime of concentration as he studied the notes on the page, muttering instructions to himself. He ran his long, tapered fingers through his thick hair and announced he'd figured out how to play this solo. No promises, he said, but he was sure he could do a pretty decent job.
“Close your eyes and think of a full orchestra,” he said, his voice brimming with quiet confidence. He tweaked the tuners and, finally satisfied, began to play.
The intensity of his focus, the power of his concentration was astonishing and unexpected. Only a brief moment ago he'd been a boy, awkward and eager to impress. His poise and command of his instrument was intimidating. His mastery of the neck was complete as his fingers coaxed a chorus of voices from the six strings.
“So? What do you think?” he asked, as the final note faded, seeking a sign of approval.
The question left James mystified and feeling inadequate, since any words of praise would seem facile, patronizing.
“But can you play ‘Blue Christmas'?” he asked, retreating to the comfort zone where sarcasm was a brittle shield and a wry retort the best defense.
Jason smiled and strummed a few open chords as he sang the familiar lyrics. He didn't try any humorous attempts at Elvis-like vocal pyrotechnics, no campy gulps and throbs. His simple, sincere voice, direct and unaffected, was steeped in the all-toofamiliar soul-crushing loneliness of a boy who feared he'd never be loved.
He played until long after midnight and, when it was finally time for bed, he sprawled on the sofa beside James, folding himself into the long crevices of James's body and gripping his hand through the night. James dozed in fits, never yielding to an aching arm or twisted knee lest he wake the boy. The man who longed to fall asleep beside a beating heart refused to yield to the sandman, knowing daybreak would arrive much too quickly, bringing this brief and unexpected interlude of peaceful contentment to its inevitable end.
The overnight accumulation measured an additional eleven inches. The Prevics, however, were undaunted by the challenge, and James, in his borrowed work gloves and boots, grabbed a shovel to aid in the cause. Mother and son took the wheels of their respective pickups and, working in perfect tandem, quickly plowed the long drive down the hill to the state highway. James and Wendy followed behind them on foot, clearing any residual clumps of frozen snow and ice scattered along the way.
Kay was in good spirits, promising a good, hot breakfast, though she was clearly distressed when Wendy insisted on soaking her Bisquick short stack with a half bottle of Log Cabin. James, unused to any physical labor other than moving heavy weights on the floor of his expensive gym, was convinced that muscle aches and pains from his strenuous efforts had already commenced. Jason was clearly nervous, making silly jokes and teasing his mother, trying to find some plausible excuse to postpone driving James back to Breezewood.
“Thank you very much for allowing me to share your Christmas in your home,” James said, as he finished drying the breakfast dishes, knowing the time for good-byes had arrived.
“It was our pleasure, Jimmy,” Kay said, with great sincerity and polite formality. James realized it was the first time since their introduction she had called him by his name. “Our Jason gets awfully lonely with no one but two old women for company, so I am very glad you could join us.”
Some strange little beast was stirring in James's chest, whispering that maybe he could stay another night, or two. In the scheme of a lifetime, forty-eight hours was nothing.
“Wendy!” Kay shouted. “I'm leaving for the restaurant now. I got a sneaking suspicion that miserable little Mexican fry cook is still sleeping off his
Feliz Navidad
and I'm gonna be the kitchen for the lunch shift. You get your ass down there by three for the dinner shift. Where the hell did Jason go? Wendy, you tell him to be at work by eleven if he knows what's good for him.”
“I'm here, Ma. I had to go look for something,” he announced, clearly trying to hide whatever he had stuffed in the deep pocket of his coat.
“You run Jimmy over to where he's staying and hightail it over to the restaurant. I'm depending on you this morning.”
A blizzard that would have paralyzed New York for three days hadn't inconvenienced the Prevics for more than an hour. Kay's truck bounced down the driveway and disappeared, hidden from sight by the towering banks of snow.
“You have any drugs on you?” Jason snickered, nodding at Wendy who was preoccupied with stacking the clean dishes in the cupboard. “Something that would knock her out so we can make out before I drive you back.”
James laughed and ran his fingers through his dirty hair, still damp from sweating in his stocking cap.
“Jason, you take your friend upstairs and get him some dry socks before you drive him back to town. Them boots you loaned him was too big, and I know his feet must be soaking wet.”
Jason beamed at his unexpected good fortune, this twist of fate in the form of a command to accompany James to a far corner of the house away from curious eyes and sensitive ears.
It was a standard issue boy's room, with a bed that likely had gone unmade since he'd arrived home from Boston and laundry scattered across the room. James assumed the clothes tossed on the floor were dirty and the ones piled on bureau and the bed were waiting to be folded. There were faded posters of Hendrix and Clapton and a newer one of the great Steeler Jerome Bettis on his walls. Jason brushed a stack of boxer shorts off the mattress so James could sit on the bed and found a pair of white tube socks, presumably clean, the type that come three pairs to a package, in his dresser drawer. James was sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot, when Jason plopped down beside him and gave him an awkward kiss.
It was most definitely a boy's kiss, tentative, lacking confidence, with a shyness James hadn't tasted in years. Jason's mouth didn't resist James's tongue, and he whimpered softly as James took control and gently rolled him onto his back. But a loud creaking bedspring snapped James to attention, and he jumped to his feet, certain that Wendy would be charging up the stairs and that he was about to find himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
“I'll come stay with you tonight. In your motel. Just you and me,” Jason said, looking impossibly young.
James knew he was likely to be stranded another day or two. The truck stop ogre was certain to have to order parts if not from Germany, then at least from a dealer in Pittsburgh. Twenty-fourhour delivery was the best case scenario, meaning James would be spending at least one more night before continuing his journey.
“We'll see,” he said, doubting the wisdom of entertaining a young overnight guest in his Bollywood Ho Jo.
“Jason, you better get your ass in gear or your mother's gonna be really pissed off!” Wendy shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
Jason wasn't very talkative on the drive back to town. The silence made James uneasy, so he tried to make small talk about annual snowfall in the county and the incredible efficiency of the local plowing crews. He felt guilty, remembering how easy it was to break an inexperienced heart. Jason was a bright, perceptive boy and already knew James's answer. The innocent kiss in the bedroom was as far as James was going to go. James smiled, predicting the complete scenario. Today, tonight, Jason would feel as if his world had ended, that his one and only opportunity for true love and happiness had been lost forever, believing with all his heart that a feeling this rare and special could never, would never, repeat itself. And, in the darkest hours of the night, when it seemed the sun would never rise again, he would pick up his guitar and force it to sing a sad and lonely song, causing his mother, lying in bed with Wendy down the hall, to curse the callow stranger who had caused her baby such misery and pain. But, come morning, bright light streaming through his window, Jason would jump out of bed, eager to greet another day, forgetting for a moment that he was mourning his great, lost love. Resuming the requiem, he would trudge downstairs and mope into his oatmeal, utterly morose until Wendy, as usual, did something silly and he couldn't help laughing, and, soon enough, a week would have passed and he wouldn't be able to remember the color of James's eyes.
James's phone rang, the battery low from being left uncharged all night. The mechanic's news was brief and completely unexpected. The repair was done, and James could pick up the car whenever he liked. It was the alternator, an easy enough part to get from the dealer in Bedford.
“You can just drop me off at the garage,” he told Jason. “I'll be fine from there.”
It was awkward, saying good-bye, knowing they were unlikely to meet again. Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, making fists, trying not to cry and not succeeding.
“Can I e-mail you?” he asked.
“Of course. That's why I gave you my address.”
“Here, this is for you,” he said, pulling a CD from his pocket. “It's just okay. There are a few mistakes. Some of it's pretty good,” he said, shyly.
James thanked him for the gift, grateful he would be spared being scrutinized by Jason's eager face as he listened to his clumsy, heartfelt love songs.
“It's Bach. Arranged for guitar.”
Jason threw his arms around him and kissed him on the mouth, then turned and ran back to his truck. James turned to face the mechanic, expecting his wrath and fury. But the ogre merely handed him the bill and took his credit card, knowing to keep any unpleasant thoughts to himself, the man obviously smarter than he looked and wise enough not to incur the wrath of the proprietress of the KOZY KORNER, the best place in town to EAT.
 
Little Carol Ann's inaugural Christmas had been, of course, a disaster of Titanic proportions, forcing the overwhelmed bride to take to her bed sobbing when an overflowing toilet caused the dining room ceiling to collapse on her Perfect Holiday Table.
“Tragic, just tragic,” James's mother declared in the most solemn of tones. “I just don't know if that poor child is ever going to recover from that catastrophe. You stop laughing, Jimmy, because it is not in the least bit funny.”
James, of course, completely disagreed and was delighted by the thought of his hysterical niece, a young lady as histrionic as the most flamboyant Fire Island drama queen, pounding her mattress with her tight little fists and kicking the headboard with her tiny feet.
“Why don't you go find some nice Christmas music to listen to while we have our drinks in the living room?”
Adele Hoffmann had suffered through enough Bach arranged for guitar for one afternoon and was longing for more seasonal offerings from Bing and Elvis.
“Roy and his mama have been listening to ‘White Christmas' at the mall since October. Maybe they want to hear something different.”
“Jimmy, stop trying my patience. I'm already nervous enough without your getting me all worked up over nothing. Now take this out to the coffee table.”
He carried her carefully arranged cheese board of Kroger's extra sharp cheddar and mild goat cheese to the living room, where he plopped into an easy chair and took his phone from his pocket, resisting the urge to place a call to Kay's Kozy Korner and ask to speak to the bartender.
“Jumping Jiminy, here they are, ringing the bell, and I'm not the least bit prepared!” his mother fretted, calling out from the kitchen. “Jimmy, go answer the door.”
He knew his mother was sneaking a quick sip of white wine in the kitchen, anxious despite her perfect preparations: the roast in the oven perfectly timed to be served at precisely seven-thirty; the specialty of the house, her Green Goddess dressing, chilling in the refrigerator; a lovely frosted layer cake waiting to be served.

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