Coming Out on the Mountain

by P D Singer

  Even though they were my cousins and teasing was practically baked in, this was probably a good time to demonstrate that I was adult now, and above chanting, “I know what you’ve been doing!” My inner twelve-year-old stayed inner. My inner twenty-three-year-old was more than a little pissed that Kurt and I couldn’t do something similar in my parents’ home.

  They of course, wanted to know more about the incident that led to me getting shot, which we deflected by pointing out that it was headed to trial (eventually, some year) and we really couldn’t discuss it. Kurt breathed a sigh of relief when the subject turned to jobs, more football, and a discussion of restaurants.

  Great company any time, and Kurt melded right in with the cousins.

  Dinner tasted of sage and maple syrup, of turkey and the tang of the cranberries. Kurt met the first forkful of mashed rutabaga and the spinach souffle, both Landon family holiday traditions since before even Dad could remember, with first a quizzical chew and then great gusto. It all tasted like home, and love.

  Alexis shot a crusty look at the back of her sister-in-law Megan’s head. Megan sat at the counter in the kitchen, supervising two of the niblings. Guess I had another topic to dread, because Alexis began to heave herself to her feet. “I suppose I should see if Mom wants something.”

  Dead silence. Guess she’d missed the excitement.

  “Sit down, there’s nothing to check.” I spoke up before she got all the way to the edge of her chair. Even if the old bat was still here, Aunt Patrice shouldn’t expect a pregnant woman to wait on her hand and foot. Megan hadn’t moved for a reason.

  “Oh, Mom will want something.” Alexis, a very pretty brunette glowing with a pregnancy a lot farther along than Shari’s assessment of mere showing, sounded resigned. “And my sister-in-law is sitting on her ass.”

  “You sit too. Aunt Patrice probably wants a lot of things right now, but Aunt Diane made her and the step-hole leave.” Ivy put her hand on Alexis’s arm, stopping her forward scoot. “You missed the fun.”

  Alexis scooted back much faster than she’d ooched forward. “Caleb and I were downstairs talking with Uncle Geoff. What happened?”

  “I happened, I guess.” Kurt took the blame. “Ed and I made a wager, and I won. He didn’t much like that.”

  “Let me guess, he tried to weasel out of paying?” Caleb lifted an eyebrow.

  “I gave him an out, but the consensus was he needed to pony up.” Kurt shrugged. “And he got a bit heated about it.”

  “He got nasty with Gramps.” Ivy’s voice went flat.

  “Oh.” Alexis’s voice went equally flat. “I thought the step-hole got the message last time.”

  “Apparently not. But Kurt was so nice about not collecting that Ed didn’t really have much choice.” Ivy stabbed an innocent green bean with her fork. “It was beautiful.”

  Also intentional. I’d known even as the words came out of Kurt’s mouth what they were designed to do.

  “How much did you take off him?” Alexis turned to Kurt, her eyes alight.

  “A hundred,” Kurt admitted. “He set the stakes.”

  “Hah!” Alexis and Caleb both laughed, and Alexis smirked. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Bet he was drinking your Dad’s good stuff too.”

  “He asked Aunt Patrice to bring him Bookers.” I knew what the good stuff ran. I’d spent the $80 on a bottle for Dad’s Christmas gift, back when I was still a dependent and not paying my own rent.

  “Of course he did.” Caleb snorted. “What he brought was Old Paint-thinner.” He reached over to clap Kurt on the shoulder. “Kurt, my man, welcome to the family.”

  We finally got to pie time. While Kurt carried our plates into the kitchen, and Ivy started a pot of coffee to rival Lake Michigan, I armed myself with a knife and a pie server, intending to set out pieces of sweet deliciousness for whoever still had room for dessert.

  I’d dismembered the blueberry pie first. The pumpkin pies were too pretty to cut.

  Three pies with creamy fillings had piles of pastry acorns and leaves artfully tumbled over the custard. The golden-brown foliage twinkled with sugar crystals. Putting a knife to that would destroy beauty for the base purpose of eating.

  I yearned to put that pie in my mouth, and I couldn’t bear to desecrate such masterpieces.

  Another pie-minded individual joined me at the counter, an old man whom I didn’t know and hadn’t had a chance to speak with yet. He’d witnessed the altercation with Ed, if I remembered correctly, from the far side of the sectional, and he’d eaten in the dining room at the table with Gramps, Mom, and Dad, plus Great-Grandmother Viola and more aunts and uncles.

  I raised and lowered my knife three times, hesitating to make the first cut. I caught his eye. “These are the most gorgeous pies I’ve ever seen. How can I possibly cut into them?”

  “Firmly,” he advised. “I’m glad you like them.”

  “They’re spectacular.” His comment penetrated my bemusement as taking credit. “Did you bring these?”

  “Yes. I made them.”

  “Wow.”

  He smiled at my assessment, his face lighting up. He must have been good looking in his youth, and age had given distinction to what might have been too much cuteness for an earlier time. He still had a lot of hair, trimmed neatly to make white waves over his forehead.

  Now I was really stuck. “I hate to make you watch me carve these up.”

  “Seeing the evanescence of the work is the sad fate of the retired pastry chef. I made them to be eaten.” He took the knife to expertly dissect out even slices, the pastry acorns crumbling only a little under the blade. “I’m Floyd Engleman, by the way. Friend of Ray’s.”

  He looked younger than Gramps, older than the parents, so being here as my grandfather’s guest made sense. “I’m Jake Landon. Rich and Diane’s son. Glad to meet you.”

  “Glad to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He wielded the knife and pie server while I passed dessert plates for loading.

  “I hope everyone had a chance to admire these.”

  “There will be more at Christmas.” Floyd deposited another slice of pie on the dessert plate. We’d loaded all the china dessert plates and I’d started on the stack of the everyday Franciscanware with the pink roses, though the counter was a little full. If I left Floyd to cope with the pies as he was so clearly capable of doing, I could start the plate distribution.

  “Awesome. Sounds like you’ve been incorporated into the family since I was home last.” I cast a glance at Kurt, who’d come for plates of pie.

  “I can take these out.” He managed to grab two plates in each hand.

  “Smallest slice for Great-Grandmother Viola. She only wants a bite and hates waste.” I’d cut a piece not quite thin enough to read through—she’d sent her plate back to me before with a gentle chiding for the enormity of the serving.

  “Gotcha.” He eyed the plates for the smallest serving and did a double take on the pie and a half yet to be cut. “Those decorations are amazing.”

  “Meet the pastry chef.” One more introduction nailed, though we might not see the man again until next year, or at all. “Floyd Engleman, friend of my Gramps. This is Kurt Carlson, my fellow forest ranger and ski instructor.” I wanted to show off his achievements that outshone pies, without going into territory where he felt I devolved into fanboy.

  “I didn’t realize you were a ski instructor. That never came up in conversation.” Floyd cut another perfectly symmetrical slice.

  “No, not me. I meant Kurt is a ski instructor and we were rangers.” Kurt had taken me from beginner to competent advanced intermediate in one season, but I’d never make an instructor, let alone the racer Kurt had been.

  “In the event I want to risk my new hip, I know who to call.” Floyd’s eyes twinkled. “Good to meet you, Kurt.”

  Elliott joined us for pie-shuttling, and helped us play waiter with desserts, a role that would be taken
over by the next generation of Landons and Landon adjacents when they were old enough to be trusted not to drop the slices into the carpeting.

  I came back with another handful of plates to take into the living room to find Kurt deep in conversation with Great-Grandmother Viola, a lady of gossamer wrinkles and unshakable good humor. He perched sideways on the dining chair Uncle Steve had abandoned for the next football game. I didn’t know what they spoke of—their heads were together and they looked conspiratorial, more so when Great Grandma took Kurt’s hand in both of hers and whispered something that made him smile. First time I’d seen his dimple since we rolled out of bed this morning, a thousand miles away and too many hours ago.

  Looked like Kurt was working the famous charm on her, or maybe she on him: Great-Grandmother Viola acquired entire families. She’d acquired us about thirty-five years ago when she married Gramps’s father, our late Great-Grandfather Pete. I’d never known a life without her and hoped it would be many years before time did its evil work.

  But she and Kurt had definitely acquired each other—she leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek. Hope she’d be willing to do that again when she knew the whole story between me and my guest.

  The evening wound down and the stack of dishes in the kitchen grew as pie was eaten and coffee finished. A fierce game of Scrabble raged between the aunts, who I swear studied words with high-point letters for weeks before the holidays. Family and guests found their coats and trickled out. I didn’t know how many were staying here—this house could accommodate seven guests without invoking sleeping bags.

  Shari started the dishwater running. I found a towel to tuck into my waistband barkeep style, and dug out plastic tubs and cling wrap to tackle the food. Kurt took over packaging leftover feast, so I scraped the plates and loaded the dishwasher while Shari lovingly handwashed the elegant bone china with the gray roses and silver rims. The three of us had the kitchen restored to its pre-celebration condition while Mom and Dad chatted with the remaining company in the living room. Family interrupted our work to say their goodbyes, and Kurt was included in every farewell, sometimes with hugs.

  I loved them all a little more for accepting him. But would it hold?

  CHAPTER 7

  The house went quiet about the time we wiped the last counter and shook the tablecloths out the back door into the chilly evening, dark already. The winter birds could feast on the crumbs.

  Mom came into the kitchen. “Thank you, darlings. You did a great job and made this whole day possible.” She hugged me, then Shari, and then Kurt. “I’m exhausted. We’ll have tomorrow to play Scrabble and catch up on all the news.”

  “Sounds good.” Scrabble and turkey sandwiches, and hopefully a family willing to be five when they’d been four.

  “You don’t go shopping on Black Friday?” Kurt asked.

  Mom shuddered. “There’s nothing I want badly enough to risk the hordes. Is that something you wanted to do?” She glanced at me with a clear command of Your guest, your shopping trip.

  I didn’t want to get out of bed before the sun came up, but for Kurt, I would.

  It was Kurt’s turn to shudder. “I can think of several things I’d rather do than join the hordes, starting with dropping a bowling ball on my foot.”

  I didn’t know I could love the man any harder, but I did. We should have talked about this back in Denver, but for me, this year’s Black Friday meant risking my heart and family with the truth.

  Shari laughed. “The lure of cheap consumer goods has no hold on you?”

  Kurt shook his head. “I’ve never spent the holiday in a big city. There have to be a thousand other things more fun to do than fight over a ninety-nine-dollar TV that I’d have to ship at twice the price.”

  Mom laughed. “I think you’ll find lots to do.” She kissed us all good night and headed to the back of the house.

  Dad came into the kitchen holding a last stray wineglass, with pink lipstick marks to be scrubbed off. I took the dirty crystal from him and stuck it under the tap. “I got it, guys.” I exchanged a significant glance with Kurt. He had my back, but this was something I had to do alone.

  He nodded and said goodnight to everyone, getting a “Sleep well” from Dad.

  Shari hugged Dad. “Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?”

  “Not lately, but it’s always good to hear.” Dad squeezed her and glanced to me. “I love you both, and it’s very good to have you home.”

  Shari squeezed him again and disappeared, leaving me alone with my father.

  I wasn’t going to get a better opportunity than in a quiet house and the tail-end of tryptophan coma. I’d been tied to trees, trapped in fires, and forced to ski near-vertical slopes beyond my skill, and I’d rather try any of those again rather than what I had to do next. “Dad? Can we sit down for a couple of minutes? There’s something I need to tell you.”

  He went tense. Those words never meant something good, did they? His voice remained even, like he could defuse the whatever by making no sudden moves. “Sure.”

  Dad pulled up a chair at the four-seater rustic table in the kitchen, lately the scene of the youngest niblings’ Thanksgiving feast. “What’s on your mind?”

  I turned off most of the lights and turned the dimmer down on the light over the table. Maybe this would be easier in the more intimate atmosphere of the nearly darkened kitchen. One last second’s activity to put this off.

  I’d pushed this conversation into the indefinite future for as long as I’d understood what my inclinations were. The pie, delicious as it was pretty, made itself known as a horrible mistake, fighting with the turkey and sending sloshes of acid up as far as my throat. I burned, I cramped, and I just knew my voice would shake the minute I opened my mouth. If I could even get the words out past the lump growing in my throat, or make them audible over the thudding of my racing heart.

  This was showtime. I could never unsay the words, any more than Kurt could unshoot the arrow he’d loosed into my shoulder. My regrets might be as large as his.

  I fell more than sat in the captain’s chair on the other side of the narrow table. The metal and pottery suns and moons on the pale yellow wall gazed down on me, waiting as patiently as Dad for me to find my voice.

  What the hell could I do with my hands? Finally clasping them together on the top of the table under Dad’s calm eye, my knuckles went white. I had nothing to hold on to except for myself, and I was a shaky anchor.

  “Are you all right, son?” Dad asked.

  I shook my head, because my cottonmouth soaked up all the words.

  He reached out to lay his hand atop mine. His hands had always been gentle with me, helpful. Loving and guiding. If he took his hand away once I found my words, I don’t think I could bear it. I could make something up about school, a class, or a professor, I could…

  Then I could go back to my room and tell Kurt he was stuck in the closet with me until I found more courage.

  “Did you get someone pregnant?”

  Dear God, I lost it. A hysterical bark of laughter leaped from my mouth. More followed. Someone should slap me, I didn’t think I’d ever stop. Pregnant? Hah hah, oh jeez. Pregnant. Pregnant?

  I finally wound down, collapsed until my forehead touched the back of Dad’s hand. I forced myself to sit up and take long deep breaths. At least I had a voice now.

  “No, Dad, I assure you that’s not the problem. Kind of the opposite.”

  If I’d ever left myself open for a dad joke, that was it, but he didn’t take the cheap shot. He regarded me steadily, with nothing but love and concern in his eyes, and squeezed my hands.

  I’d practiced my announcement, I’d written out a dozen nice roundabout speeches, I’d sweated over how to say what I needed to say. But after that, there was nothing else to do but blurt out, “Dad, I’m gay.”

  And wait.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dad didn’t say anything, but his hand tightened
on mine.

  It might have only been a few seconds, but a million years passed at a slow crawl before his lips began to move.

  “Okay.”

  Just “Okay”? For an announcement that had eaten me alive from the inside? I stared at him, trying to find the real reaction.

  “That cost you a lot to tell me. But it’s okay.” Dad smiled at me, that barest curve of the lips for comforting. “You’re Jake, you’re my son, and I love you.”

  The white noise grew loud in my ears, and the world got a little swimmy. I lost a thousand-pound weight off my shoulders at the same time that gravity threatened to smack me to the floor.

  He didn’t take his hand away. No, he added the other, and anchored me until the world came back into focus.

  “And I think I may have failed as a father,” he said.

  Wait, what? It’s all okay, but it’s because of his failure to mold me into a proper man? I jerked bolt upright. The churn in my gut started up again, ready to spew the meal.

  “I must have done something wrong for you to be so afraid to tell me, or to make you think telling me would change my love for you.” His smile grew sad. “I’m sorry for that.”

  Emotional whiplash was gonna put me in a foam collar before this night was out. “Don’t say that.” The boulder in my throat wouldn’t swallow down, but I forced the words out anyway. “I think it was more me than you.”

  “Even so.” Dad’s voice was soft. “You’ve been tense, and there’s been an underlying unhappiness. Or maybe wariness, every time we talk. I hope it was just from keeping this secret.”

  “Yeah. I think it was.” I had to guard my words in every conversation, lest I give away that Kurt was more than a work partner, more than a roommate. That home was where he was, not this suburban house where I’d grown up.