Traffick (38 page)

as Dad used to say. Damn. I miss it,

and I also miss the family gathered

at Aunt Kate's—cousins and in-laws,

and little kids, laughing and arguing

and jostling around. Everyone seems

welcoming, either because they don't

know or care I'm gay, or maybe they

just feel sorry for me. Doesn't matter.

They suck me right into the midst

of them, and today that is necessary.

Aunt Kate chose to roast a huge prime

rib. It was his absolute favorite. She's even

fixed it just the way he liked, with a rock

salt and cracked peppercorn coating. As it

finishes, filling the house with its heavenly

scent, the men find a game to watch while

the women play a rousing game of euchre

and the kids entertain themselves. When Kate

goes to check the meat's progress, I follow

her into the oven warmth and quiet.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask, watching

her set the roasting pan on the granite

countertop.
I think I've got things under

control, thanks.
She turns toward me,

grinning.
You know, considering how much

you always liked to cook with your dad,

I kind of thought you might wind up a chef

in some fancy restaurant or something.

“I've actually been considering culinary

school. But now . . .” I think about the farm—

about the sparring emotions coming home

initiated. Home. I'm here. But can I stay?

“Aunt Kate? Did Dad tell you why I left?

I mean, did he tell you . . . about me?”

She inserts a digital thermometer into

the heart of the prime rib.
About you?

Not sure if she's distracted or acting

coy. But I have to know. “Did Dad tell

you he kicked me out because I quote-

unquote chose the path to damnation?”

I thought I was cried out, but I was wrong.

The room sways slightly. “Did he tell you

he wouldn't talk to me or let me come

home until I decided I'm not . . . not . . .”

Gay?
She turns to face me.
No, Seth.

Bud didn't tell me. He was a private

man and held everything close. But I

knew. I've known for a very long time.

I want to talk more, but now we hear

a volley of rapid-fire questions beyond

the door:
How's that meat coming?

Are we going to eat soon? Should

someone set the table? Did Kate

make eggnog? Hey. Where did Seth go?

I'll finish the conversation with

a question of my own. “If you can

accept me, why couldn't Dad?

Now we'll never get the chance—”

Oh, there you are!
Uncle Dan comes

looking for us.
Everything okay?

Just fine,
says Aunt Kate.
The meat's

resting for ten, then I'll ask you to carve.

Sure thing. Smells mighty fine. I'll go

let everyone know it's almost time.

Kate waits till he's gone.
Try not to fret.

I've got something for you later. Now, here.

She hands me a platter of baked potatoes,

and I carry them to the dining room table.

I don't care if I look like I've been crying.

A dead dad at Christmas gives me the right.

Aunt Kate pulls me down the hall,

into her room. She lifts an envelope

off her dresser.
I picked up Bud's stuff

from the hospital, and this was in it.

I'm not sure when he found the time

or energy. I'll leave you alone with it.

It's a note to me from Dad, written

in a shaky hand, barely legible.

Dear Seth, I wish I could say this face-to-face,

but I don't think I'm gonna make it. I wouldn't

mind dying so much except for a couple of things.

One is the farm. Without you there, I'm scared

of what will become of it. I don't want it to fall

into bad hands. See to it that doesn't happen.

The other is you, son. I'm a stubborn fool, and

I let my pride get in the way of loving you without

conditions, as God would have me do. Please forgive

me, and I pray the Lord forgives me, too. Just know,

despite the harsh words, I never stopped loving you,

though it took this to see it. I promise, if God allows,

I'll always stay close to you. All my worldly

possessions belong to you now, including this:

Guess Dad approves of my culinary

ambitions. I reread the note ten or twelve

times, etching his words into my heart.

I need time to think. I call for Ralph,

bid adieu to the family. Snowflakes dance

in the headlights as we maneuver the icy

road to the farm. Home. Suddenly, I understand

I can't go back to Vegas. Not sure I'm cut

out to be a full-time farmer. But maybe

I can hire outside help, keep the old place

in good hands. I still want to go to school,

but I bet I can find a good program in

Louisville and commute. Memories, good

and bad, linger in that city, but that's where

I first found my community, and I can always

tap into that there. Community leads me to

Pippa, who I adore, and Micah, whom I love.

Neither belongs in rural Indiana, but maybe

I can convince them to give Louisville a try.

If not, I'll weather the loss and move on.

I want to. I really do want

to turn my back on yesterday,

leapfrog today, into

tomorrow,

but how is that possible,

tethered by fear? People keep

asking what I'm frightened

of. The real question

is

what doesn't trouble me?

I'm scared I can't escape

the legacy of turning tricks,

that too much filth and

too

little affection will forever

define my relationships.

I'm afraid I've deviated so

far

from decency that I'll never

again deserve respect,

let alone a full measure

of love, and keep pushing it

away.

I'm terrified that faces

will float from the past,

into the present, and there

will be no place to hide.

Left to right, the Lang family

totally defines dysfunction. I mean,

after everything that happened

yesterday, the sun rises and everyone

pretends it's just another Christmas.

Mom wanted to drive me straight

back to rehab, but I managed to persuade

her to bring me home, and let me mend

my mind via outpatient therapy.

I built a strong three-pronged argument.

One: I need to rely on my family

to follow through with treatment.

Two: Inpatient care costs a whole

lot more. And three: They'd be closed

for Christmas anyway.

Okay, the last one is weak, but

the other two swayed her, or maybe

it was her feeling guilty about Kyra

unwrapping presents while I was locked

away. So home we came, and with a stop

for dinner, we arrived before Santa.

Lang tradition dictates no presents go

under the tree until Christmas Eve,

which made sense when Kyra and

I were little. Not so much after

we knew what was what, but Mom

has always insisted on it anyway.

So this morning we wake up,

grab coffee, and collect ourselves

at the tree, where someone-not-Santa

has deposited presents sometime

between midnight and dawn.

Quaint tradition, but it put a strange

slant to the big picture. Whatever.

I'll just try to embrace the weirdness.

I don't have presents for anyone,

and truthfully, I am surprised to

find gifts for me. As usual, Mom

gives Kyra and me clothes. She loves

to shop, and building our wardrobes

gives her pleasure. I don't think she realizes

how much weight I've lost. She's bought

me last year's size six, and everything

from jeans to sweaters will be baggy.

That's fine. I'm not into “tight” at

the moment, and won't be for a while.

From Dad, an iPad for each of us,

and a Mac Air for Mom. He's all

about Apple, from his phone to

his computer, and probably gets

volume discounts. Kyra gives me

a purse. Coach, of course, maroon

leather, and way too big. It will

swallow the few things I carry.

The four of us, yes, including Dad,

go to work on dinner. I can't

remember
ever
doing something

as family-wholesome as that.

Mom assigns jobs. Kyra, of course,

is responsible for the plum pudding.

Dad volunteers to do the pumpkin

pie, which only scares me a little.

And, no surprise, I get to do

the gingerbread while Mom takes

charge of everything else.

The kitchen feels claustrophobic,

and a few seconds of panic set

in. But when I try to explain,

rather than let me get some fresh

air, Mom is adamant that I stay.

Sit at the table and take deep

breaths. We're doing this as

a cohesive unit. I realize that's

new for us all, but I can't see

another way to keep us together,

and I refuse to let us fall apart.

I have no idea what's gotten into

her, except maybe it has everything

to do with almost losing me, not

once, but twice. Turns out, she had

GPS tracking installed on my phone.

Just in case. And that proved provident.

Was passed down on our trip

home last night, when I asked

how the cops knew where to find me.

You didn't think we'd take

a chance on you disappearing

again, did you?
Mom asked.

You do realize technology

makes tracking people relatively

easy these days?
interjected Dad.

So then they gave me the lowdown

on GPS tracking, and made it very

clear that if they are paying my cell phone

bill, I can expect they will know

where I am anytime they need to.

But there's more to this story,

the surprising plot twist if this were

a novel. Mom shared this part on the way

home, too. I haven't as yet approached

Kyra, asked about motive. I'll wait until

her plum pudding is steaming.

Who knew that's how you make plum

pudding? Who knew the absolute best

plum pudding begins a year in advance?

She only started a couple of days ago,

so tonight's will be decent. Then, I bet,

she'll go straight to work on next

Christmas's, and it will be perfect.

Because Kyra will make damn

sure to improve. That's my sister.

As this part of the story goes,

she was putting together the fruits,

spices, and cognac that went into

her plum pudding when Mom

dropped me off at the mall,

where Bryn lay in waiting

like the predator he is.

She was missing an ingredient

and wanted to call Mom to pick

it up, but her phone was dead,

and she'd left her charger back

at school, so she went into my

room to look for mine.

I guess I'd dropped Bryn's business

card on the floor the night I found

it in my pocket. Kyra discovered

it, and something about the Perfect

Poses Photography logo sparked.

When Mom couldn't find me at

the mall, it clicked into place and

was an important piece of the puzzle

when Mom reported me missing.

With the pudding steaming nicely,

she excuses herself and goes into

the other room. I follow. “Kyra?

Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She flops on the sofa, signals

for me to join her.
Guess so.

“Why did you show Mom Bryn's

card? You didn't have to, and I'd

be back in Vegas, out of your hair.”

She squints, and her forehead

creases.
What? Like I wouldn't

show it to her? Whitney, you piss

me off regularly, and there are

things about you I don't get at

all. This last little “adventure,”

for instance. Just . . . why? You've

got so much potential. Why are

you so intent on throwing it away?

“I . . . I don't know. I guess

I never thought anyone cared.”

We all care! Look, just because

none of us is the huggy-kissy type

doesn't mean we don't love you.