by Jackie North
"You have enough to feed four people," said Clayton, as he sat down, his bare toes curling on the linoleum.
"And I've been looking forward to this," added Kyle. He brought over a plate of bacon stacked high enough to feed a small army of giants. "I don't get many visitors, and was looking forward to playing host. You know?"
"I guess so," said Clayton. He thought about how brusque he'd been over the phone when he'd been driving, and while he had been very honest, he'd not been very kind. So he amended what he'd said. "That is, I don't really know what playing host would be like, but that bacon sure looks good."
"You should start eating it," said Kyle. He began ladling out the oatmeal into two large bowls, and brought those over to the table, then the pot of coffee, which he placed on a round, brass trivet. This was followed by a pitcher of cream, a bowl of sugar, a jar of raspberry jam, and a squeeze bottle in the shape of a bear full of honey.
"Eat up, I mean it," said Kyle. He pointed to the woven basket of oranges that still sat on the counter. "The table is full of food for you to enjoy."
"And you," said Clayton, gesturing to the other seat. He couldn't abide it if Kyle stood around serving him for the entire meal.
He snagged several pieces of bacon and put them on the little plate that was by his bowl. Then he added butter and sugar to his oatmeal while Kyle poured a cup of coffee into a thick china mug. When he took a bite of the oatmeal, he nearly moaned.
"Wow, this is really good."
"I cook it slow," said Kyle, his mouth full of bacon. "That's the best way."
They were silent as they ate. The room was full of good smells, of coffee and crisp bacon, tinged with the sweetness of butter and sugar. Outside the kitchen window over the sink, the snow was coming down hard, still, a slanted curtain of white on white, grey along the edges and glowing in the center as if backlit from some distant light. The heat from the furnace churned steadily through the metal grates in the floorboards, and it was as cozy a setting as Clayton had experienced in a long, long time.
When they were finished, and the last bit of bacon had been eaten, Kyle stood up and started clearing the table. Clayton helped him as best he could without getting in the way, and handed over dishes to be put in the dishwasher. Which, when Kyle turned it on, churned in a low, satisfying way.
Clayton could only watch as Kyle wiped down the counters and the table, as there only seemed to be one sponge in sight. Then, when Kyle started sweeping the floor, Clayton was overcome with a dose of just-about-too-much domesticity.
"I probably should shave and get dressed and go dig out my car," said Clayton, as he scratched his chin with his fingers.
"You could shave, for sure," said Kyle as he rinsed the sponge in a stream of hot water and began wiping down the sink. "But you'd be one foolish mountain man to imagine that it'd make a bit of difference to start doing that when it's not yet stopped snowing."
Finished at the sink, Kyle placed the sponge on a small wire rack near the sink, and took a paper towel to wipe his hands, turning to Clayton.
"But until it stops snowing, which might take a few days, they won't plow the road to the interstate," said Kyle. "And that can take a whole day."
"What's today?" asked Clayton, having completely lost track.
"It's Christmas Eve Day," said Kyle with that blue-eyed expression Clayton was coming to know reflected Kyle's every intention was to be kind, even while he was delivering bad news. "Christmas is tomorrow."
"I'm going to miss it," said Clayton. His voice came out utterly flat, and the weight of broken promises and missed chances came at him like a blow. "I'm really going to miss it. I tried so hard—"
"You did, and you are, I'm sorry," said Kyle. "I'm sorry you're stuck here with me in the middle of nowhere. Yeah, Nowheresville, U.S.A."
Kyle reached to take the coffee pot back to the stove, and there was a small sad quirk to his mouth that spoke volumes to Clayton. Kyle had friends that were planning to come out, but they couldn't make it. And now he was stuck playing host to an idiot of a mountain man who definitely wanted to be someplace else.
Had Clayton not needed shelter, then at this very moment, Kyle would be on his own staring at all the food that would go to waste, and standing in the middle of a decorated living room that nobody but him would ever see.
On the other hand, with as bad as the weather and the drive had been the day before, Clayton would have ended up being stuck in some un-Christmasy motel in the middle of nowhere, rather than in this bounteous house full of joy and warmth and Christmas cheer. Kyle had saved him from his own bad choices, so now it was time for Clayton to be a good guest. The best guest Kyle had ever had.
"Hey," said Clayton. "Let me tell you something."
"What?" asked Kyle. He leaned against the sink and poured himself a cup of coffee and stirred some sugar into it, letting the spoon clink along the inside of the mug.
"My sister Sarah married a guy six months ago, and I didn't go to the wedding on account of family stuff, but he's a great guy. His name is Luke."
"And?"
"And he said last night that he'll wait Christmas for me, however long it takes," said Clayton, putting as much earnestness into his voice as he could. "My nephew Shawn will get to open a couple of presents every day, so he won't have to wait for that part." Clayton gave a little laugh and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, which he realized was practically standing straight up. "They're going to hold everything till I get there, so I'm not going to miss a thing. In the meantime—"
Kyle was standing there with the white china mug halfway to his mouth, his eyes so very blue and wide that Clayton wanted to stare at them and do nothing else for a good long while.
"In the meantime, you saved my bacon last night, and this house—" Clayton stopped and waved his hand at the bright and cheery yellow and white kitchen, and then to the living room where the tree and decorations gleamed in the low morning light. Even unplugged, they promised good cheer and peace among mankind, just like they ought.
"This house is amazing. I think your friends, Brent and Richard, are missing out, and I think they know they're missing out. So why don't you and I do what you'd planned to do with those guys. What was that? What was the first thing?"
"We were going to—" Kyle stopped and held his own face in the palm of his hand, as though overcome with the idea of it all, even though he must have been planning every moment of his friends' stay with him down to the minute. "We were going to pop popcorn, and string it to put around the tree while watching every single version of A Christmas Carol."
"Even the Mr. Magoo version?" asked Clayton, his eyebrows rising.
"Of course," said Kyle with some emphasis. "That's the best one, really."
Kyle shrugged as he put the coffee mug in the kitchen sink, as if he expected Clayton to mock him for this.
"It is," said Clayton. "It's an oldie but a goodie." He'd never seen it, but he knew that it existed, but maybe Kyle didn't need to know that truth just yet. "And the Muppets one," he added. That one he did know, because he'd watched it with Shawn at least a dozen times.
"That one's good too," said Kyle, and the smile was coming back into his eyes. "Are you just humoring me?" he asked.
"Not really," said Clayton. "I'm here, you're here, the house is here. You did all this work. If you're willing to have me as a guest until the roads clear—"
"Yes, of course," said Kyle, somewhat sternly. "You're welcome for as long as it takes."
"Thank you," said Clayton. "But I should pay you for the food and stuff—"
"Too bad for you," said Kyle, with the same spirit he'd shown the day before, chin raised, a flash of passion in those blue eyes. "Everything's free and you can't pay for any of it."
Clayton thought to argue with him about it, but then realized that it would be rude. Kyle wanted to play Christmas host, and Clayton had already promised himself he'd be the best sort of guest, which really meant that he needed to be the best sort of Christm
as guest, whatever that was. Well, he'd play it by ear and do his best, which was all anybody could really ask of him.
"I can help with stuff, then," said Clayton. "Let me do that at least. I can cut and bring in firewood, take out the trash, uh—" He waved his hands in front of him helplessly, as what was really involved with being a Christmas guest was beyond him, however in earnest he was. "I can shovel the walk, fix any plumbing problems—"
"All the manful stuff, I see," said Kyle with an arched brow.
"I can wrap presents, too," said Clayton, laughing. "And sew buttons back on! I have mad skills, you'll see."
Kyle laughed out loud at this and, perhaps without thinking, walked towards Clayton and patted him on the shoulder as he went to the pantry. The touch of his hand left a warm trace that lingered.
"I do have a sink in the other bathroom that drips," said Kyle as he hunted through the pantry. "But first, let's make popcorn and string it for the tree."
"Do we get to eat any?" asked Clayton, for though he wasn't hungry, he loved popcorn.
"Of course," said Kyle. "With garlic butter."
"Oh, man," said Clayton. "That sounds perfect."
And it was perfect. While the blizzard raged outside, swooping around the windows and moaning as though it wanted to be let in, the inside of the house was perfectly cozy. They popped popcorn in a big kettle with a crank handle on it, and Kyle melted butter with garlic salt and poured it over a large bowl of the stuff. Which still left enough plain white popcorn to put on string for three trees.
One after the other, every version of A Christmas Carol played on the flat screen TV on the wall next to the tree, and though some of the branches got in the way, that was okay. It was the sound they listened to while they worked, with Kyle cross-legged on the couch and Clayton on the floor, having shaved and found his socks. The room was warm and was scented with the pomander that Kyle had made by sticking clove buds in one of the oranges.
They stopped working to have lunch, which was roast beef sandwiches and potato chips. After which, Clayton, feeling a sense of needing fresh air, suggested they go check the mail.
Kyle's expression, with his quirked eyebrows and dubious frown, was hysterical, but he bundled up along with Clayton, loaned him a hat, scarf, and a pair of gloves, and the two of them stomped into the snow, even though it was obvious that the mail truck had not been by all day and probably would not for several days.
They breathed through their scarves as they trudged through the knee-deep snow, their heads bent to the wind, and laughed as they touched the metal mail box and ran back to the house as though playing a game of tag with it in the howling snow. Clayton totally ignored the white mound that was his car as they banged their boots on the steps to knock off the worst of the snow.
Then, after they'd gone inside and, all warmed up from their exertions, hung up their coats and took off their boots, Kyle made hot chocolate. This was from scratch of course, with good cocoa powder and a dollop of real cream to make it thick and sweet. They drank that and watched some more of A Christmas Carol, and Clayton felt his head tipping back on the couch, in spite of his best efforts to participate in what was surely the most magical Christmas Eve Day he'd spent in a long, long time.
He half opened his eyes as he heard Kyle get up and go down the hall toward the bedrooms. When he came back, he was carrying a red wool blanket that he laid over Clayton. Then he took the mug from Clayton's hand.
"Here's a pillow," said Kyle, and Clayton felt one being tucked behind his head.
"What are you going to do?" asked Clayton, his eyes closing, his body suffused with warmth and ease.
"I'm going to read a book about mountain men," said Kyle. "I got this one for myself for Christmas, and today's the day. It's really good, you'd like it—"
Clayton's eyes felt like lead weights, and Kyle's voice became a soothing pattern in the back of his mind. He fell asleep, half sitting up, half leaned against the arm of the chair, as if he'd known Kyle forever and knew he wouldn't mind.
Chapter 8
The afternoon began with Kyle's phone ringing, which woke Clayton up. He sat up with a start, blinking, pushing the red woolen blanket down to his knees as he watched Kyle answer it.
"Hey, Sheriff Bob," said Kyle, and by the smile on his face, Clayton knew right away that nothing was wrong. "You got a call from who? Oh, yes, that's Clayton's sister, she's—yes, she's worried on account of I answered her ad on Craigslist and now her brother is here with me. No, Brent and Richard couldn't make it, but at least none of my plans are going to waste."
Kyle listened for a while. Then he held out the phone to Clayton, walking over to hand it to him.
"He wants to talk to you," said Kyle. "Evidently folks are quite worried that you're an axe murderer or something. They've been watching too much news, I think."
Clearing his throat, Clayton took the phone. He was unsure what he might say if he was accused of being an axe murderer.
"Hello?" he said.
"This is Sheriff Bob Flanders of Morgan County," said a hearty voice that had a trace of military training in it. "Is this Clayton?"
"Yes, it is, sir," said Clayton. He stood up, sweeping the red blanket around his shoulders to keep it from falling to the floor. "What can I do for you?"
"Got a call," said Sheriff Bob. "A woman named Sarah wanted me to check on you. She was worried about our very own software developer, Kyle, who wouldn't pull a hair on a bug's head, let alone hurt anybody. But she was insistent, and I calmed her down some. Now, I've been enjoined by several folks in town to call and make sure that you, Clayton, are on the up and up. Got any nefarious plans I should know about?"
"No sir," said Clayton. He felt like he should salute. "I was on my way to my sister Sarah's house in Parker for Christmas Eve, but I got about this far, and Kyle opened his door to me."
"Did you already string the popcorn?" asked Sheriff Bob, sounding very well apprised of Kyle's hosting schedule for the holidays. "For the tree."
"Yes, we did sir, though I ate a good bit of it myself."
"And watch every version of A Christmas Carol there ever was?"
"Yes, sir," said Clayton, with all the seriousness he could muster. "We got through most of them and we're planning to watch the Mr. Magoo one twice, I think."
"That's the best one, really," said Sheriff Bob and Clayton could almost hear him nodding. "Make sure you help him with those Christmas tree lights, as Ed over at the hardware store has been getting complaints that the little ones get shorted out. Anyway, fair enough. You don't sound like you mean him any harm, but I'm here to tell you that if something does happen to him on account of you, I'll be slapping handcuffs on you so fast, your wrists will burn. You got me?"
"I got you, sir," said Clayton. "And I'm glad—"
He meant to go on in a funny way, to make a joke because the way the sheriff was going on, he felt like laughing. But it really was touching that the local law was so protective of Kyle, that indeed, it seemed the whole town knew about Kyle's guests and his plans to entertain them. He swallowed the thickness that had suddenly risen in his throat.
"I'm glad you're looking out for him, sir, and I promise, I'll be the best Christmas guest he's ever had."
"I'm counting on you, Clayton," said Sheriff Bob. "Well, have a good rest of your holiday, son. Goodbye."
Clayton clicked the phone off and held it out to Kyle, who took it in both hands.
"Best Christmas guest?" asked Kyle, his eyebrows rising, that quirky twist of his mouth turning into a smile.
"Well, you're the Best Christmas host, right?" asked Clayton, smiling in return. It was almost like he couldn't help the joy that rose up within him.
"At least so far," said Kyle, and a lovely blush appeared on his cheeks, as though he wasn't used to compliments.
"Definitely," said Clayton. "Now, I'm supposed to help you with the Christmas lights as Ed over at the hardware store says that sometimes they short out. Got any spare bulbs?"
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"Yes?" said Kyle, his voice rising. "How do you know the name of the guy at the hardware store is Ed?"
"Sheriff Bob told me all about it," said Clayton. He shrugged the blanket, which was the exact soft red wool kind that he'd been thinking about, from his shoulders and folded it neatly, well, mostly neatly, and placed it on the couch. "He also told me you wouldn't pull a hair on a bug's head. I didn't even know bugs had hair." He chuckled to himself and smiled as he scratched his chin, hoping Kyle would join in.
Sure enough, Kyle did, his laugh tilting his head back, and the curve of his mouth and the sparkle in his eyes was a delight to see.
"The ones in cartoons do," said Kyle, smiling. "Are you hungry?"
"Getting there," said Clayton. "But I really wish you'd let me help. I make a mean grilled cheese."
"Maybe tomorrow," said Kyle. "The plan is to finish stringing the popcorn, have waffles, and then put the popcorn strings on the tree with a nice fire going."
"I could bring in wood, if you'd let me." Clayton's offer was in earnest. He couldn't stand the thought of not helping, not after all that Kyle had done for him.
"You could if you borrow my coat and bundle up," said Kyle, though he looked dubious at Clayton's ability to follow even this simple condition.
Obediently, Clayton did as he was told, putting on Kyle's much thicker, much more winter-hardy coat, and then the borrowed hat, scarf and gloves. Lacing up his boots, he stepped out into the blowing wind and snow, ducking his head and holding his breath for a minute while his body adjusted to the temperature.
The cold outside was a stark contrast to the warmth inside, and the sky was growing dark, with only a grey-purple smear where the sun was going down to indicate which direction was west. All else was a shifting dull white whir of snow with the wind gusting hard, trying to steal his breath away. Briskly, he grabbed an armful of wood from the pile on the side of the house and dumped it on the concrete steps. Then he grabbed another armful, and put that on the step, so they wouldn't run out.