Eugene and the Box of Nails

by Jaime Samms

  “Things appeared in the bin,” Eugene said, suspicion rising. “Practically new things. Good wood. Barely used. Boxes of tiles, a slab of marble.” Which hadn’t been in the bin, but details.

  Cullen shrugged. “So maybe a few of the guys asked if they could toss some stuff they had lying around in the bin. Because we weren’t going to fill it up on this job anyway. And the homeowner asked me to trek some old concrete forms out from his camp to the bin. I didn’t see the harm since they agreed to pay the dumping fees.”

  “The tiles? The marble?”

  “I don’t know who put what in there.” He settled on the edge of the bed. “Maybe they just wanted to help. Why is that so bad?”

  How could Eugene explain that the better his future seemed to look, the further he eventually fell? And maybe Paul was right and it wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t stop it happening.

  “Maybe you just have to learn to have a little faith, huh?” Cullen said.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “You won’t explain.”

  “I just….” Cullen wasn’t wrong. But he didn’t get it. He couldn’t. “I need to do this, Cullen. On my own. Maybe it’s just best if we cool off. At least until the house is done and I know it isn’t going to fall down around my ears.”

  “I wish—”

  “I have to do this.”

  “I get that. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

  “Actually, I do.” He couldn’t look at Cullen. He wanted to. He wanted to toss his superstitions out the window and hope, but he didn’t dare, and in the long run, if something was going to fall apart, he couldn’t let the house be the thing he lost.

  “Fine,” Cullen said, voice soft and sad, and he rose. “You want to believe only in yourself, then you do you.” He stopped when he got to the door. “But if you want to maybe trust you don’t have to do it all alone, you have my number, okay?”

  “Cullen—”

  But Cullen didn’t stop or look back, and Eugene was left there to stew until a doctor came in with paperwork and told him he could go home. Just as long as he followed a list of about a thousand rules to protect his back. He knew the drill.

  PAUL WAS there when Eugene hobbled out of his room, precious paperwork in hand. He barely even judged as he drove, though he did refuse utterly to deliver Eugene anywhere near his trailer. It looked like Eugene was stuck at the farm until his pain was manageable without the seriously strong pills the doctor had prescribed. That sucked, because Paul and Deana both knew him way too well for him to fake anything.

  He languished for two weeks between Paul’s spare room and his couch, watching the Makeful channel as they taught people to craft everything from paper chains of handmade paper to handblown-glass tree ornaments. Paul’s ancient golden retriever kept him company as much as anything that slept twenty hours of the day could. Tim ate late suppers with him after he’d completed his chores, and Deana, unable to repress the teacher that she was, made him read things.

  “It’s like you guys are trying to drive me out,” he complained as he munched on one of Tim’s burned grilled-cheese sandwiches and flipped desultorily through the novel Deana had selected for him. It was something by Tom Clancy that he was sure he’d already seen in movie form.

  “You don’t have to stay here,” Paul reminded him.

  “You’ll drive me home?” It was too much to hope for, which Paul confirmed with a snort.

  “Not likely, dipshit. You’re not staying in that trailer. It’s too cold. You’ll never heal if you’re always tensed up from shivering.”

  “Where else—”

  “Stop being a jerk and call him.” Paul held out Eugene’s cell. “Seriously.”

  “Not like he’s called to see if I’m—”

  “He’s called every day, asshole,” Paul said gently. “You made it pretty clear you wanted space. He’s giving you space. But he still checks up on you. Don’t put it on him that you don’t answer your cell.”

  Eugene actually hadn’t known where it was and hadn’t thought to ask, but he took the phone. It was a long time before he made the call.

  “HELLO?” CULLEN sounded… dull. Tired, maybe?

  “Hey,” Eugene said, keeping his voice soft. “You okay?”

  “It’s you.”

  He could hear Cullen breathe for a few seconds before he answered. “I guess it is. Yeah. Who else would be calling from my phone?”

  “Paul.”

  Right. A heavy silence followed before Cullen spoke.

  “You ready?”

  Eugene frowned. “For?”

  “Well. You’re not calling me to tell me you lost my number.”

  Eugene couldn’t help his snort. “I suppose not.”

  “So?”

  Eugene sighed heavily, making sure Cullen heard it. “So.” He lowered his voice. “If I have to read one more page of this Tom Clancy novel or watch another episode of Britain’s Great Sewing Bee or whatever it’s called….”

  There was an audible grin in Cullen’s voice. “I can be there in forty minutes.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  Cullen laughed, but it was cut off when he hung up.

  “THANK YOU.” Paul’s heartfelt words carried from the front door into the living room where Eugene was nibbling at the edges of a toasted peanut butter sandwich Tim had made to replace the blackened grilled cheese. He was trying hard not to grimace at the overtoasted crust of bread, knowing Tim was watching him.

  “My pleasure.” Cullen’s voice rolled over Eugene like a balm, and he all but threw the sandwich onto his plate. “Dude,” he said to Tim. “I gotta—”

  Tim snickered. “’Bout time.” Tim put his own burnt sandwich down and set the plate on the coffee table before offering his arm for Eugene to lever himself off the couch. It sucked he still couldn’t even stand on his own, but he was heartily sick of crashing in his brother’s living room.

  “Ready?” Cullen asked from the living room doorway.

  “So ready,” Eugene agreed. He turned to Paul. “I’ll get my stuff later.”

  “Whatever.” Paul grinned at him. “I’ll see you Boxing Day?”

  Eugene shrugged. “Sure.”

  “And you,” Paul said to Cullen.

  “I look forward to it.”

  Cullen offered an arm, and Eugene only hesitated a heartbeat before accepting the help. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. Shall we?” Cullen motioned to the front door. Eugene had never been so pleased to turn his back on an overdecorated Christmas tree in his life.

  Once in the truck, Eugene let out a long, heavy sigh. Getting out there had cost a lot of energy and most of his comfort. His back throbbed. There was no way he was ready to work on the house. He was still so sore, but the stifling boredom of the farm had finally been too much.

  He rolled his head to look at Cullen. “Thank you.”

  “Happy to help.” Cullen navigated the dirt road to the highway as thick, fat snowflakes began to fall.

  “I’m sorry it took so long.”

  “Me too.” Cullen glanced quickly at him, then focused back on the road. “But I get it. I’m sad about why you can’t trust me, but I understand. Maybe in time—”

  “I’m sorry about that too.”

  “You don’t have to be. It’ll take time. You’ll see, though. Eventually, you will see.”

  “You seem like a very trustworthy kind of guy.”

  Cullen only shrugged and drove.

  “Paul said you called every day.”

  “That a problem?”

  “It’s sweet, actually.” Eugene eased his head back and closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Cullen’s big hand rested warm and heavy on his knee. “Take it easy. I’ll wake you when we’re there, okay?”

  “That’s nice.”

  Eugene relaxed into the warmth of Cullen’s touch and the quiet country music rolling Christmas tunes through the cab, losing track of time as he drift
ed—surprisingly happy in his decision to tempt fate. He faded off to Paul Brandt’s version of “Silent Night.”

  “HEY.” CULLEN squeezed his knee. “We’re here. Wake up.”

  “I’m awake,” Eugene muttered, yawning and sighing. He was warm and comfortable and reluctant to open his eyes. It would only mean making his twisting, clambering way out of the truck, and that would cost him more energy, make him more uncomfortable, and probably require more painkillers, which would put him to sleep. And he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to be with Cullen.

  “Come on, babe. You can’t stay here.” Cullen squeezed again, then got out his side of the truck.

  Eugene remained where he was, eyes closed, until his door opened and the cold swirl of winter air and snow washed over him. “Fine,” he mumbled. “Meanie.”

  Cullen sniggered. “Baby.” But he took Eugene’s hand, and finally Eugene opened his eyes to look at him.

  “Thank y—wait. What?” He looked past Cullen to the empty spot where his trailer used to stand. “Where— Holy—”

  Cullen’s grin was wide. “Welcome home, Eugene.”

  Eugene’s house stood, proudly lit up and glowing against the backdrop of the rock face, the trees, and the night. Colourful Christmas lights outlined the huge front door and the picture window, as well as the sharp peak of the eaves. Warm yellow light spilled from inside, washing the snowy yard with a welcoming glow. The big gold balls that had garishly decorated the tree over his trailer now hung along the peak, and an enormous cedar and pine wreath adorned the front door.

  “The hell?” Eugene asked softly.

  “Confession time,” Cullen said. “When you asked if I knew anything about the building going on, I honestly didn’t. Not then. But when you got hurt and I told the guys, they came clean. They told me they’d been trying to do the scary stuff, the stuff that’s hard to do alone, and the really time-consuming stuff so you’d get the build done before it got seriously too cold to live in the trailer. They felt like shit that they weren’t fast enough.” He sighed. “I’ll be honest. At that point, there was no way I was going to be able to stop them finishing this build for you. So I helped.”

  “I—” Eugene didn’t know what to say.

  “Come inside, yeah?”

  All he could do was nod and let Cullen lead him inside.

  The main floor conformed to Eugene’s basic plan. At the back was a large stone hearth housing one of the few new items he had splurged on: his Hearthstone Mansfield woodstove with the brown enamel option. The kitchen was to his right and the only walls in the place, closing off the bathroom, to his left. A set of salvaged spiral stairs led up to the bedroom loft.

  The unfitted kitchen was created from used furniture that shouldn’t go together but did due to the blue milk paint, warm brown woods, and the small slab of marble someone had so generously donated to the cause. Even the apron-front farm sink he had salvaged was in place.

  “Paul,” Eugene stated.

  “Had to get his help,” Cullen admitted. “He had all your stuff.”

  And indeed, the furniture Eugene had stored in the back of Paul’s barn for what felt like his entire life—but had only been the past seven years—had been carefully installed in the mostly finished house.

  “I can’t believe you finished the whole thing.” Eugene hobbled forwards, revelling in the warmth of the heated floor and the mellow light glowing from the mason-jar fixtures he’d made when the idea of this place had been little more than a dream.

  “Most of it.” Cullen helped him to the centre of the room. “Take a look.” He turned Eugene around and pointed to what should have been a lamentably plain wall above the door. Instead, there was a huge window of stained glass, a much larger version of the pretty cattail image he’d seen in the booth at the craft fair.

  “How—”

  “It was a joint effort, actually. I contacted Annie, the artist. She had it three-quarters done. The one we saw was a study for it. When she told me the price, I may have bemoaned it a bit to the guys. Next thing I knew, we had a fund. Tim told your brother. I guess he told your folks.” Cullen waved a hand upwards. “And there it is.”

  Eugene pulled free of Cullen’s grip and hurried out the door to see the window from outside. The glow of interior lights lit it up, and he caught his breath.

  “Cullen.”

  “Before you freak out, let me be clear. I didn’t ask a single person for their help on this, monetarily or otherwise. Your neighbour chipped in snacks and warm drinks, as payment, they said, for the landscaping you’ve been doing for them. The guys on the crew put in time over and above their workdays. Tim was here, I swear, every minute he wasn’t at school or the farm.” He shook his head. “People love you, Euggy.”

  “But.” He didn’t know what to say.

  “But nothing. Come inside.” Cullen led him back into the house and to the couch he hadn’t seen in seven years. It’s patchwork covering should have looked ridiculous in the glowing new interior, but Eugene could see nothing but the hours of hard work he’d put into recovering a decrepit piece of junk to make the most comfortable bit of seating he’d ever enjoyed.

  “This is nice,” Cullen sighed as he settled next to him.

  “It’s….” Eugene didn’t have words.

  “Christmas?” Cullen asked.

  “Not quite yet, but maybe close enough.” Eugene gazed around his home. Closer than he’d ever dreamed. He’d been so set on creating all of this on his own, on being the only one who believed in this vision so it didn’t fall apart on him, he’d never dared imagine it done. He’d never truly envisioned himself sitting there, surrounded by the things he’d salvaged from his past life, from other people’s lives, from the detritus of things no one else wanted—living the reality of a house that had risen like a phoenix from other people’s trash.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Not just me—”

  “But thank you.” Eugene turned as much as his back would let him. “If Paul had taken it on, it wouldn’t be—this. He’d have meant well, but he would have just bought new and hired people, and—it wouldn’t be what I knew it could be. What you made it.”

  “I only followed the plans you showed me.”

  Eugene snorted. “Because anyone could have read those besides me.”

  “It isn’t like you’re hard to read, babe.” He leaned close and planted a soft kiss on Eugene’s lips. “I’m glad you approve. I was worried.”

  “More than. I’m still in shock. I’m sitting in my own living room.” Eugene wanted to explore every nook and cranny of the miraculous place. “My bed—”

  “You’re not tackling the stairs yet,” Cullen cautioned. “I tested the couch. You can sleep here if I can’t talk you into coming back to mine.”

  “I know what it can do. I made it.” Eugene grinned, but the expression slipped away in a heartbeat. “Not because I don’t want to go back to yours. But that apartment. Cullen, it’s a shoebox. Doom.”

  Cullen laughed out loud. “I know. I’d rather stay here too, even if we can’t sleep in the same bed yet.”

  “Soon.”

  “Don’t worry.” Cullen trailed fingers over his chin. “Don’t worry. This is just today.” He smiled, and the crinkles around his eyes deepened. “Just the beginning. It’s not even Christmas yet.”

  “Kiss me?” Eugene had no intention of waiting for Christmas for some things.

  He felt like a kid again as they shuffled around on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position for necking. Cullen didn’t seem to care that they were both too old for such shenanigans.

  When they broke apart, Eugene glanced around again. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

  “It is.” Cullen cupped his face. “And as soon as you’re up for it, we’ll go get a tree to finish it off.”

  Eugene grinned, then sighed. “I don’t have anything to decorate a tree.”

  “Huh.” Cullen tilted his head. “Well, then. Speakin
g of shoeboxes. Isn’t it fortuitous that I happen to have boxes and boxes of glass balls and garland I salvaged from my grandparents’ attic before they sold their house?”

  “In shoeboxes.”

  “Indeed.”

  IT WAS two days before Eugene had the energy to go tree shopping. Not that he was complaining. They had been two glorious days of cuddling on the couch with Cullen, eating delicious home-cooked food, and falling asleep to the sound of Cullen’s small snorts and huffs as he slept in the bed in the loft. Eugene didn’t even regret staying on the couch for those two nights. He’d made sure it was as comfortable for sleeping as for sitting, and he wanted to heal as fast as possible. The better his back got, the sooner he could join Cullen in the bed.

  No, the issue was that the day before Christmas Eve, it was a challenge to find a place that still had anything worth calling a Christmas tree. The one they settled for was a bit Charlie Brown, but Cullen promised that once swathed in the thick old-fashioned garland, lights, and glass balls, it would look lush.

  “Fine. But next year, we’re getting something still alive.”

  “Next year, huh?” Cullen put an arm around him and pulled him in to his side. “Next year we can do whatever you desire, my love.”

  Eugene snuggled. My love. He definitely liked the sound of that.

  It took hours to get the tree properly situated, opened, and decorated, and once they had, there were exactly two gifts under it: one from Eugene to Cullen, and one from Cullen to Eugene.

  “That’s the best tree I’ve ever seen,” Eugene decided.

  “Told you.” Cullen was altogether too proud of himself. “Not too sparse?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Huh. Just like I—”

  Eugene dug an elbow into his gut. “Instead of you being a doofus, let’s go up and see how it looks from the bed, yeah?”

  “Are you up for that?”

  Eugene took Cullen’s hand and pressed it to his crotch. “You tell me.” He winked, then pulled free of Cullen’s grasp and gently jogged for the stairs. He slowed once he reached them, well aware he still had to be careful, and thankful Cullen was right there to make sure nothing bad happened.