Hazard and Somerset

by Gregory Ashe

  “I’ll just go check,” Hazard said, trying to work Somers’s fingers free.

  “Take a drink,” Somers said as Rebeca carried over the glasses. “They’re having fun.”

  “They’re obsessed with her,” Rebeca said. “Honestly, all of them are. I thought it was just Raquel, but Robbie is carrying her half the time, and Rocio talks about her nonstop.”

  “I’m sure ‘having fun’ will be a huge consolation,” Hazard said, “when she’s got a cracked skull and—”

  “Drink,” Somers said, dragging on the sleeve so that Hazard’s hand drifted toward the glass. “And then take a breath.”

  It was pretty good sangria, so Hazard had a second drink.

  At the stove, Noah fiddled with a steamer. The smell of cooking masa, pork, and achiote steamed up the small kitchen.

  “You’re going to burn yourself,” Rebeca said between sips.

  Noah shot her a look. “It’s this cheap pot. The lid doesn’t fit right.”

  “Just leave it.”

  “It’s not on right. Too much steam is leaking out.”

  Half a minute later, Noah swore and jerked his hand back from the pot. Rebeca rolled her eyes and grinned.

  “Did she roll her eyes?” Noah said, wringing his hand. “Tell me if she rolled her eyes.”

  “No,” Somers said.

  “Yes,” Hazard said.

  “Come on, Emery,” Rebeca said, swatting his shoulder. “Help a lady out.”

  “Becs,” Noah said, still shaking out his burned fingers. “How could you?”

  Elbowing him toward the sink, she took over at the steamer while Noah ran cold water over his fingers.

  “Don’t smirk,” Noah said, pointing an unburned finger at Somers. “You’re just as bad.”

  Somers, as he handled everything, took it with the perfect mixture of shocked indignation and guilty good humor; he grinned as he pointed at himself in semi-disbelief.

  “Yes. You two are laughing at us because Rebeca’s mom got us a cheap piece of—”

  A child shot through the room like a meteor.

  “—trash,” Noah said, “but you’re the ones hung up on this Santa thing.”

  “Hey, my mom’s on a limited income. It’s not her fault.”

  “We aren’t hung up on anything,” Hazard said.

  “Definitely not,” Somers said.

  “Oh,” Noah said, “so you agreed on the Santa thing.”

  “Yes,” Hazard said.

  At the same time, Somers said, “We compromised.”

  “We didn’t compromise,” Hazard said. “I refused to do it on ethical principles.”

  “We agreed to disagree,” Somers said.

  “No, we didn’t.”

  Somers took a big gulp of sangria; a flush ignited in his cheeks. “We disagreed to disagree.”

  Hazard was smart enough to leave that alone.

  “I don’t get it,” Noah said, sticking his fingers back under the spray. “What’s the big deal, Emery? It’s half an hour, max. If it fit me, I’d do it, but we got the suit for you. The kids love it. Every year they go crazy for it. Even Robbie and Raquel have fun with it, and this year, Evie’s going to love it.”

  “The Santa myth perpetuates—” Hazard began.

  “Anglocentrism and socio-political hegemony,” Somers blurted, his cheeks bright, and then gulped more sangria.

  Hazard frowned; when Noah turned back to the water, and with Rebeca focused on the steamer, he reached for the stem of Somers’s wineglass, but Somers slid it out of reach.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Noah said, “but, like, really. Why won’t you do it? Kids don’t know anything about cultural hegemony, and don’t give me that line about parents lying to their kids. Every parent lies to their kid at some point.”

  Cheeks heating, Hazard decided not to say anything here either.

  “Leave him alone,” Rebeca said. “Now you’re pressuring him.”

  “I’m not,” Noah said. “I just want to know why. I mean, here’s how I see it: you’re actually hurting Evie by not giving her a Santa experience.”

  “Excuse me?” Hazard said.

  “He didn’t mean it like that,” Somers said, touching the back of Hazard’s hand. “Cool it.”

  “Uh, not hurting her, but, maybe, um. Becs? A little help?”

  “No way. This is your mess.”

  “I just meant,” Noah said after a glare at his wife’s back, “that it’s nice for kids to fit in. If she doesn’t believe in Santa, if you tell her from when she’s little that he’s not real, she’s going to, I don’t know, be different from the other kids. They might even resent her, you know, if she’s the one telling everybody there’s no Santa, ruining it for them. What? Becs, it’s a valid point.”

  “Ree,” Somers said, trying to catch his sleeve again.

  Hazard drained the glass of sangria, knowing the wine would kick pretty hard in a few minutes. “I’m going to check on Evie.”

  IV

  DECEMBER 24

  MONDAY

  6:26 PM

  INSTEAD OF SEEEKING out his daughter, though, Hazard found himself standing on the porch. In the clear night sky, hundreds of star burned. Exhaust drifted across the skyline, puffing out of flues and vents as home furnaces struggled to keep up with the cold. Mrs. Kasperick’s house across the street leaked light from every window, and behind the sheers, the silhouettes of men and women and children moved. Normally alone, tonight Mrs. Kasperick was enjoying the company of her large extended family. Christmas was a time for families.

  Hinges squeaked behind Hazard, and then the sound of the door shutting. Soft footsteps moved across the cement porch, and then Somers was standing beside him, bundled against the cold and holding up Hazard’s coat.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Slipping into the coat, Hazard said, “I’m fine.”

  “Ok.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Great.”

  “You don’t have to stand out here.”

  “Very good news.”

  Then Somers slid an arm around Hazard, pressing against him, head resting on his shoulder. A moment later, Hazard slid an arm around Somers and pulled him tight. Down the street, a porch light flicked on, and then a door opened, and a man stumbled out, laughing, obviously drunk, while a mousy shadow came after him, calling thanks back to the house they had just left.

  “Do we know them?” Hazard asked.

  “No, I think they’re just somebody’s guests.”

  “I mean the people who own that house.”

  “I don’t know them.”

  Hazard took deep breaths: the frigid air had its own taste, a mineral cold that made him think of snow, but then he could smell Somers too, his hair and skin and cologne, but also the sangria—wine and pineapple and pear.

  “Just so we’re on the same page,” Somers said, “I am not at all worried about Evie becoming a pariah because you don’t indulge capitalism’s behavioral-control fantasy.”

  “Noted.”

  “I’m being serious. I just think Santa is fun, and while I understand the objections, I don’t agree with them.” He shivered under Hazard’s arm. “That’s ok, right?”

  “What?”

  “If I don’t agree with you?”

  “Of course. Since when is it not ok for you to have your own opinions?”

  “Uh, we got engaged this morning.”

  “Somehow,” Hazard said, “I get the feeling that a ring isn’t going to keep you from telling me exactly how boring you find the Napoleonic Wars, or why gorgonzola is a bastard cheese, or how low I should wear my running shorts.”

  “You’ve got a great ass,” Somers said with a shrug. “People deserve to see it in all its fully-molded-Spandex glory.”

  “It sounds like you’re still perfectly able to voice your opinions.”

  “Here’s my vote: we duck out early, before they get into the Santa stuff. Then it
doesn’t even have to be a thing with Evie. I’m not going to reinforce it at home, but I know Cora talks to her about it, and they do it at school, so I’m not going to go against them either.”

  The comment hung in the air; when Hazard exhaled, it turned into a laugh, the breath frosting in the air just like the exhaust from the flues. “Ok, message received.”

  “What message?”

  “I’m not going to say anything, John. I won’t ruin it for her. It’s not fair to her, to make her an outsider like that.”

  “Stop it.”

  “And it’s also not fair because she’s already heard about Santa from her parents, from her teachers, her friends. It’s ok. Contrary to popular belief, I can keep my opinions to myself.”

  Somers made a noise.

  “Don’t be a fucking smartass.”

  Inside Noah and Rebeca’s house, Christmas music came on, an a cappella version of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,” with lots of cooing and extra beats and instrumental imitations that made Hazard think a dead composer in Merry Olde Englande was spinning in his or her grave.

  “It’s not that bad,” Somers said.

  Hazard laughed again, another white explosion of breath.

  “Can I say one thing?” Somers said.

  “Have I ever been able to stop you?”

  “One teensy, weensy thing.”

  “God, as long as you promise never to say teensy weensy again.”

  “One microscopic thing,” Somers said, holding forefinger and thumb an inch apart, “this big, that’s all, I promise.”

  “Before I brain you with a Christmas angel or whatever the hell I can grab first.”

  “So, I don’t disagree with the points you make about the Santa story. If you take it literally—and, yeah, I know kids do—it can say all sorts of things that we don’t want it to. The importance of material objects. Value placed on socially-approved behavior instead of being a good person. Easy conflation of the poor with the bad—they must be bad kids, right, because they didn’t get anything for Christmas. And, of course, the fact that parents are lying to their kids. I get it, Ree, all of it.”

  Then Somers was silent, snuggling into Hazard’s shoulder, the smell of pineapple and pear and Rioja blooming in the dead winter air.

  “But?” Hazard said.

  “But it’s also kind of wonderful, the idea that someone does something good, taking presents to kids all around the world. It’s magical that he can do it all in a night, that he brings what you want and leaves it under the tree, that he doesn’t ask for anything in return. I know our concept of childhood is a Victorian construct—you made me watch that damn documentary two times—but it still lasts a really short time. Adults are so jaded, so . . . unhappy. And there’s something incredible about how deeply kids feel everything at that age: hope, happiness, joy, wonder.”

  They stood there maybe two minutes longer, until the song inside changed to “Veni, Veni, Emmanuel,” properly in the original Latin, and then Hazard turned Somers’s head up with one finger and kissed him, the taste of Spanish summers on his lips. When he broke away, he said, “I still feel wonder.”

  Somers smiled, made a big O with his mouth, and pointed a finger at himself, half mocking, half glowing.

  Another kiss, this one on the cheek, and Hazard said, “Don’t let it give you a big head.”

  V

  DECEMBER 24

  MONDAY

  6:37 PM

  I’M ONLY DOING IT under certain conditions,” Hazard said.

  “Oh,” Noah said; he and Rebeca were sitting at the table, fresh glasses of sangria in hand. “Great.” Then he grunted and shot a glare at his wife. “I mean, great!”

  “What conditions?” Rebeca asked.

  “I’m not wearing the wig.”

  “You can’t not wear the wig, Santa—” One of the smaller, sturdier boys bowling-balled past them, and Noah grimaced until his son was out of earshot. “Santa has white hair. Long, flowing, luscious locks.”

  “No wig,” Hazard said.

  “We’ll just pull the cap down,” Somers said.

  “It’ll be fine,” Rebeca said.

  “Number two,” Hazard said.

  Noah groaned.

  “I get equal time for my point of view,” Hazard said. “That means explaining the neo-capitalist appropriation of the Santa Claus myth, as well as all the previous iterations in all their varying forms of cultural embeddedness, back to the historical Saint Nicholas.”

  “Uhh,” Noah said, glancing at Rebeca.

  “Do the kids have to sit still for this?” Rebeca said. “It’s not that we don’t want you to, but they might have a little trouble staying focused.”

  Robbie and the middle boy, whose name Hazard couldn’t remember, sprinted through the kitchen, shooting Nerf guns at each other. One of the projectiles missed its intended target, the foam missile slapping Hazard’s cheek.

  “They can get up and move around,” Somers said. “He just wants to have a chance to explain.”

  “If any of them are interested,” Hazard said.

  Noah made a noise that sounded like a laugh, and then he yelped, bending down to rub his leg under the table while shooting another glare at Rebeca.

  “Third,” Hazard said.

  “Why did we buy this house?” Noah asked. “We could have bought another house. We could have had neighbors who didn’t want to undermine centuries of good old-fashioned capitalism on Christmas Eve.”

  “I want to pull off the fake beard and show them it’s me.”

  “No,” Rebeca said.

  “No,” Noah said. “Oh. That’s what you said.”

  “Why not?” Hazard said. “You can tell them what parents tell kids all the time: that’s not the real, real Santa, but he’s one of Santa’s helpers, he’ll make sure the real Santa—uh, hi there.”

  “Hey Ricky,” Noah said. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Wait a minute,” the kid said, holding up one finger like he was giving them a lecture. He couldn’t have been older than eight, Hazard thought, but he looked like he might take the lot of them to the woodshed. “You’re talking about Santa.”

  Upstairs, something very heavy thudded, and the whole house shook. Then raucous laughter filtered down.

  “That’s right,” Rebeca said. “He’s coming tonight.”

  “I knew it,” Ricky squealed before zipping away. “Guys, he’s coming, he’s really coming tonight.”

  Somers made a little noise in his throat, and Hazard shot him a look.

  “No,” Hazard said. “Not a word.”

  Miming, Somers zipped his lips.

  “See?” Noah said. “Isn’t it cute?”

  “I said not a word.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not your boyfriend.”

  “They really are excited, Emery,” Rebeca said. “I think the younger kids would be really confused if you took off the beard. It’s hard enough trying to explain the mall Santas; I don’t think we can convince them that Mr. Hazard is moonlighting with the elves.”

  “If we’re going to have equal time—” Hazard began.

  “The beard is negotiable,” Somers said.

  “No, the beard is not negotiable.”

  “It’s totally negotiable,” Somers said, rapping on the table. “Emery will wear the beard and not take it off while the children are watching—”

  “I absolutely will take the beard off. It’s important to unmask the deception voluntarily and to control the narrative.”

  “—but in return, you send us home with a dozen tamales.”

  “You’re joking,” Noah said.

  “That’s highway robbery,” Rebeca said.

  “No way,” Hazard said. “Not even for a dozen tamales.”

  “A dozen tamales,” Somers said, “and a tres leches cake. A whole one.”

  “That’s not even how negotiation works,” Noah said, and then h
e took an angry gulp of sangria. “You don’t even know what you’re doing. We said no to the offer of twelve tamales. You have to come down, not go up.”

  “Twelve tamales,” Hazard said, “a tres leches cake, and those refried beans, the ones with real lard. Otherwise, I pull off that beard—”

  Another child comet hurtled through the room, shrieking.

  When the room was clear, Hazard leaned over the table and said, “I’ll rip that fucker right off.”

  “This is laughable,” Noah said. “This is a joke.” He was looking around the room like he might find a studio audience. “You guys have never tried to make a deal before. Here’s a deal: four tamales. No cake. No beans. We bump up the Santa portion to thirty minutes, and you keep the beard on the whole time.”

  Hazard exchanged a look with Somers, who was fighting hard not to smile, and suddenly Hazard felt the same wild desire to grin. He met Noah’s look and kept his expression stone cold. “Up to you, Noah. Evie might cry a little when I pull that beard off, but she’ll get over it. I can’t imagine what a houseful of distraught, wailing children will sound like. Maybe you could record it for me. At about three tomorrow morning. When they’re still not asleep.”

  “This is blackmail,” Noah said.

  “Technically,” Somers said with a smirk, “it’s extortion. My smart, sexy, scute boyfriend is extorting you.”

  “Scute?” Noah said.

  “Scary cute, motherfucker,” Hazard said. “Read a fucking book.”

  “Fine,” Rebeca said, gesturing at them with the glass in her hand, sangria sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “The tamales, the cake, and the beans. I hope you choke on them.” Then, grinning, she added, “The two of you deserve each other.”

  “Thanks,” Somers said.

  “I think,” Hazard said.

  VI

  DECEMBER 24

  MONDAY

  6:54 PM

  WILL YOU STOP with the damn pillows already?” Hazard squirmed in the duvetyne suit as his boyfriend jammed pillows inside the coat. “Enough, John.”

  “Santa’s belly has to jiggle like a bowl full of jelly.”

  “Santa’s belly is memory foam and duck feathers. Ouch, God, one of the quills just stabbed me. Stop it!”