“If I may,” I say, “what the fuck is an ottoman, and why the hell is it five hundred bucks?”
He stares at me. “Really?”
“Is this the face of a jesting man?”
“It’s a piece of furniture. There’s no way you don’t know this.”
“Actually, there is a way. And that way is, I’m not my own grandmother.”
“It’s an upholstered footstool—”
“A footstool? You paid five hundred bucks for a stool … for feet?”
“It was a very good deal. It’s antique—”
“You really are gay, aren’t you?”
“Really? This is what confirms it?”
“Jeez, man, just let DP have it.”
“Not all the sex that I could have sworn you were present for, but a piece of furniture—”
“Or, you know, you could really fight for it. Keep it around. Knit some doilies to put on it—”
“I think doilies are more typically crocheted.”
“You are so not helping your case here, Grandma.”
“Howie.”
“Arthur.”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, you might have to make me. I’m really on a roll here.”
He rises to the task most admirably.
+
Amber and I both leave the store in considerably better moods than when we got there. Kristy’s in the process of scheduling date night, and Amber talks cheerfully all the way home about how John’s supposed to be nice so hopefully it won’t be that bad, and how she and the ladies also have plans to hang out girl style at some point, no boys allowed, and how she kind of wishes that she could pull a me and go gay because she’s ninety percent convinced Cora is her soulmate. When we pull up into the driveway, it’s to find that it’s been newly shoveled by Dennis, who’s getting started now on the Clarks’ driveway. Amber takes off, but not before she and Dennis get into a short-lived but violent snowball fight that results in her awe-inspiring victory.
He’s brushing snow off of his sorry vanquished shoulders when he says, “Hey, do you think you could stick around out here for awhile?”
I’m pretty sure there’s a mug of hot chocolate and an honest afternoon’s aimless internet browsing awaiting me inside, so this isn’t exactly the best request ever. Still, he asks so damn nicely. Bastard. “Sure. What’s up?”
“Mom and Emily are currently in the middle of a viewing of A Room of One’s Own. I think they might actually be bonding. The fewer interruptions there are to mess with that fragile peace, the better.”
A mistake! A mistake from Dennis. It’s incredible. Almost unprecedented. Dulcet-toned angels start harmonizing in my brain.
“A Room with a View,” I say. “A Room of One’s Own is the Virginia Woolf thing.”
“Oh,” he says, a little taken aback. Because, roaring triumph that it is to me, my vast and astounding knowledge of lady literature isn’t quite enough to balance the Dennis vs. Me Awesomeness Scales in one magnificent go.
“Most of my company has been provided by Mom and Amber over the past few years,” I tell him. “Regrettably, lamentably, sometimes shit sticks.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, grinning. “And you take all those English classes, so you’re learning all of that.”
“Yeah,” I say, “that too.”
“I’m gonna have to tiptoe around you, little bro.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “It’s intimidating, how brilliant I am.”
I wonder if it’s possible to throw up from irony.
We stand there. It’s, oh, just riveting.
“So,” Dennis says, succumbing to the pressure of the awkward silence first. “How are you, man? We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk much.”
“No, I guess we haven’t.” Such the conversationalist. “Uh. I’m good. Just, ya know. Work. Home. That’s pretty much it.”
Maybe that wasn’t the most helpful of replies. I can’t quite bring myself to feel bad.
“Oh,” Dennis says. He’s still smiling, still curious and courteous and that whole damn cornucopia of social acceptability. “Nothing new?”
“Nothing new.”
Silence, silence. “How’s Lindsay?”
“Uh,” I say. “I don’t really know. Since that hasn’t really been going on for … like … years.”
“Oh.” For just a second, he falters. “Right. Any new lucky ladies?”
“Nope,” I say. “No ladies.” And then, because he shouldn’t have to do all the work, and this is such a craptastic conversation that I’m pretty sure even me contributing to it won’t eff it up too badly, I throw in, “Emily’s great.”
“I’m a fan,” he says, the smile coming back. “I’m glad you guys are getting along.”
“Yeah, totally. She’s really cool.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. At least this time, the silence is a little more cheery. After roughly seventy thousand years, he ventures, “I think she might be knitting you socks.”
“Really?” The idea of having my own personal Emily-knit masterpiece – overwhelming. So many feelings. Really, I just think it’s cool of her that she’s doing it. I dig her enough that I will wear her funky socks proudly. But I’m not exactly sure where to go with that now, because does Dennis realize that Emily’s knitting is either yarn’s equivalent of the avant-garde art movement or really, really bad – or does he think she’s actually fandamntastic at it? Is he so blinded by love that he wouldn’t notice it? Even though he’s obviously spent way more time with the hat than I have? And besides, he’s so damn nice to everyone, about everything, that I just can’t imagine that he’d say anything less-than-glowing about Emily. Once again, I find myself bested by his unfailing excellence. And so all I can muster reply-wise is, “That’s … cool.”
“Yep!” There he goes, busting out the extra enthusiasm in an attempt to drown my general social retardation. Good luck, soldier. “And, okay, I also know she didn’t want me to tell you that, so, um – come Christmas morning, act surprised.”
“Sure,” I say. “Surprised. Got it.”
Silence anew. And there’s no defeating this one, either. It’s just him and me, standing here, saying nothing, nothing, nothing. Maybe the outside observer would presume we were just communicating in psychic twin language, like, transcending normal plebeian speech altogether with our all-powerful siblingly bond. Oh, Nonexistent Outside Observer, that’s so cute of you. Me and Dennis, we are atypically, remarkably bondless. It was one thing when we lived in the same house, went to the same school – then closeness was at least forced upon us. But it’s so easy for stuff to just die when you throw in some space. We never really keep in touch, because it’s like – from my end, anyway – what is there to say?
Finally, he gives up. “I guess I better get back to shoveling.”
“Guess you better.” Heartened by the knowledge that this conversation is over, I find it in me to tack on a mock-epic, “Good luck, man.”
“Oh, I got this,” Dennis replies, lifting the shovel over his head.
“Lame-ass,” Amber yells out her window, and Dennis grins up at her and does this dorky salute. Because for all the accidental pain he’s caused her over the past ever, Amber’s still better at interacting with Dennis than I am. Kind of a shame, but not something I’m gonna lose sleep over.
I wait until he’s got his back turned, and I sneak into the house. I do it quiet, and everything, and I don’t think the thirty seconds I spend saying hi to Mom and Emily will forever shatter whatever great thing they momentarily had going. Still, I feel kind of shitty. I drown that feeling in hot chocolate and many a quippy text message to Arthur about ottomans.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A cheery air of panic hangs around our house come Christmas Eve morning. When I come downstairs, my mom is already in hysterical cleaning mode; she’s still in her pajamas, hair pulled back all crazy-sloppy, and she’s scrubbing the stove with wild ferocity.
“Howie! Cha
irs!” she barks.
“Chairs?” The fact that it’s one syllable doesn’t mean it’s not hard to compute. Caffeine. Need caffeine.
“From the garage. We’re going to need a few of the folding chairs if we’re going to fit everybody at the table.”
“Who’s everybody?” Dennis asks. He’s dressed already, looking awake and windswept, and he’s taking stuff out of a plastic grocery bag and arranging it on a tray. Pastries. Fruit. A single red rose. I look at the clock above the (besmirched and slovenly!) stove – 8:37. Not even nine, and he’s already left the house to get his ladylove the fixings for breakfast in bed? I’m caught between the warring forces of ‘aw, good for Emily’ and ‘gag me.’ “Isn’t it just us and Amber and Mitch?”
“Um,” Mom says, pausing in her stove-scrubbing frenzy. “Actually, I’ve invited a coworker who didn’t have anywhere else to go. And so did Howie. ‘Tis the season, you know.”
“Oh,” Dennis says. “Cool. Who’d you invite?”
“Howie invited Arthur.” Thanks, Mom.
“Atrocious Arthur?” he asks, grinning at me.
“Chairs!” I say. “I should get chairs!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dennis says. “I’ve got shoes on already, I’ll grab them.”
We wait ‘til he’s out of the house.
“We are terrible, lying, cowardly people,” I announce.
“Oh, he’ll figure it out on his own,” Mom says. “And he’ll react to it with a level head. He’s always been the sanest member of this family.”
“Thanks, Mommy,” I say.
+
I play the role of dutiful son long enough to clean the downstairs bathroom. When Mom, looking fetching in her bathrobe and a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, suggests that I do the upstairs bathroom too, “just in case,” I decide to make my escape. There’s only so much time you can spend with a toilet before your Christmas spirit is irrevocably dashed. When Arthur calls me to ask what kind of wine he should bring, I – opportunist that I am – invite myself on along on his liquor store quest.
“What do you think?” he asks, when we’re there.
“I think you probably do not want my opinion on this.”
“Oh, come on. You must remember something about what kind of wine your mother likes.”
“Yeah, I don’t really make a big point of boozing it up with my mom. Do you?”
“Booze it up with your mom? Well, yes, during our several secret trysts, but you’re not supposed to know about that. We’re very discreet.”
“Oh no you didn’t.”
“All right, we’re going to start very basic. Does she prefer red or white?”
“How ‘bout some Bacardi?” I ask, pointing merrily and helpfully at the line of bottles. “We’s gon’ get crunkkkk! Christmas crunk.”
“Interesting news: I no longer feel so much as a spark of attraction toward or respect for you.”
I shrug. “Had to happen sooner or later.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and smirks, and we amble wineward through the store.
“You do realize that wine’s the obvious choice, right? I’m sure Herrick’s got wine covered. Don’t you want to try something a little different? Really stand out?”
“I’m getting wine.”
“How ‘bout a nice Christmas goose? Or – hey – an adorable Weimaraner puppy.”
“Oh, look at all the wine.”
“Not to eat, obviously. That would not endear you to my mother at all.”
“Red or white, Howie?”
Regretfully, I surrender. “Red.”
“Merlot?”
“Sure. That’ll bring out the flavor of the Christmas goose just swimmingly.”
Once the wine-purchasing’s out of the way, we make our way out onto the sidewalk. There’s a general sense of holiday merriment in the air, a flurry of last-minute shoppers and Salvation Army bells ringing. We walk close, shoulders together. I look at all of the people around, on the sidewalk and in the parking lot, coming in and out of stores. They’re almost all familiar faces, even if I can only pick out a few that I know by name. Living here, it’s like being in a perpetual state of At Any Second, You Could Run Into Your Kindergarten Teacher. It’s hard not to get caged in by that feeling. Still, I think, as Arthur’s arm moves a little against mine.
“Crunk,” Arthur muses under his breath, saying the word (if it can be called a word. Has ‘crunk’ achieved true word status yet? Are we there yet, as a race of sentient beings?) in a way that’s, like, the vocal equivalent of holding up a dead mouse by its tail with two very reluctant fingers. He ponders for awhile, then comes, with a disgusted sort of victory, to, “Crazy drunk. Am I right?”
“And you got it in one,” I reply, and I reach for his hand. “You hip unstoppable genius, you.”
I can tell he’s surprised. Hell, I feel like I should be surprised, too – but for the first time in what feels like, well, ever, I’m not. I can be in control of my own actions, despite what my track record might imply to the contrary, and suddenly, I just feel like, sure. I can hold my boyfriend-yeah-that’s-right-world-boyfriend’s hand wherever I want to, and not because I want to be all, ‘Check it out, humanity, there’s someone out there who’ll hold my hand,’ but because we’re walking close enough that his arm is against mine and he’s musing over the meaning of ‘crunk’ like he’s sixty-five and somehow, by some mad glorious stroke of luck, he is mine to touch.
He looks down at our hands. Ever sensible, he’s wearing gloves, nice leather ones. I left in a hurry, and I’m not exactly the most practical guy to begin with; I’m barehanded, and my fingers are cold. He tightens his grasp on my hand, smiles at me a little bit. I smile back. Beats pockets.
+
Amber shows up about an hour before Arthur and Herrick are set to. She’s in a pretty good mood, considering she got subjected to both a double date and a blind date last night.
“You’re very brave,” Emily says, staring at Amber with wide(-r than usual) eyed admiration. “I don’t think I would want to go out with a stranger. Especially one who’s just had his heart broken.”
“He was okay,” Amber says, unloading the multitude of Christmas feast-type goodies Mrs. Clark sent over. I get the feeling that Mom mentioned Herrick to Mrs. C, because she went all out: ham, fancy potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce that’s not even shaped like the can because it didn’t come out of one, three pies, cookies … it’s the perfect holiday spread of domestic deceit. “He was really nice and everything. Just sort of … traumatized.”
“Traumatized?” Emily sounds mildly interested.
“He brought up his ex Cally thirty-eight times. After awhile, I started counting.”
“You mean you didn’t do anything to take his mind off his heartache?” Dennis asks, roguery in every syllable.
“Dennis, really,” Emily chastises.
“Screw you, pervert.” Amber tosses a dinner roll at him. Dennis, feat of Herculean perfection that he is, catches it. “I’m a lady, mind.”
“You think you’re going to go out with him again?” Dennis asks, taking a bite out of the roll.
“I don’t think so,” Amber replies, wrinkling her nose. “He doesn’t really seem ready. Which, in and of itself, was kind of uplifting, you know? I definitely didn’t expect to be the one who was more ready. But, nope. I think I’ll leave poor Johnny to wallow in his lingering emo pain.”
“Oh, come on,” Dennis cajoles, grinning at her. “He sounds like a sensitive lad. I think you guys seem great together.”
“How can you think that?” Amber demands. She sounds jokey, and all. I think it’s a mark of my Amberly expertise that I can hear the bite underneath. “You don’t even know who he is. You’re like, what, wishing me upon random emotionally disturbed strangers now?”
“I just think you shouldn’t let a good thing pass you by,” Dennis replies with a shrug. He shakes his head, fake-earnest. “This could be the greatest man who’ll ever come your way, a
nd you’re just letting him slip between your fingers. You gotta seize the day. Right, Em?” He rubs her shoulder.
“I think that Amber deserves better than a boy who’s obsessed with someone else,” Emily replies. Amber looks at Emily with a whole new appreciation.
“Right?” she says. “Thank you, Emily.”
Dennis turns to me. “What do you think, Howie?”
“I think,” I reply, operating from a strict stance of Staying Out Of It, “that Amber should do whatever she wants to.”
“Aw,” she says, leaning over and giving me a one-armed hug. “I’ve trained you well, buddy boy.”
“You bring me food, I’m your bitch.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re my bitch anyway—”
“Did you know that brach is an antiquated form of bitch? Meaning the female hound, of course. I’m not quite comfortable saying it in any other context.”
There’s that moment where the pall of Emily’s A Weirdo sinks over us all, manifesting in the awkwardest of silences.
Then Amber – Christmas miracle to end all Christmas miracles – salvages things like a regular pro. “Oh, I like that way better. Maybe you’re my brach, Jenkins.”
“I like it too,” I decide. “It’s got zest. Flava, if you will.”
Emily’s smiling, now, and Dennis is looking at Amber and me with what I’m pretty sure is gratitude. It makes me feel sort of like a shitty-ass human being, more than anything; like, being nice to Emily shouldn’t be this monumental gesture spurred by holiday good cheer. It should just be a thing that is.
Well. Better late than never.
“Could I get somebody to come help me up here?” Mom calls from upstairs. “I’m caught in the midst of a very ugly zipper dilemma!”
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