Between These Walls

by John Herrick

  “It was lovely to meet you!” Ellen called as they parted ways. Julia peered over her shoulder and offered one taut blink of the eyes.

  Once again, the room offered nothing but the loud hum of indiscernible voices. As she gazed upon the crowd, Ellen maintained her professional smile, which impressed Hunter.

  “I hate games,” Ellen murmured. “I love to cook—that’s why I enjoy my business. But the fawning and behaving like someone I’m obviously not …”

  Hunter watched as Ellen examined from a distance her future mother-in-law, who floated from table to table, exchanging pleasantries. The tap on a microphone sent a low boom throughout the room and drew Hunter’s attention to the podium, where the host asked if everyone could please take their seats for the evening. He would announce the winners of the silent auction in a moment, but first, he offered a word of thanks to Joyce Pieper for organizing the event with such finesse. A polite round of applause followed, to which Joyce responded with her best Queen Elizabeth wave.

  When Hunter returned his attention to Ellen, he found her stare frozen in place, a longing in her eyes, the longing of a child reaching out for help.

  “This is my future with Brendan’s family. These are the games they’ll expect me to play for decades to come,” Ellen said to Hunter. “Someone shoot me in the leg right now.”

  “Brendan isn’t like that, though, is he?”

  “No … but being expected to act that way to please my in-laws, to avoid embarrassing them at this function or that one—isn’t that living a lie? Trapped into being someone I’m not?”

  Hunter gazed to his left, where Gabe had overheard Ellen’s words. His eyes darted from Ellen to Hunter and back to Ellen.

  From the podium, the host continued with the results of the silent auction.

  “The first item for sale was an original painting by a local artist …”

  CHAPTER 31

  Hunter could smell the dampness of snow melting on his winter coat as he and Gabe stepped through the garage door and into Hunter’s kitchen, where they left their wet shoes on the doormat and tossed their coats on two chairs to dry. Both men shivered from the December cold. Once inside, Hunter felt his fingers begin to thaw.

  They had returned from a Christmas Eve service at Gabe’s church, a large church like Hunter’s. The Presbyterian environment featured a culture different from that to which Hunter had grown accustomed over the years, but its traditional feel seemed a perfect match for Christmas. Hunter hadn’t recognized a soul there, and Gabe, the quiet type who tended to engage in social interaction only when necessary for business, had waved hello to a few individuals but engaged in little conversation otherwise. For those with whom Gabe had spoken, he introduced them to his friend Hunter. They had extended to Hunter an affable welcome absent of suspicion.

  Now Hunter made his way to the living room, where he built a fire in the fireplace. Gabe retrieved from the pantry a jug of apple cider, which he emptied into a pot to simmer on the stove. After a quick search through the kitchen drawers, he found a ladle. When steam began to rise from the pot, Gabe fixed two mugs of cider and brought them to the living room, where a fire crackled to life in the fireplace.

  Gabe handed Hunter a mug of cider. They settled onto the sofa, where Hunter grabbed the television remote and flipped through Christmas programs. From their view through the front window, where Hunter had opened the curtains, they watched snowflakes fall in clusters.

  When Hunter came across A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott, Gabe put his hand on Hunter’s to stop him from surfing channels.

  “I love this movie!” said Gabe. “George C. Scott is the ultimate Scrooge.”

  Hunter couldn’t help but smile at Gabe’s childlike manner, the way his face lit up. “Is this your favorite Christmas movie?”

  Gabe considered the question, then said, “I like the older version better overall, the one in black and white. It doesn’t get better than those old classics.” His visage softened as he peered into Hunter’s eyes. “Okay, your first-impulse answer: Favorite Christmas movie of all time?”

  Hunter chuckled. “I’m more of a Christmas Vacation comedy guy.”

  “What! That’s not a Christmas movie! I mean, it is, but not really.”

  “It’s the best Christmas movie of all time!”

  “Oh, please!”

  “I’ll meet you halfway: Chevy Chase as Scrooge.”

  “Now that would be awesome!”

  With that, they shook hands to seal the deal.

  “Is it strange not being with your family at Christmas?” Gabe asked.

  “It’s different.” Hunter replied, then reconsidered his response. At first, he grew shy and had trouble meeting Gabe’s gaze, but when their eyes locked, Hunter found comfort. A desire to speak words of honesty rose within him. “It’s better,” he clarified.

  Gabe’s eyes softened. “That was nice,” he said. Another beat, then he asked, “Didn’t your family wonder why you didn’t come along, though?”

  “With the job loss, they know I haven’t been in a party mood. I told them I’d find a friend to hang out with.”

  “You knew you’d spend Christmas with me before I did, didn’t you!”

  “Yes.” Then Gabe’s question about family triggered in Hunter another consideration. “But what about your mom? Won’t she think it’s odd you didn’t spend Christmas Eve with her?”

  “No, she won’t care. Mom never does much on Christmas Eve. Maybe it’s a holdover from losing Dad all those years ago, when she tried to get through the holidays without him. Maybe shortening the Christmas celebration into one day helped her cope. Anyway, with Mom, it’s all about the actual day, no previews. She’ll head to her church for a midnight service. She knows I went to my church tonight.”

  They sipped cider and watched as George C. Scott spoke to a giant ghost adorned in a green robe and curly, shoulder-length hair, at which Hunter felt tempted to poke fun, but opted against it.

  “Oh, we almost forgot!” Hunter set his mug on the coffee table with a clink.

  “What?”

  Scurrying over to the Christmas tree nestled beside the fireplace, Hunter sat cross-legged and waved Gabe over to him. “Gifts!”

  Two wrapped gifts lay underneath the tree. One gift each, a twenty-dollar limit, as they had agreed upon a few weeks before. Hunter lifted one of the gifts and handed it to Gabe. The package was a small rectangle about an inch thick. Hunter tried to hide a smirk; he couldn’t have timed this better if he tried.

  “Merry Christmas,” said Hunter.

  Gabe took his time, running his finger along the edges before sliding it between the layers of paper. At the bottom of the gift, where Hunter had taped one flap, a bulge stuck out, soft as a pillow. Hunter had wound up with a bit too much paper and had tried to tuck it all in to make it look presentable.

  “Nice wrapping job,” said Gabe with a witty purse of his lips.

  “It’s not my forte.”

  “Are these Christmas candles printed all over the paper?”

  “You’re one of the most perceptive people I’ve met. They’re birthday candles.” Hunter shrugged. “I wrapped it right before you got here earlier. All I could find in my house was birthday paper. You’re lucky it was wrapped. Usually, I leave it unwrapped on the person’s table by accident and forget I left it there, then they find it and want to know why the thing’s sitting on their table. Kinda takes the fun out of the surprise.”

  “I can imagine.” Gabe smirked and continued unwrapping his gift. When he discovered its contents, he rolled his eyes and laughed. “It’s scary how ridiculous you are.”

  Gabe held up two blu-ray discs: National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott.

  “Maybe God has a sense of humor,” Hunter said.

  “Whatever.” Gabe gave him a playful punch on the arm. “I love the gift. Thank you.”

  “You can return them if you want to.”

  Gabe he
ld them against his chest in mock protest. “Not at all! They’re a piece of you. Straight from your heart—especially the Chevy Chase movie, that’s particularly touching,” he said with a wink. Grabbing the remaining gift from under the tree, he passed it to Hunter. “Your turn. Hope you like Gilmore Girls.”

  “How’d you guess?” Hunter joked back. The gift wasn’t much larger than the one he’d given Gabe, but it felt heavier. He noticed slight flexibility when he tried bending it at the edges. He felt Gabe watching him as he tore back the paper with care.

  When Hunter discovered what Gabe had placed inside, a sweet ache hit his heart.

  Hunter fanned the ivory-colored pages, each one lined and empty, awaiting his input. The journal had a leather cover the color of mocha. But what touched Hunter’s heart wasn’t the gift or its binding, but the word Gabe had embossed on the cover in sturdy, gold letters:

  S A F E

  “Safe?” Hunter said.

  “It’s a journal,” Gabe explained. “When you don’t want to bottle things up, you can put them into words on paper. It stays between you and God, but you get to release the pressure by getting the words out of you. It’s a safe place.” He gave Hunter a look of evaluation, then added, “I also wanted you to think of me whenever you look at the journal. You’re safe with me. I wanted you to know that.”

  “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  Hunter stared at the item, held it in his hands, ran his thumbs along its textured, leather surface. If he could sum up Gabe’s impact on his life, he would use this gift as a symbol. With this gift, somehow Gabe had peered into Hunter’s soul, past all the complexities, and boiled it down to who Hunter truly was. Who Hunter truly wanted to be.

  All Hunter had ever wanted was to feel safe.

  And as he considered this gift once more, Hunter knew, without a doubt, Gabe had accepted him for who he was.

  Hunter shook himself from his daze and managed a hug for Gabe. Emotion overwhelmed his heart but he held steady.

  “I needed this,” Hunter said, referring to everything about the gift except the leather and paper. “Thank you.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, neither knowing what to say next. Hunter gazed at the fireplace, listened to snaps and crackles as the flames waved in all directions. Hunter and Gabe’s shadows flickered on the carpeted floor.

  “What’s going through your mind right now?” Gabe whispered.

  Hunter grew enraptured with the tiny white lights strung upon the Christmas tree. From his close proximity, their glow caused his skin to tingle. Though he couldn’t find words to express what ran through his heart, those lights captured the essence of the comfort he felt, the relief and security.

  “I was just thinking,” he replied at last.

  Sitting cross-legged, Gabe scooted closer so they sat eye to eye. Their knees touched. “Thinking about what?”

  Hunter sought for the words but wound up short. He shrugged, wanting to speak yet holding back. Gabe gave him a gentle nudge with his arm.

  “I was thinking that this feels right. Thinking about how good it feels to finally, finally have someone I can talk to who … who understands me,” Hunter said. “I’m not used to being free that way. I’m not used to talking about what I feel inside. So I was thinking of how good it is to find somebody you can be honest with and not need to hide, where there’s no need to put on a mask or be on guard.”

  Gabe listened, staring into Hunter’s eyes with that familiar compassion Hunter found so comforting. His smile welcomed Hunter to say more. It told Hunter he wanted to hear more.

  “It’s different from how I’ve ever allowed myself to live,” Hunter continued, “and it’s such a relief.” He felt tears well up in his eyes and savored the respite he felt in knowing he didn’t need to wipe them away, didn’t need to feel ashamed of his feelings. Not in this individual’s presence. Not with Gabe. Hunter sensed boldness arise as he peered into the depths of Gabe’s eyes. “It’s been so many years of private heartache and secret struggle. And tonight, sitting here with you, it hit me: To whatever extent, the torment is finally over. The seclusion is gone … and I’m no longer alone.

  “When this year started, I never would have pictured myself saying these things. I didn’t go looking for this. Yet tonight, I feel like I’ve received a gift—a valuable gift, one I’ve awaited for decades but never thought I would find. And what I’ve finally come to terms with is …”

  Hunter allowed his thought to linger. He turned his head toward the Christmas lights again, focusing on their glow. Such a tiny glow, yet so bright. Gabe gazed at him with expectancy, a look by which Hunter found the strength to unlock the rusty deadbolt of his heart.

  “Yes?” Gabe whispered. “What did you finally come to—”

  Hunter turned his head back toward Gabe, and before Gabe could finish asking, Hunter said, “… that I love you.”

  Gabe blinked twice. His eyes widened, and for a moment, Hunter feared he had scared him away.

  But Hunter knew better.

  “I love you, Gabe,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I do.”

  A look of subdued rapture overcame Gabe’s face. The corners of his mouth turned upward into a smile. And without a word, Hunter knew Gabe felt the same way.

  Hunter had simply spoken first.

  The logs in the fireplace continued to snap. Firelight lit Gabe’s countenance and danced in his irises. He reached forward and wiped away another tear from Hunter’s eye.

  Gabe leaned forward. Hunter met him halfway. And when Gabe’s lips met his, Hunter’s body filled with warmth and security, an anchor to steady a ship that had finally found its way home.

  CHAPTER 32

  Gabe’s mother looked nothing like Hunter had pictured. She didn’t make a negative impression upon him; rather, Hunter had expected her to look like Gabe. To Hunter’s surprise, Gabe looked like his mother had adopted him. Instead of Gabe’s Scandinavian skin tone, reddish-blond hair, or icy blue eyes, Mrs. Hellman’s features possessed a South American quality with her mocha skin and a rich tone to her brown eyes. Gabe must have looked a lot like his father.

  “So this is Gabe’s friend Hunter!” she said when she opened the door to her home on Christmas Day. The term friend sparked within Hunter a mixed reaction: He felt the safety of a secret intact, yet the inaccuracy of the word friend left him with a feeling of imbalance, the sense you get when something has fallen short of the goal. Clearly, Gabe hadn’t said a word to his parent, either.

  Mrs. Hellman exhibited Gabe’s confidence but not his subdued manner. In fact, she struck Hunter as a downright extrovert.

  Hunter and Gabe removed their shoes so they wouldn’t track moisture into the house. Mrs. Hellman took their coats and left the foyer to hang them in a closet. Upon stepping through the front door, Hunter felt the normal awkwardness of entering a stranger’s home for the first time, but within minutes, he felt at ease. For that matter, already he felt more at home here than he did at his own parents’ house, though he couldn’t put his finger on why.

  Gabe waved Hunter into the dining room, where they stood beside a table prepared for dinner. Hunter’s attention rested on a honey-baked ham, which he had smelled all the way from the foyer. The sight of it made his mouth water with anticipation. A pineapple ring rested atop the entrée. Side dishes rounded out the table, which Mrs. Hellman had covered with a festive tablecloth and place settings.

  “I felt so bad when I heard you would be alone for the holiday,” came Mrs. Hellman’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Hunter called back. “I could have gone with them to Boston. I didn’t feel like a big family reunion, answering questions while I’m between jobs, trying to make sense of things myself.”

  “Well, you’re always welcome here.” Mrs. Hellman walked into the dining room holding a square present in her hands. She had wrapped it in cherry-red paper and tied a white ribbon around it. “This is for you.”

  She took ho
ld of Hunter’s hands and placed the box into them. Hunter kicked himself. How could he have forgotten to bring her a gift!

  “No, please,” he said, “somehow it slipped my mind to bring a gift.”

  Gabe’s mother threw back her head and emitted a staccato laugh. “Don’t be silly, Hunter. It’s a gift, not a reward. Besides, it’s not impressive, so don’t expect to find a Rolex inside.”

  “It’s a deal,” Hunter said as he unwrapped the package. He opened the box and pulled from it a latte mug decorated with earthy, coffeehouse hues. The mug had a masculine appearance, and on its face, he read a Scripture engraved in block letters: “The LORD’s lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. — Lamentations 3:22-23.”

  The comforting words of a lamenting prophet. And the promise that, regardless of Hunter’s own shortcomings, God’s mercy continued to await him.

  He thanked Mrs. Hellman for the gift and realized that, for the next few hours, he had come home for the holiday.

  * * *

  After finishing dinner, the trio sat around the table drinking coffee and eating cranberry-apple pie. From a stereo shelf system, Bebe and Cece Winans’s First Christmas CD had completed its run, and now, a Vanessa Williams Christmas CD began with her rendition of “Do You Hear What I Hear.” Williams’s recording began with crystalline tones of simplicity; by the end, it morphed into an arrangement of vibrant, African-tinged inflections. Upon this first listen, Hunter added the song to his mental playlist of favorite Christmas recordings, a status he attributed to his current context as much as to the track itself.

  “Maybe I’m growing senile,” said Gabe’s mother, “but I don’t recall hearing about you until recently, Hunter. Have you known Gabe long?”

  Gabe swallowed with caution, his eyes glued to his plate. Hunter could tell he felt guilty and hoped this subject of conversation would fade fast.