by Teresa Toten
After a seemingly interminable wait for coffee ordering, sorting, running back for waters and a round of biscotti for the table, Chuck raised his large cappuccino, extra-dry. “To us. Good work this semester, lots of—” He did a quick scan of the room to make sure that no one else was paying attention. “Lots of good progress. I wish you all great holidays, and I want you to know that you’re a terrific group of … well, you guys are awesome, and I mean that.”
“Aw hell, he likes us better than his other nutjobs.” Snooki raised her cup.
“To us!” offered Green Lantern. This was followed by clumsy cup-tapping, cheering and coffee spilling.
Even though he was unsure of the protocol, Adam also raised his cup and cleared his throat. “And I propose a toast to our teacher, healer and shrink, Dr. Chuck Mutinda, who’s responsible for making us the superheroes we are today.”
Thor came in with a “Hear, hear” so deep and rumbling that it sounded like a subway was running underneath them.
None of them quite knew what to do with the new Thor. His mouth was set in less of a grimace—if not a smile, then some neutral expression, which on Thor exuded goodwill. Robyn mouthed “That was so sweet” at Adam from across the table. He did not think his world could get any better.
Then he took a swig of his Americano.
That he did not projectile-spit it out was a testament to his love for Robyn. That he did not cough violently was a testament to his fear of Thor. Instead Adam gulped. It was like black tar thinned with diesel fuel and flavoured with essence of dirty socks.
“How’s your coffee, Batboy?” asked Wolverine.
“Rich,” he said, taking another gulp. “Good.”
“The superhero stuff was inspired, Chuck.” Wonder Woman said this so softly that everyone leaned in. “And it’s kind of a hoot when you think about how the identities either line up to us or are, like, the exact opposite of us.”
“What do you mean, WW?” asked Wolverine.
“Well.” She took a sip from her black coffee, and Adam noticed that she was jiggling her left leg. She did that a lot in Group too. “Well, you’re a bit of a hypochondriac, right? And Wolverine has this magical healing factor.”
“Hmm …” Wolverine folded his arms. “I grudgingly concede your point.”
“And, like, Iron Man’s alter ego is a billionaire super-cool playboy,” said Iron Man. “And I … well, let’s face it, me not so much.”
“Yeah, and Green Lantern’s alter ego is always facing down his fears,” said Tyrone about his namesake, “while I just wish I could. And, and Captain America was like a frail little kid who was super-enhanced to the point of human perfection, and old Jacob here, he could do with a bit of enhancing.”
Captain America threw a wad of napkins at him.
“And Thor …” continued Wolverine unwisely.
Sharp intake of breath all around.
Adam took another gulp of goo before declaring, “Mighty Thor is forever exiled from his homeland and therefore slips in and out of Warrior’s Madness. Nuff said, right, Thor?”
Thor growled.
“We’re definitely a sketchy mash-up of the Justice League and the Avengers.” Adam took another deep swig of liquid dirt and willed his eyes not to water. “We should franchise. Am I right, or am I right?” Was he talking too loud?
“Damn straight, our ever-so-dark-and-handsome Dark Knight!” Snooki leaned over to high-five him, her breasts not quite delivering on the promise of tumbling out of her tube top.
Once the male superheroes got over that particular disappointment, the two Leagues settled back into little groups to dissect holiday plans, potential Christmas gifts and medication variations. Adam was buzzing with his newfound … well, he was just buzzing.
When it was time to leave, Robyn took Adam by the arm and drew him aside. “I’m not walking today.”
She was mad? Was it the Snooki thing? He shouldn’t have looked; she must have caught him looking. No, she was smiling at him. Why was she smiling at him? Thank God she had such a supremo smile, because if she didn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to take his eyes off her chest. Snooki’s seriously ample tube top had re-alerted him to the potential wonders of that real estate and now he couldn’t un-alert himself.
“I’m meeting my dad at his office and then I’m going to help him buy the four presents he has to buy each year, including mine.”
“Oh yeah, sure. Well, yeah, yeah, yeah, but see … thing is.” Thing is, Adam wanted to give her his present. He had bought a small crystal bottle. It reminded him of her as soon as he saw it in the antiques store window on Greene Street. The antiques guy said it was for perfume, but Adam had filled it with holy water from the church. Well, Father Rick had filled it for him. And Adam thought it was such a fine present that it might be deserving of a kiss. Never mind might—for sure it would be deserving of a kiss. Kisses, even. Multiple kisses. Yes! Kisses, kisses, kisses. Adam’s heart galloped at a speed unknown to him, even in mid-anxiety. “So I was actually thinking that, before you said you couldn’t … I mean, I was thinking that I wanted to, but then you said, and I understand, but …” Adam had that sinking feeling that he was making less than no sense.
“But”—Robyn touched his arm again, interrupting his high-speed bumbling—“but I hoped you’d come over one day. To my house, I mean. Over the holidays?”
He was stupefied into stone. Then he erupted again because he heard Thor’s grrrarruh somewhere in the distance. “Sure! Absolutely great. Yeah sure, you bet! Are you kidding!” Adam nodded so forcefully it felt like his head was going to fall off and roll under a table. What was the matter with him? “Great, great, great!” He was shivering but only on the inside. And he wanted to dance. He wanted to hold her close and dance. Where did one go to learn how to dance?
Wolverine, who had been bantering with the superheroes, socked Adam in the shoulder. Why did guys do that? “So Merry Christmas, Batboy, and see you in the new year, kid.”
Kid? Kid! Who is he calling a kid?
Adam wanted to slug him, was going to slug him, and would have slugged him for sure, except that he had to pee real bad.
Wolverine turned to Robyn. “Heard you’re going downtown. Me too. Let’s catch the subway together.”
That’s it! Just as he was winding up to hit him, Robyn put her hand on Adam’s again. “So call me, Batman.” She said that loud. The whole coffee shop heard. More importantly, Wolverine heard.
Adam wanted to jump up and down, really needed to jump up and down.
Then she leaned into him. “It’s the coffee. Don’t worry, it’ll pass.” And she winked.
He’d never seen that before. Well, not in real life. He winked back and then couldn’t stop.
Still winking, Adam looked up and over to Thor, hoping to catch him as he left. Thor looked disgusted.
People hugged him and punched him and shook his hand while wishing him the best holidays ever. And even though he felt like he was going to bust a kidney, couldn’t stop twitching and his heart kept revving, Adam couldn’t remember ever feeling this good. Coffee. Why had no one ever told him about coffee? Like, damn! He could conquer the world on coffee. Maybe Robyn would make him some at her house. He was going to call her and they would arrange a time for him to come over!
It had to be a date, for sure it was a date—calling and time-arranging sounded definitely date-like. It was official: they were dating.
God he loved coffee.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“It doesn’t last, honey,” his mom said. “I hate to burst your bubble, but your body gets used to the caffeine and the buzz goes bye-bye.” Carmella stood on her tiptoes and kissed Adam’s head. “Hey, cut that out! I can’t reach the top anymore.” She ruffled his hair. “Come here, let your old lady show you how to make a cup of filtered coffee. Use lots of milk and sugar or you won’t get it down.” She plugged in the kettle. “You can practise drinking it non-stop over the holidays so you’ll never get caught shor
t with your friends again.”
“But at the coffee shop—”
“Yeah, I know you said you got down an Americano—straight.” Carmella smiled big, but only with her mouth, not her eyes. “I suspect that had more to do with the object of your affection being there than any real ability to drink that stuff.”
She knew. Somehow, his mom suspected that there was a girl. It was all the showering—he’d bet on it. He should have told her. When had he stopped telling her things? He should tell her now. They could have a “moment.”
The moment passed.
“Now, do you need any help with your Christmas gifts?”
“I got it under control, Mom.”
And he did, at least the present part. Despite his Ativan increase, the escalation of the threshold issues and even an ever-so-slight increase in interior counting, Adam felt certain this would be the best Christmas ever. Maybe other “divorced” kids wrapped themselves in longing for Christmases when they were little and had an “intact” family. But Adam had had enough sessions with Chuck to be clear-eyed about how those family holidays actually went down. Year after year, Christmas was poisoned by arguments and long dirt-dry spells of his parents not talking to each other unless it was through him. There were entire holidays when the three of them were held hostage in the same house, wanting to be anywhere else. His mom would say things like, “Adam, tell your father that if he wants to have dinner waiting on Christmas Eve, he has to give me a clue as to when he might deign to come home.” And his dad would say, “Adam, you can tell your mother that my work doesn’t revolve around a punch-clock. I come home when I’m done, get it?”
He didn’t. Adam never “got it.” To this day, despite all his sessions, he didn’t know what, if any of it, was his fault. Should he have “told,” gotten more traction in the middle? Should he have warned her about the “collecting”? If he knew, why didn’t she? Brenda’s house was all gleaming surfaces, right angles, glass, steel and marble—a cup on a coaster looked wildly out of place—and his father loved that. Even as a little boy, Adam knew that his dad did not like counters cluttered with six kinds of cow-shaped butter dishes. Why didn’t his mom?
He should have warned her. Did he even try?
Chuck used to say that wasn’t his job, that he was just a child. And Adam believed him eventually, and most of the time. So he had no illusions about the magic of a childhood Christmas. But he knew that this would be the best Christmas ever. It would be the Christmas when he got superior, stellar Christmas gifts and gave everyone gifts that were even more amazing.
Yeah, it shouldn’t matter so much.
But it did.
This year’s circuit was Christmas Eve at his mom’s and Christmas Day at Dad’s. The first miracle was that there was no drama or bitching about why and with who and for how long. It just worked.
Both parents had long come to terms with the week-to-week custody stuff, but they usually reverted badly at Christmas—until this Christmas. On December 24 Adam and his mom exchanged gifts when they got back from midnight mass, their first in years. Still, giving his mom anything was always fraught for him. The thought of adding any item to her smothering swamp of stuff bathed him in anxiety. But he gave her a little lacquered black box with a red satin interior. He had unearthed two of them in the antiques shop on Greene Street.
As much as she cooed and oohed over her gift, it couldn’t match how blown away Adam was with his. The big-ticket item was his very own Kindle preloaded with a superior stock of graphic and dystopian novels. “I know the computer stuff is still verboten”—Carmella grabbed his face and kissed him—“but no one said anything about a Kindle, and soon, baby, soon, you’ll be back on smartphones and computers driving me crazy.”
The even bigger-ticket item was garbage bags.
“Wait here, Adam, this is the real present.” His mom disappeared into a section of the dining room that was long past habitable and, with some effort, lugged out two big bags full of garbage. “See, honey, I’m bringing them to the curb right now! And there’s two more. Merry Christmas!”
“Wow, Mom! Let me help.” Adam jumped to his feet.
“No, baby. I need to do this on my own.”
And out Carmella went into the bitter cold night with her shredded slippers. Then she scurried back in and hauled out two more green bags. When his mother returned she promised on her life that she would fill at least two bags a week until the clutter was all gone. “Merry Christmas, Adam Spencer Ross!”
Yet Carmella’s biggest gift was one she didn’t even know she gave. Adam knew his mother had received another letter and kept it from him. She didn’t let on, didn’t react, didn’t freak out. She held it together the whole day. It must have arrived on Christmas Eve with the afternoon mail. Adam only found out when he spotted the torn strips of paper in the garbage. For weeks now he had taken to carefully examining the kitchen trash on a daily basis.
His mom had wanted to give him a great Christmas. She did.
Adam did not fish out the scraps.
On Christmas Day, Adam’s dad presented his son with a very elaborate yet poorly wrapped big box that contained increasingly smaller awkwardly wrapped boxes until he got to a single envelope, which contained a $300 gift certificate for the BattleCraft store in the mall. His dad looked like he was going to burst when Adam immediately called Ben with the news.
Brenda bought him clothes, which sounds lame, except they were clothes that she’d picked up at the TNT store. Adam had grown out of just about every dork non-school outfit he had, and the new T’s and jeans and hoodies were beyond superior. He knew this because his four-year-old, deeply unusual brother always looked way cooler than anyone else on the monkey bars.
Sweetie could not be contained. He flew at Adam with a perfectly wrapped box that he then helpfully proceeded to unwrap for him. It was a Batman Dark Knight beach towel.
“It said ‘Our price $14.99’ and Mrs. Brenda Ross said that I had that much, so she bought it for me online, but I picked it by myself. And I paid, because she took my money. When the doctor lets you, you can go to www.ultimateshirt.com, the Batman Collectibles section.” He galloped around the living room. “I love it. Do you love it? You must love it.”
“I love it to pieces!” Adam tackled him. “It’s totally badass!”
“And if you really want”—Sweetie sighed with all the gravitas of a tenured professor—“I mean, really, really want, you can even take it to your other house with Mrs. Carmella Ross.”
“That’s very generous of you,” said Adam.
“Yes,” he agreed.
Sweetie was pumped about the new dragon night light that Adam had bought him from Pottery Barn. Sweetie loved Pottery Barn.
“It’s our Puff the Magic Dragon, right, Batman?”
“None other,” said Adam.
Adam’s dad had bought Brenda a double strand of pearls that even Adam recognized as beautiful. Usually, his father told Brenda her gift was from both of them, but this year Adam had bought her a present of his own for the first time. His gift was the twin of the black lacquered box that he’d bought for his mom. Brenda acted like he was the one who had given her pearls.
“Oh, Adam!”
“Batman,” corrected Sweetie.
He had done good.
“I’ll treasure it forever. It’s gorgeous and I’m so touched and … well, thank you. Thank you so much.”
On Friday afternoon, December 27, Adam’s dad drove him to Robyn’s house. It was hard to tell who was more wrecked.
“So you got her a gift?” asked his father.
“Yeah, of course I got her a gift.”
“You gift-wrapped it? Girls like gift-wrapping.”
“Yeah, of course I gift-wrapped it. See?” Adam retrieved the little red wrapped box with gold ribbon from his backpack.
“Hmm, good wrapping.” He nodded approvingly. “You know you can invite her to our house, right? Brenda would be cool, I promise. I mean, you know you can
’t invite her to—”
“Chatsworth, yeah. Believe me, I know.” Adam winced. Aside from the condition of the house, there was a small issue of Robyn still thinking that he lived nearby. Everybody lies.
“And don’t babble. You tend to babble when you’re nervous.”
“Dad! I won’t babble. I know enough not to babble. Geez.”
“But don’t go mute either; it pisses them off. I should know.”
Adam groaned.
“And compliment her on her shoes.”
“Her shoes?”
“Yeah, it’s like a thing with girls that apparently everybody knows. If you notice their shoes, it shows, uh …” Adam started tapping the car armrest and his dad fiddled with the windshield wipers. “Shit, it shows artistic integrity, for all I know. I dunno. I do know that women like their goddamn shoes.”
“Okay.”
“And the most important thing, whatever you do, don’t stare at her breasts.”
“What? Dad! You are, like, so grossing me out!” Adam squirmed, thinking back to the coffee shop.
“Be that as it may, I was your age once, and I’m saying do as I say, not as I did. It’s like the opposite of the artistic thing. She’s ‘into you,’ Adam, or whatever the kids say these days—don’t screw it up with breast hypnotism.”
“Really, really grossing me out here!”
And then they arrived. The house was a big old Victorian. A home built for a family.
“Nice.” His father nodded. “Take a cab home, it’ll impress her. Remember, only eye-to-eye or eye-to-shoe contact, and I’m proud of you, big guy, ’kay? Now, go get her, tiger.”
Adam got out of the car. It felt like he was being frog-marched to a firing squad. This kind of thing was not for him. What was he thinking? He wasn’t thinking. His height had gone to his head. This was for other guys, normal guys, not freaks who obsessed about whether they were going to have some schizoid threshold issue in front of their beloved’s doorway. Snap out of it! He made the sign of the cross. Couldn’t hurt, right? He did not backtrack or tap. Instead, Adam kept putting one foot in front of the other on the never-ending path to her door, rehearsing his laid-back cool pose with every step.