by Will Walton
“Well, Tretch,” he says, “I wish I was gonna be able to go get the tree with you guys.”
“Yeah,” I say, sliding from the passenger seat. “It’s no big.”
I almost add something like There’s always next year, anyways, but then I remember: college. I don’t know what Joe will be around for next year.
“But you and Dad have fun,” he tells me.
I start to get out of the car, but Joe interrupts me with one more thing. “Oh, and, Tretch—thanks for telling me about … you know.”
I look him in the eye. “Thanks for … well, thanks for being so cool.”
Joe nods, and a beat goes by where we don’t say anything.
I snap my fingers. “Ooh—I just remembered. Did you and Melissa see the meteor shower last night? It was suuuuper romantic.”
Joe snorts and shakes his head. “You are the biggest doofus, you know that?”
“Proudly,” I say. Then I shut the door to the Chevy and walk up the driveway to the house. When I get there, the door swings open. Dad steps out and nods at me quickly.
“Where’s Joe going?” he asks. I notice the red rash on his neck. It doesn’t look bad today, not as bad as yesterday. Maybe his stress has shrunk a little.
“Melissa’s,” I answer. “He wants to tell her bye.”
“He get your mom a present?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s not going to pick out the tree with us?”
“I—” I turn around, like I expect Joe to be pulling back up the driveway after changing his mind. “I don’t think so, Dad.”
Dad looks hard down the driveway. It’s a stare I know Joe has to feel, even though he’s probably to the end of Watercress Road by now. “Welp,” Dad says, “guess it’s just me and you, then.” He starts down the front porch steps.
“Okay,” I say. “I just gotta put—” The Charlie’s Angels DVD collection is tucked inside my jacket. I wanted to sneak it in without Mom knowing and hide it under my bed.
“Don’t go in there,” Dad warns. “Your mom’s ticked.”
“About what?”
Dad shrugs.
“Oh,” I say. “Well, okay.” I follow him down the porch steps, and he disappears into the garage. I look across the street and spot Spooky’s tail waving from the Whips’ front lawn.
“Nasty old cat,” I say.
“Here, Tretch, hold on to this, will you?” Dad pushes a long handsaw into my hands. “Hold it tight.” He opens the passenger door to the Honda Accord for me, and I slide in.
“Okay.”
The saw remains on my lap the whole trip. For the duration, I live in fear of what would happen if we stopped short. Finally, we pass a sign that reads, HUCKABEE’S TREES: CUT ’EM YOURSELF AND IT’S FREE! 3 MILES.
“Can’t beat Huckabee’s,” I say in my local-country-TV-commercial voice.
“That kind of business could only ever work in a small town,” Dad grunts. “And it won’t work that way much longer. Not even in small towns like Warmouth.”
I try balancing the saw between my legs. It makes an eerie, wobbly sound every time Dad turns the wheel.
“So what was up with Mom?” I ask.
Dad scratches his neck. “Just all this holiday stuff. Trying to get presents for everyone and all that.” He tugs at his collar, revealing more irritated skin. “She’s trying to figure out what we’re going to get the Handels, for Christ’s—uh, for crying out loud.”
“Why do we have to get the Handels anything?”
“Exactly!” Dad blurts. Then he calms down. “I mean, I get it. I get why it’s important to your mom. After all, Mariana was—”
“Her best friend.”
“Right. Which reminds me—you remember that vase that used to sit on the coffee table in the living room?”
Oh, God. I gulp. “Yes, sir.”
“Any idea where that went? It’s not there anymore. Your mom was wondering about it today.”
“Beats me.” Since I never lie, he believes me. Or at least it looks like he believes me.
“Well, she was asking about it.” Dad clears his throat. “You know, that was the gift Tim gave us the first Christmas after Mariana died.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know.
“Yeah.” He looks straight ahead, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the Christmas song on the radio. “Ha.”
“What?”
Dad shakes his head. “I guess, now that I think about it—it’s really all because of that Christmas that we even still exchange gifts with the Handels.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Tim and I never exchanged a gift between the two of us our whole lives. I mean, I’m sure Mom and Mariana did. Girls care about that stuff. But Tim brought that vase over the day after Christmas the year Mariana passed away. She died in September. I don’t know if you remember—”
That frozen image pops back into my mind. “I only remember a little bit,” I say.
“Yeah, well, Tim brought that vase over the day after Christmas. It had a ribbon wrapped around it and everything, and he said, ‘Can you believe I almost forgot? Mariana would have killed me.’ He had Bobby with him. Gosh, how old were you guys then?”
“Five.”
“Yeah, poor kid. He was so little. I don’t even think he understood—”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” I say. And, for a second, I try to picture life without Mom. But I can only really let myself get to the edge of the idea. I don’t want to know, don’t want to know if it’s even possible to know—
“Poor kid,” Dad says again. And I think, Yeah, poor kid. It doesn’t excuse who he’s become. But it’s still sad.
We roll to a stop, the headlights glinting off a silver metal gate. A chain holds it fast against a wooden fence post.
“I’ll get it,” I say, opening the car door. I lay the saw flat on my seat as I stand. The cold air pulses against my ears. I hustle over, undo the chain, and pull open the gate.
“Hope we don’t scare old Mrs. Huckabee,” Dad says once I’ve closed the gate and hopped back in the passenger seat. He parks the Accord next to a medium-size evergreen. It’s a bit crooked, maybe, but Dad says it will do.
“Let’s just get it quick and get home,” he tells me. “It’s freezing out here.” I drag the saw out behind me and pass it to him. He kneels on the ground and saws away for what can’t be longer than two or three minutes. The evergreen tilts suddenly, sprinkling bristles on the ground. “Tim-berrr!” I holler, really just because I want to.
Dad stands, tipping the tree the rest of the way with his foot. He looks at me. “Tim-burrr!” he says, making his teeth chatter. “All right, Tretch, bring me those bungee cords from the trunk.”
I do what I can to help tether the tree to the roof of the Accord, which isn’t a whole lot. Mostly, I just stand to the side and ask Dad things like “Won’t it scratch the paint?” and “What do you plan to hook the bungee cords to?” But he doesn’t seem to mind. I think he likes the company, honestly. I think Dad always likes to have company, and I think his favorite company, for the most part, is Mom and Joe and me.
For a second, I imagine having the same conversation with him that I had with Joe.
But there’s no way it would be the same conversation. Ever.
“What time did Joe say he’s going to be home tonight?” Dad asks when we’re back in the car.
I shrug. “He didn’t say.”
Instead of taking the conversation anywhere else, I stare out the window the whole drive home.
One morning last year, in the locker room after PE, Bobby Handel came up to me holding a toothbrush.
Stupidly, I thought he was going to brush his teeth.
Instead he reached out, grabbed the waistband of my shorts, pulled it, and dropped the toothbrush down my front. The band of my shorts snapped back with a foomp!
“Hey, look, everyone!” Bobby proclaimed. “Farm has got a hard-on!”
Some guys chuckled, but
for the most part I don’t think anyone thought it was really that funny. Especially not Matt.
“Back up, Handel,” he said, coming over as I fished the toothbrush out and dropped it. It bounced off my blue Nike and onto the tile locker room floor. “Lay off for once.”
“Ooh,” Bobby taunted. “Gayby’s standing up for his boyfriend.”
I wanted to disappear. But Matt stayed strong.
“Shut up, Handel,” he said. “Everyone knows using gay slurs is the number one tactic closet cases use to hide themselves.”
“Hm,” Bobby said, smiling. “I bet your dads told you that, didn’t they, Gayby?”
Matt relaxed his shoulders. “As a matter of fact, they did.”
As he grabbed me by my shoulder, I knew I was going to cry. I heard shower knobs turn and running water stop.
“Come on, Tretch,” Matt said. He led me out of the locker room and pulled me into the equipment closet. I cried then. I cried right into Matt’s shoulder. “It’s okay, man,” he whispered. He rubbed my back. “It’s okay.”
I’m thinking about this because it’s been almost two whole days and I haven’t heard anything new from Matt. I’m thinking about this because Bobby Handel is never going away. And I’m thinking about this because right now I’m wrapping a motorized toothbrush for my cousin Janie. It’s one of those toothbrushes that plays a Justin Bieber song when you press the button. Janie’s only six, and she’s my second cousin, so I guess that means a motorized toothbrush is an okay Christmas gift. Still, I look at my mom with my eyebrows raised.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Janie wanted it,” Mom tells me. “I swear. Not my idea.” She crosses her heart and loosens the collar of her Christmas sweater. It’s bright red with some sparkles on it and two reindeer—one with Joe stitched over it and one with the name Richie. Mom had it made the Christmas after I was born, and my reindeer, the Richie one, has a bright red nose.
I press the button on the toothbrush. “Baby, baby, baby, ooooh,” it sings. I wince, then wrap it in green tissue paper and bury it in a bag with a string handle. “Here ya, go, Mom,” I say, handing it over.
“Thank you, thank you,” she half says, half sings. She’s putting all the presents for our Dallas relatives into a gigantic suitcase.
“Don’t you ever miss Nana and Papa at Christmas?” I ask.
“It’s not that bad. I’m glad Joe’s going for a couple days, at least, so he can get these presents to them.” She zips up the suitcase, which is roughly the size of a gator and requires the same kind of wrestling to get its mouth shut. “Christmas was never really a huge deal for us. Not like it is with Grandma and Granddad.”
“Ah.” I nod. It’s true, Grandma and Granddad love Christmas. In fact, it’s hard to imagine two people who love it more. The food, the gifts, the crazy traditions like gingerbread-house-building competitions—they love it all. For the gingerbread-house-building competitions, you can even win a prize, usually some kind of gift certificate scrawled on a scrap of paper in Grandma’s hand (One French Toast Breakfast, Redeemable: Forever), or a little cartoon penned by Granddad.
“Christmas is a better time with Grandma and Granddad,” Mom says.
“You think Joe will have fun in Dallas?”
“They’ll probably go ice-skating and stuff, but he’ll be glad when it’s Christmas Eve and he’s coming home. He’ll get bored.” She looks at me sympathetically. “You’re not sad to be staying behind, are you?”
“Nah,” I say. But maybe I am a little bit. As a family, we only ever see Nana and Papa once a year, usually at Thanksgiving, and they missed it this year while they were traveling in Thailand. (“They’re wanting to see the world in their old age, I guess,” Mom had said.)
We had Thanksgiving on Farm Farm instead. Granddad fried up a turkey, and I helped Grandma make some cranberry sauce that was actually good. Still, it was only a prelude to Christmas—because at Christmastime on Farm Farm, we really feast.
We start on Christmas Eve with the Spaghetti Casserole Feast for lunch. It’s a good start but never the biggest. Then we have the Christmas Eve Feast, which is enormous. There’s usually a ham and a turkey (turkey because Grandma says it will help Joe and me get to sleep on Christmas Eve night, something that used to be hard when we’d be too excited), some of Grandma’s famous dressing, sweet potatoes, green beans, hash-brown casserole, squash, peas, usually something leafy like collards or turnip greens—and more.
Yeah, I think, Joe will definitely be happy to be back home before Christmas. Right now, he’s packing in his room. I know he’s done when I hear him tip over his suitcase at the top of the stairs.
“All riiiight,” he sings, dragging it behind him, making it thump with each step. “I’m ready to make this yuletide gay!”
He looks right at me, smiling, and I respond by shooting him daggers. Don’t push it, Joe, I want to say. I look over to Mom and am relieved to see she doesn’t suspect a thing.
“I can’t believe you’re missing the tree lighting,” I say. “All for a measly Dallas trip? I mean, come on, man.” I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, you’re right. The Warmouth Christmas tree-lighting ceremony is waaaay cooler than Dallas, Texas, right? I mean, every metropolis in the world is jealous of what Warmouth does at Christmas. It’s like Jesus was born just so, two thousand years later, Warmouth could slap some lights up on a pine.”
“Don’t speak that sacrilege!” Mom warns from the kitchen. “Plus, you both used to love the tree-lighting ceremony!”
Joe winks at me. “Well, it is a treasured Warmouth tradition.”
Mom stomps into the living room. A grocery bag swings from her wrist, filled with airplane snacks for Joe. “It is a treasured Warmouth tradition, and you know you love it,” she says. “Tretch, help Joe carry all this stuff out to the car.”
I grab the present-filled suitcase and lug it to the front door. I turn to catch Mom kissing Joe on the forehead. “Be safe,” she says.
“I will.”
“And I mean safe.”
“Mom, it’s not like I’ll be flying the plane.”
“Safe.”
“Yes! Okay! I promise!” He says. Then he turns to me. “Tretch, sing your heart out tonight.” He cracks another smile.
“Shut up,” I say. With Joe gone, I will be the only guy in the Warmouth Methodist Choir tonight, performing “Silent Night” at the tree-lighting ceremony.
He walks by me, humming “Silent Night” and giving me a soft sock to the shoulder. I pick up the suitcase full of presents and load it into the back of the Chevy.
“Heavy,” I say.
“Fragile,” Mom says, walking up behind me. She kisses Joe on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Joe hugs her for as long as she needs. “See ya, Tretch.”
“See ya, Joe. Have fun.” We hug really fast.
“Alllllllrighty, then,” he says, putting a period on things. He gives Mom and me one last look. “Well, I’ll see y’all Christmas Eve.” He hops in the truck, swings the door shut, and backs down the driveway. Then he looks back at us and gives one last wave before turning onto the street.
He’s off—and I’m left alone again with my secret … and the Warmouth United Methodist Church Choir.
Oh holy night.
The key to not being heard as the one male in an otherwise female choir is to sing as high and as quietly as possible. Unless, of course, you can just mouth the words—which I try to do at the tree-lighting ceremony, until Mom catches me and elbows me in the ribs. Beside me, she is belting her heart out while simultaneously giving me what Joe and I call “the eyes,” which is when she makes her eyes go all big, quite scarily. This time it’s even scarier, because it’s in the middle of the “hoooooly” part of “Silent Night,” so her mouth is in a big O shape. She looks like a sinister owl.
I open my mouth and sing sharply. “Allllllll is caaaalm, alllllll is bright.” Oof, I think, too high. I try dropping an
octave for the next line. “Rooooouuund yon viiiirgin”—my deep loud croak smashes through the choir ladies’ tinkling harmonies like a testosterone sledgehammer, and Mom gives me the eyes again. I don’t even have to turn my head this time. I know. I gulp. Back to mouthing.
After “Silent Night” finally falls silent, I step down off the risers.
“Tretch,” Mom says, holding out her hand to me. The choir robes are pretty easy to trip over, so I help her off the riser. The lighted courthouse lingers behind us, the dark Christmas tree perches up ahead, and in between there’s a crowd of people shuffling around folding chairs and food stations.
I spot a card table where Amy Sinks is doling out Mabel’s hot chocolate. I wave across the lawn and call out, “Hey, Amy!” She waves back. I look to see if Matt’s with her, but he’s not.
“Ooh, Tretch, she is such a cutie,” Mom says into my ear.
“Mom, remember. That’s Matt’s girl.”
I have no idea where this phrase comes from, or whether or not it’s true. It’s something I’m saying to shut her up, but it has the opposite effect: It shuts me up instead.
“Aha.” Mom nods. I have no idea what she’s doing with this information.
“I’m gonna go talk to her,” I say.
“Okeydoke. I’ll go find Dad.” Mom does an about-face and marches across the courthouse lawn. I spot Dad off at a corner table that has a decorate-your-own-sugar-cookie stand. He’s dumping green sprinkles over a slather of cream cheese icing.
I go over to the hot chocolate stand. “Tretch,” Amy says when I get there. “Good singing, man!”
“Ah, thanks, Amy.”
“You want some hot chocolate?”
“Yes, please.”
She hands me a paper cup with a cloud of steam over it, her gloved hands wrapped around it as she passes it off. I notice her gloves match her hat.
“Hey, you seen Matt?” she asks.
“Huh?” I reply. “Oh, no, no. He usually doesn’t come to these things.” I take a sip of the hot chocolate.
“Oh.” Amy rubs some wetness on her gloves against her apron. “Well, I could’ve sworn I saw him earlier …”