The Icicles

by R. W. Clinger

  Unfortunately, it is Bobo who takes a hit in the face, ending the snowball war on Ross Street. Pam launches a baseball-size snowball at him, and the icy sphere nails him in the left eye. Bobo screams like a girl and drops to his knees; Spartacus losing his final battle. He immediately removes his gloves, drops the pair to the snowy ground, and feels his face, perhaps hoping his eyeball isn’t hanging out from its optic nerve.

  Willa attempts to run to her husband’s side, falls to the earth because of ice and snow, rises, and continues her run. “Baby, ohmygod. Baby.”

  Positioned beside his mother, holding a snowball, ready to continue the battle, Jonah hears his mother say, “What a pussy. Meaty and an idiot.”

  “Baby…sweetheart. Let’s go inside and ice your eye. It’s bloodshot and…”

  Bobo, Willa, and Jake go inside. Jonah and Sandy meet by the mailbox. Their bodies come together and now their mouths.

  After the kiss, Sandy says, “I love you and love your family. I could be a part of this. Thank you for bringing me.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Jonah whispers, and the two men kiss again.

  Pam, who has yet to enter the house, yells from the front stoop, “Stop making out! You’re creating a scene! The neighbors are going to talk!”

  Jonah lifts an arm and waves her away while he continues to kiss his boyfriend.

  Pam leaves the two alone near the front yard, discreetly smiling.

  Once again, Bill Icicle is unfound, somewhere in Channing, alone but happy.

  * * * *

  “Bobo’s eye is swollen, but I think he’s going to live,” Willa says at the kitchen counter near the sink. She opens one of the bottles of wine. Next to the bottle are three wine glasses. “He’s upstairs, resting.” She fills the three glasses and passes one to Jonah, one to Sandy, and the last one is hers.

  Jake, although present, decides not to have a glass of wine.

  Pam drinks another Bloody Mary, number four, quite tipsy. She sits at the table and says, “Bobo’s a big guy. He can handle a small snowball. I don’t feel bad about almost blinding him. Sometimes a man has to man it up.”

  “Mother. Be nice.” Willa rolls her eyes, sitting across the table from Pam.

  Jake laughs. He tugs Sandy’s right elbow and says, “Follow me downstairs, dude. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Jonah leans into Sandy and says, “Jake likes to show off his pot plants. He’s a proud parent.”

  Jake leads his brother and Sandy into the basement. The stairs are rickety, squeaking under their weight. The steps come to a small landing and veer left. Like dwarves in a Disney flick, they bob down the stairs, one after the next, and enter Jake’s pot-smelling lair.

  “Looks homey,” Sandy admits at the bottom of the stairs, taking in the dark room: battered sofa and coffee table, reclining chair, latest video game equipment scattered on the floor in front of the chair.

  Sitting in front of the coffee table is a large flat-screen. He notes ashtrays of various sizes and materials here and there, all filled with blunts. A cloud of smoke circles the room. A tiny refrigerator sits to the far left. On top of the refrigerator is a small microwave. The room looks cozy and cramped and perfect for a single man who maybe loves his pot plants more than his family and the holidays.

  “Over here,” Jake says, leading the two men to the far right. A paneled wall is gently pushed, and a floor-to-ceiling door clicks opens. White-silver light and a buzzing sound exit the connecting room. “My babies are inside here.” He steps aside and waves a lowered arm for the two men to enter.

  Sandy enters the underground room first. An all-white room with eight four-foot-high marijuana plants in beautifully colored ceramic pots; two fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling; garden hose curled in one corner; two fans. He walks up to one of the plants and inhales its strong stench.

  “Do you sell this shit?”

  “Sometimes,” Jake replies. “Only to my closest friends. I don’t want the feds or pigs to get in the way.”

  Nonchalantly, positioned behind Sandy because the room is far too tiny for three adult men, Jonah says, “He’s been doing this for over a decade. Someday, he’ll get caught, and our parents will end up in jail.”

  “Mom doesn’t care. She gets high with me all the time,” Jake admits, snickering.

  “My dysfunctional family,” Jonah says, sighing. “Sometimes, we can’t help where we’ve come from and who we love.”

  Jake says, “Let’s smoke, men.”

  Jonah and Sandy pass on the opportunity.

  It doesn’t stop Jake from lighting up, enjoying his girls.

  * * * *

  Upstairs. Christmas carols play on the television in the living room. The sound floods the kitchen. Bobo sits at the table and holds a bag of frozen peas against his left eye. Pam and Willa enjoy cups of coffee, discussing a New Year’s Eve party that Willa wants to throw. A plate of sugar cookies sits in front of the two women. The cookies are shaped like reindeer, bells, and Santa Claus. Each is decorated in festive colors and sprinkles.

  For a single second, reaching the top of the basement’s stairwell, Jonah sees his father’s back, shoulders, and legs as Bill heads into the living room and then upstairs. Jonah thinks about rushing after him and sharing a conversation but doesn’t. He simply lets his father vanish from his life again, just as the last time he was visiting, and the time before that.

  Having consumed a cookie, Pam lifts her head and steers her attention to her son and his lover. “Sandy, I’d like to have a private word with you. Would you mind taking a short walk with me around the block?”

  Both Jonah and Sandy are stunned to hear Pam use Sandy’s right name for the first time. They look at each other, puzzled. Jonah shrugs, once again baffled by his mother’s actions.

  “Sandy?” Pam inquires, using a serious tone that is direct.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sandy replies, stepping forward. “I’d love to take a walk and talk with you.”

  “Good. I will meet you outside on the front stoop in five minutes. Just make sure you bundle up. It’s as cold as a witch’s tit out there.”

  “How does your mom know that a witch’s tit can be cold?” Bobo asks Willa.

  Willa shrugs. “Worry about your eye. Stay out of their conversation.”

  “My winter things are upstairs. Come and help me find them,” Sandy says to Jonah.

  “Sure thing.” Jonah follows his boyfriend out of the kitchen, through the living room, and upstairs.

  * * * *

  “It’s happening,” Sandy says, facing Jonah in their shared bedroom, behind its closed doors. All the color has washed out of his face. His teeth chatter. “Your mom’s going to kick me out of the house just like she did to Lucas. She’s going to threaten me that if I ever see you again, she’ll hunt me down and murder me.”

  Jonah reaches out to Sandy, grasps his biceps, and provides the man with a light but needed shake. “You’re wrong. That’s not going to happen. If she wanted to do that, she would have embarrassed you in front of the all the Icicles, probably at dinner last night. Pam shows no sign of sympathy. She will go right for your jugular and rip out your voice box. I’m sure something else is up.”

  “But I’m terrified, Jonah. All I can think about is Lucas Beam and…how she ripped your soul out and broke the two of you up.”

  Jonah shakes him again. “You’re over-reacting. Pull yourself together. You’re not alone in this. And everything is going to be fine. This isn’t the same thing as with Lucas. It’s completely different. Bobo loves you. Willa hasn’t said a negative thing about you or to you. Jake showed you his pot stash. And my mother, the villain of our family, the matriarch of death, has barely, if at all, insulted you.”

  “I…I…I want to go back to Pittsburgh. I can’t go for a walk with your mother, even if I told her I would. She’s going to knife me and toss me into the sewer. It’s going to get all Stephen King in Channing. I’m going to be her next victim like…Lucas. Just
like Lucas.”

  “Calm down, Sandy. Calm the fuck down,” Jonah whispers, shaking him yet again, harder this time.

  Hornfuzz yaps outside the door.

  Huffs escape Sandy’s chest. His hands shake, and sweat beads on his forehead. He wobbles his head on his shoulders. “I can’t do it. I can’t. I just want to go home.”

  “It’s going to be fine. Trust me. I know my mom. She’s not going to humiliate you or call you derogatory names. Just trust me. Will you do that for me? Please.”

  Sandy begins to calm down. He stares into Jonah’s eyes. “Tell me you’re right about this. That’s what I want to hear from you. Because if you’re wrong…I don’t know where our relationship with each other will be.”

  “I’m right about this. Trust me. All you have to do is trust me,” Jonah begs, releasing his boyfriend’s biceps. “Now, let’s get you dressed and downstairs. My mother isn’t going to wait all day for you.”

  Sandy agrees, nodding.

  He attempts to smile, but can’t bring himself to carry out the action in full. Jonah watches Sandy gather his winter jacket over the dresser, his boots, and other winter apparel.

  When the two men walk out of the bedroom and down the dim hallway, Jonah says to Sandy, “She wants you to be strong. She and I both do.”

  “I’ll try.” Sandy sighs and begins his decline to the first floor. “Two will go for a walk, and only one will come back. It sounds like an Agatha Christie mystery. And something tells me I won’t be the one coming back.”

  * * * *

  Pam and Sandy are gone for ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and twenty minutes. Jonah stands in the living room, next to one of the windows. He pulls back the sheer curtain and looks out at Ross Street: snow-covered yards, cars, and trees; icy spots on various areas of the asphalt street; chimney smoke; funnels of snow blowing from west to east. He sees icicles hanging from the top of the window: long and pointy, semi-covered in snow, so dagger-like, different in size, ranging from four inches long to eight. He counts seven icicles in all, each symbolizing his family and Sandy.

  Lucas Beam enters his thoughts; memories that can no longer be lived again. He recalls Easter and how Bobo threatened to slam his fist into Lucas’s face for disrespecting his mother-in-law; Willa calling Lucas “an arrogant little prick with no manners” behind his back; and Jake ignoring the artist, unwilling to share his marijuana stash with the man.

  It was a devastating holiday for Jonah, something he never wants to revisit, keeping in the firm walls of his memory. How unhappy Lucas made his family; an unfolding and ill-fated event that will never leave Jonah’s past.

  He will always love Lucas, then and now. As each day will go by in his life, maybe his love for Lucas will dissipate. Truth is, he only has good thoughts about the man, minus Easter and their unfixable break-up: Lucas sleeping at his side, naked and holding him during a springtime storm; Lucas sharing a strawberry-flavored ice cream cone with him, licking it at the same time; Lucas surprising him with trips to New York City, San Francisco, Chicago, and sometimes out of the country, sporting him off at his art shows; Lucas baying as they made love like animals, sweaty and wild and rough; Lucas…

  Eventually, he sees two (not one) blurry frames on the sidewalk, two doors down and to the left. Murder has not transpired on this celebratory holiday. Both mother and boyfriend are still alive, breathing, and safe. Neither has killed the other, burying the body in a nearby snowdrift. They walk slowly, side by side, and their mouths move, obviously chatting. Pam smiles. Sandy smiles. And Jonah sees that their hands are connected as they walk; his left one and her right one, slowly and gently swinging to and fro. So mother and son like. So similar to the actions of a family that Jonah desires.

  Jonah wonders what they are talking about: irresponsible Jake who rarely leaves his basement; a missing husband from Pam’s life; her idiotic and sex-driven son-in-law; Sandy’s obsession with reading mystery paperbacks; his job with RIES and how he studies global warming; his love for Jonah; so many other possible topics. Many. Many. All uncountable. So many.

  As Jonah releases the curtain and steps away from the window, a smile surfaces on the edges of his mouth. He takes a deep breath and feels calm. He glides through the living room, heading for the kitchen and a strong eggnog with extra rum.

  “Everything is fine. She likes him. He’s part of the family now, one of the Icicles.”

  * * * *

  Less than thirty minutes later, in the kitchen and drinking a string of eggnogs, before preparing the Christmas dinner together as a family, Willa suggests, “We need to take a family picture.”

  Bobo holds a frozen bag of green beans to his eye. The bag of peas has melted, and Pam will serve them at dinner. “I can’t have my picture taken. Look at this ugliness.” He pulls the plastic bag away from his face and sports a black-and-blue, puffy, and almost unrecognizable eye.

  “You’re big and beautiful,” Sandy says, sitting across from him. “The messed-up eye only makes you look more like Spartacus. A fighter. A hero.”

  Bobo contemplates the comment, nods, and says, “Spartacus was a fucking hot gladiator. All those muscles and the way he handled a sword. I can be Spartacus.”

  A chuckle leaves Pam’s throat and mouth as she stands at the top of the basement stairs, “Jake, get up here! It’s time for a picture!”

  “I’ll find Dad,” Jonah says, exits the kitchen, and proceeds to go on an escapade similar to Indiana Jones in search of a missing relic, the patriarch of their family.

  On a private escapade, Jonah climbs the stairs to the attic, a spare room where his father sometimes naps. It’s empty. He checks the downstairs bathroom. Also empty. His travels take him to the basement, near the furnace. Bill isn’t here. Nor is Bill in the garage, his Prius, and on the back patio, taking in the cold. Jonah doesn’t know his father’s location. For all he knows, Bill is still walking the streets of Channing, self-absorbed in his personal thoughts, his quiet, and whatever he experiences during his away time from his family.

  Once Jonah returns to the living room, Pam asks, “Did you find your dad?”

  “I didn’t. God only knows where he is,” Jonah replies.

  “As always, we’ll take the picture without him.”

  * * * *

  Minutes later, the Icicles stand near the overly-decorated Christmas tree. There are two rows of family. The back row presents Bobo flexing his naked and pumped biceps like a professional wrestler; Jake at his left side, a joint hanging over his right ear; and Sandy, because he’s tall, six-two, the new addition to the family. The front row showcases Pam in front of Jake, gracefully smiling; Jonah in front of Sandy.

  Willa, also in the front row, holds Hornfuzz, and tells the group, “We have ten seconds before my phone snaps the pic. Everyone smile.”

  Bill Icicle mysteriously appears within the room, tall and lanky, an older version of Jonah. He hides behind Bobo, creating a third row. One of his bony shoulders and a long arm is noticeable; visible yet invisible among his wife, children, and his children’s lovers; present but unnoticed.

  Here, the Icicles grin and chuckle, together as one, an inseparable family.

  Bobo continues to flex his biceps and chants, “I’m Spartacus.”

  Jake laughs, obviously high.

  Hornfuzz barks.

  Sandy quickly leans into Jonah, places his hands on the man’s shoulders, gently squeezes it, and whispers, “I love you.”

  Jonah thinks, We’re all well. This is acceptable. The best holiday ever. We’re the Icicles.

  And Pam calls out, “Say Christmas cookies!”

  The family, including Bill, singsongs, “Christmas cookies!”

  Across the room, Willa’s cellphone clicks and a bright hue of blinding, white-light flashes on, off, on, off, on, off, as three photographs are automatically snapped, saving this moment for lifetime memories, their togetherness.

  THE END

  ABOUT R.W. CLINGER

  R.W. Clinger is a
resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies. His work includes Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, The Last Pile of Leaves, The Weekender, Cutie Pie Must Die, Frat Brats, Panama Dan, Spoil Me So, The Shower Police, Splash Boys, and several stories with Starbooks Press. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine The Writer’s Post Journal. Visit him online at rwclinger.com.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

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