by Amy Lane
“Uh.” Skip pulled at his collar. “Someone sort of broke into his family business last week and vandalized it. Did a really good job of it. He just texted me and said he barely finished cleanup. He’s crashing at his place, and tomorrow his family is having their Thanksgiving.”
“So you get two meals, then?”
Oh God. Shoot him now. “No, sir, only one.”
“Oh,” Carter said, and he sounded… compassionate. Like he understood.
“That is a shame,” Clay’s father added, and again, that compassionate smile.
Suddenly Skipper got it, about family being a curse and a blessing at the same time. Yeah, he’d probably have food issues too if he grew up in this house—but he could see why Carpenter would want to bring a friend here, especially one who had no family and needed people.
But that didn’t mean that after a Unitarian prayer (apparently Aunt Candace was a youth pastor because… well, because these people!), when the tofurkey and cauliflower/vegan cheese mash was passed around, Skipper didn’t eat more than his share of bread.
Carpenter met his eyes over a bite of tofurkey with pained gratitude, and Skipper nodded.
Oh yeah. They were so stopping for a burger and fries on the way home.
CARPENTER CRASHED on his couch that night, after they polished off the burgers, the fries, and half of the cherry pie and ice cream Skipper had gone into Safeway for before they got home.
Yeah, part of it was because tofurkey was maybe not going into his top-ten lists of ways to stay healthy, no matter how much he wanted to go from a four-pack down to six.
The other part was that Skipper felt the bone-deep need for a carbohydrate pity party that he didn’t even want to reveal to Carpenter. But Carpenter knew. If nothing else, Carpenter had his own need for carbs.
“She’s brilliant,” Carpenter said through a mouthful of pie. “My sister, she’s brilliant. She always was. I’d be struggling with my algebra in the seventh grade and she’d be like, ‘Oh, Clay, it’s just this and then this and then this and then you pull an integer out your ear and shit out the answer!’ But she was always so nice about it. And I wanted to be a big hateful, envious turd, but how can you be when she’s such a sweetheart? I mean… she took her twins to a cancer ward on Thanksgiving so they knew how to be thankful. Even her husband—I mean, he could be a prick like Austen, but no. He’s like Austen’s polar opposite—warm, kind, real. He raises money for medical care for underprivileged youth. How do you… how do you compete with that?”
Skip gave him another dollop of vanilla. “You stay at a friend’s house when he’s sick and make sure he has someplace to go during what could be the loneliest holiday of the year,” he said. “And you make your friend remember what it’s like to be thankful on Thanksgiving. Good karma done, Carpenter. Check it off the list. Enjoy your pie.”
“I will, brother—but I’m going to cut you off. I know you, and you will hate yourself in the morning.”
Skip looked at the last half of the piece on his plate miserably and took a resolute bite. Nope. Didn’t help. “He… I mean, I texted him pictures of the house and stuff, and you know, had your family pose. Sent him that.”
“Nothing back?” Carpenter asked, his voice quiet.
Skip shook his head and put his palms to his eyes to stop the stupid burning. “I… maybe he changed his mind,” he said quietly, and then, last Sunday forgotten, he said what was really in his heart. “Maybe he decided he didn’t want to follow me to gay league after all.”
“Maybe he just needs an engraved invitation,” Carpenter said practically. “I mean, Skip, not everybody can just walk on a soccer field and take charge. Some of us need a little direction, you know?”
Skip stared at him.
“What?”
“It’s… it’s rec league soccer!” he flailed, like that explained everything. “I’m not… I mean… the name thing that everyone’s so rock solid about? That started as a joke. We recruited a coach, but he got a better offer from a comp league team, and there we were, our first game, and everybody’s going, ‘Who’s playing where? What do we do now?’ And I knew me, Richie, and McAlister were our best strikers and Menendez, Jimenez, Thomas, and Galvan were our best defenders, and Owens and Jefferson and Cooper could run for years, and Singh got goalie by default, you know? And I told Richie he was center and he turned around and saluted and said, ‘Aye-aye, Skipper!’ And that was it. Everybody just called me this stupid name! And I don’t mind the name, really—but… but it was like everybody forgot that I was just making it up as I went along!”
Skip was standing up by this time, gesticulating madly, his voice pitching with hurt.
And abruptly he sat down again, the chair creaking ominously beneath his ass.
“Like everyone assumes I know what to do just because my name is Skipper. But I need Richie to captain this fuckin’ ship, Clay. I….”
He closed his eyes. When he’d been a kid, his mom had been drunk in her room and school had been insufferable. His pants had been ripping in the ass, and he had no friends. He’d lie down in his room and close his eyes and plan what he’d do when he passed his next test and ran his next mile and graduated from this shitty high school and got a job that would pay a mortgage, and had a house and a pet and friends and a girlfriend (at the time) of his own. He imagined past the pain to a time when things didn’t hurt anymore, and he tried to do that now.
How would he captain this fuckin’ ship without Richie? What if Richie just dropped out of his life entirely, leaving Skipper gay and alone and starting his personal life from scratch?
And the pain didn’t go away.
He dropped his head into his arms and tried hard not to cry. Mostly he succeeded. Clay finished off Skip’s pie for him and waited until he stood up and proposed Witch Hunter 4. Skip was finally getting good at that one.
HE WENT to bed around twelve, after checking his phone about six million times for a message. Finally, right before he dropped off to sleep, Richie texted.
Jesus, Skipper. It took me half an hour to read through the travelogue.
Skip stared at the text and narrowly avoided punching in “Where the fuck you been????”
I missed you today.
Yeah—I fell asleep and I just woke up now. Dad and Kay are prepping turkey and fighting—I can hear them through the walls.
Why are they fighting?
Cause Dad finally asked her if she knows where Paul and Rob are when she told the insurance people she didn’t. I think it’s occurred to both of them that her sons aren’t coming back, and that they took a fuckton of money with them.
That sucks.
I hate them, Richie texted, and Skip could hear his voice, with the words echoing from his stomach. He hit Call.
“I don’t blame you,” he said when Richie answered.
“God, I needed to hear your voice,” Richie said, and he sounded broken and sad and tired.
“You fuckin’ think?” Skipper shot at him. “All goddamned day. Now tell me about the yard.”
He let Richie talk to him about forklift rentals and insurance assholes and cars that were half-buried in mud. The talk washed over him, Skip going “Uh-huh, yeah, okay” but so glad to be a part of it, so glad Richie needed him there, that he would have listened to it all night if he had to, just so they weren’t alone.
Richie rambled to a halt after about half an hour, though, then changed the subject to the family gathering the next day. Skip closed tired eyes as he talked about how awful it was going to be.
“I figure,” Richie said, “we can gauge who knew or helped the two of them get away with all of this by who shows up. When Kay’s whole family bails, there’s gonna be a fight that makes the one they’re having now look like fuzzy bunnies humping.”
“Oh my God,” Skip muttered. “Richie, I know this is… I mean, the cops aren’t my first line of defense either, but have you thought about… I mean, if the insurance company catches you—”
�
�I’m not going to fuckin’ jail for them,” Richie said disgustedly. “Not a damned one of them. Not even my dad. Nope, I’m being absolutely honest, man, above fucking board. We had to talk to the police to put a claim number on the insurance forms, and if one of those guys even thought to ask me if I knew who did it, I’d be singing like a… a… a….”
“Tofurkey?” Skip suggested, just to see if he’d laugh.
He did, his giggles echoing against his pillow as he huddled in his bed. Skip had been there a few times, and Richie lived more simply than even Skip. His bed consisted of a mattress on box springs on top of a basic rail frame, backed up in the corner of the bedroom by a window.
Skip remembered that it didn’t even have a comforter, just a couple of blankets and some basic white sheets.
No wonder Richie had been so excited about decorating Skip’s place for Thanksgiving. He felt like he was making his place…
His place.
Like he was decorating his home.
Richie had wound completely down now, his voice slurred and loopy as he giggled over how Kay kept wailing, “They’re my babies and I love them!” loud enough to be heard through the garage.
“Richie?” Skip said, not wanting to drop a bomb on him right now but needing Richie to hear him. “Richie—I just want you to be home.”
“Yeah, Skip. Me too. I’ll come home Saturday, okay? Won’t leave again ’til… M….” And he fell asleep right in the middle of that sentence, leaving Skip thinking that Richie didn’t need to move out into his own apartment to have another place to live.
THE SCORPIONS had managed to secure a practice field from three to five the next day, meaning they were starting out in the late afternoon but it would be near full dark by the time they were done.
Skip got there early, of course, with a big cooler full of water and sports drinks and even some dried fruit since it was such a long practice. He had everybody but McAlister there by the time four o’clock rolled around. There’d been another storm the week before, and McAlister worked for a tree service, so it was his busy time—Skip didn’t think too much about it.
They were gathered around the cooler for a break when McAlister strode across the field in his waffle-stompers and Day-Glo orange vest, looking fit to kill.
“Mac?” Owens called out. “Where’s your gear? Man, you can’t play wearing that!”
“I’m not gonna fuckin’ play for this team anymore!” McAlister shouted. His face was red with exertion and apparently anger, and he strode down across the field straight to Skipper. “I’m not gonna play for a fuckin’ fairy, asshole. You all better get the fuck out of here too, or he’ll make you fuckin’ gay just like he did to Scoggins!”
Skip had never really felt his jaw drop before. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah—you think nobody fuckin’ saw you after the last practice, but you’re wrong, faggot. My dad saw you, and we started talking over Thanksgiving about where my team practiced, and he told me about two guys going at it, fucking disgusting, a redheaded guy and a blond guy, tongues down each other’s throats and everything. I heard your voice on the line this morning reminding us about practice and I about puked.”
He really hammered the word “puked,” complete with spittle, and Skipper shivered under the chilly November sun, looking back at the faces of the team he’d assembled through goodwill and good sportsmanship alone.
“So is it true?” Jefferson asked into the silence. “You and Scoggins hooking up?”
Skip swallowed and wished for Richie so hard he was surprised he didn’t hear Richie’s voice in his head. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Since right before Halloween. We’re….” Oh please, Richie, let this be true. “I’m hoping he’ll move in with me soon.”
“Good for you!” Jefferson clapped his back hard enough to tingle.
“Yeah, man—good for you!” The chorus of well wishes made his knees weak, and he gave a watery smile to his team surrounding him on the field.
“Hey!” Owens said, and for a moment Skip’s heart stalled. Oh God, no, let this not be the other shoe. “Is this why Scoggins didn’t call us in to take care of you when you were sick? Was he afraid you’d say something?”
“Oh my God!” Carpenter shook his head. “Did you guys know he fucking babbles when he’s sick!”
“Well, uh, yeah,” Menendez said. “That’s how we knew Skip sort of crushed on Richie in the first place.”
“I did not know that,” Jimenez said, shrugging. “But that’s okay, because my little brother is gay, and I just can’t hate, you know?”
“Oh God,” Skip moaned good-naturedly. “Really? You all knew? ’Cause it took the two of us by surprise!”
Catcalls and hollers met that announcement, Thomas and Cooper joining in, and for a moment, riding the glow of good wishes, Skip forgot McAlister and his concentrated venom, even though the big Irishman was standing right in front of him.
“So that’s it?” Mac interrupted, obviously floundering. “You guys find out our captain’s a fag and you just… just congratulate him?”
“That’s not a very nice word,” Singh said, his diction precise. “What’s the matter, McAlister—does it offend your manhood that a gay man is a better player than you?”
“What offends me,” McAlister snarled, his face contorted and ugly in a way that Skip found truly frightening, “is that this cocksucker and his little butt-buddy have run this team into the ground like it’s some sort of blow job buffet! Jesus, Keith, your little boyfriend can’t play for shit, and you just keep putting him on the front line like he can blow us into first place again!”
They had to pull Skipper off of him.
One moment he was standing there, letting all of that irrational hatred roll off his back, and seriously wondering when rec league soccer, a sport made up of guys playing after work to let off steam, became a contender for more than a round of beers after the game.
The next minute McAlister was on the ground hitting Skip’s fists with his face and the entire team was hauling Skip off and telling him that it wasn’t fucking worth it. Carpenter and Owens each held one of Skip’s arms as Jefferson and Menendez pulled McAlister out of the mud.
“He beat you fair and square,” Thomas said over their shoulders. He was a tall guy, all elbows, and he sounded like a schoolteacher should as he lectured. “You tell the police, and we all tell them that you let a gay man pound your nose until it broke.”
Cooper—their shortest player besides Richie—stepped forward and stood in his face. “We’re done here, Mac,” he said seriously. “The rest of the team doesn’t give a shit—and you’ve said too goddamned much. If you ever want to play with us again, we’re going to need a big fucking apology. Otherwise you need to get the fuck off our field.”
Skip watched him slump forward suddenly, like it had never occurred to him that he could lose his team, lose his friends, his peer group, his recreation after work, by buying into the same prejudice his father did. For a moment Skip felt sorry for him—Skip had known what was at risk. He’d been ready to lose all his people.
McAlister had never thought that would happen to him.
“Really?” he asked, sounding puzzled and lost. “Seriously? You’re going to pick a f—”
“You say the F-word again and we will fucking hurt you,” Jimenez snarled, and unlike Menendez, Jimenez actually knew what it was like to live in the not-wonderful part of town. He’d had to fight for his law degree.
“The world has fucking changed,” McAlister muttered. “And not for the better.”
He turned around and stalked off the field, leaving the team breathing hard with adrenaline and excitement.
“Oh holy fucking wow,” Skipper said into the sudden quiet. “You guys—I mean, I sort of hoped you wouldn’t all hate me, but I just never expected that.”
“Well yeah, Skipper,” Galvan and Owens said in tandem. Then Owens continued, although usually he let Galvan do the talking. “I mean, six years we’ve had each other
’s backs. We’re not going to let that go because that asshole suddenly buys a clue. You’re, you know. You and Scoggins are our friends.”
Skip grinned shyly back, and then Thomas snagged a practice ball and started showboating, and Menendez had him pass it over. Carpenter gave Skipper a couple of clean towels so he could wrap his knuckles—and wipe the blood off his cheek, since McAlister had gotten his own blows in—and by the time Skipper had cleaned up, the guys were heavily invested in a game of Hot Potato, the kind where everybody got to play and the only rule was don’t drop the fucking ball.
For the last half hour as the light died and winter took over their little corner of the world, Skipper got to play with his team. When he’d been a little kid hiding in his room, dreaming of a better future and friends, this moment here, friends calling his name and laughing and cheering him on, this moment was the one he’d been dreaming of.
When it was over and everybody had moved to their cars, volunteers helping with the snack table and the ice chest, Skipper stood by his car and looked out over the field as the lights clicked on and the next team started.
Carpenter stood at his elbow, ready to hop in his own car and—his words—go soak in a hot bath and dream of girls with nice pert breasts. “Whatcha thinkin’, Skip?”
Skip turned to him and smiled a little. “I’m thinking this was a really awesome day. I’m going to go share it with Richie.”
Carpenter grinned. “That’s my boy.”
Skip didn’t even go home to change.
A Gateway Drug to Christmas
THE WORLD was full dark by the time Skip turned left on Grant Line. He was very careful not to make the left-hand turn into the scrap yard, and instead drove another half a mile and turned down the long driveway to the house.
In the summer the house was a green oasis of a copse of trees—watered, of course—and a lawn, all in the middle of long grasses that were usually mown as hay. This time of year, if there’d been any rain at all, the hay was still long green grass over star thistle skeletons. The house itself—yellow, two stories, with the little apartment over the garage—was set at an off angle from the road. Anyone coming in could park in a little dirt-and-gravel area by the trees and then circle around to the front walk, which looked south at a ninety-degree angle from the east/west running road. Skip had no idea why anyone would design a house like this—unless it was to be able to ignore the traffic and the vast expanse of nothing that this area still was—but as he parked by the trees, he realized the design had its uses.