Hazard and Somerset

by Gregory Ashe

  “You’re being a baby.” Somers leaned back, though, examining his work, and made a sound of disgust. “I can hardly tell I put pillows in there.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Hazard turned to study his profile in the mirror; they had borrowed a Noah and Rebeca’s room to change into the costume, and finding a place to stand in the chaos of toys and books and laundry baskets hadn’t been easy. “I’m a blimp.”

  “Looks the same to me.”

  Hazard turned to stare at his boyfriend.

  “You weren’t thinking of eating the whole tres leches cake by yourself, were you?”

  “I will take the ring right back off your fucking finger.”

  “It’s called winter weight gain, Ree.”

  “I know what it’s called.”

  “It happens to a lot of people.”

  “I. Know.” Hazard bit off the words. “I’m the one who watched Warm for the Winter: A History of Health, Hibernation, and Hivernal Living. You just ate popcorn and played Fortnite on your phone.”

  “There’s a biological component, you know. We’re programmed to store energy for the winter; that’s why some people,” Somers raked a gaze up and down Hazard, “pack on a few pounds.”

  “Keep going. See where this gets you.”

  “It’s nothing to embarrassed about.”

  Downstairs, Noah shouted, “Everybody to the Christmas tree, everybody to the tree right now. We’re about to have a very special guest.”

  Shrieks of “Santa! Santa!” rang through the house, accompanied by a stampede.

  A prickle of sickly heat ran through Hazard. He was going to have to walk out there. He was going to have every eye in the room on him, and he was going to be lying, pretending to be something he wasn’t. His whole life, he’d fought hard to be honest about who he was. He’d told the truth even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. And how he was going to give up all of it. For what? For a dumb story? The suit was suddenly too small, the duvetyne scratchy, the duck quills spearing his gut.

  “I think I’m getting a rash,” Hazard said, ripping at the buttons on the front of the coat. “I’m breaking out.”

  “You’re fine.”

  “No, I’m definitely allergic to something.”

  Somers’s hands closed over his, stilling them. “You’re fine.” But then he must have seen something on Hazard’s face because he said, “Hey. Never mind. You don’t have to do this.”

  Wiping sweat from his forehead, Hazard got himself under control. He tugged the cap with its faux fur trim lower on his head. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Ree, come on. Take off the coat. I know what we’ll do: I’ve got one of those Santa apps on my phone, and we’ll just use that. It’s silly, you know, like they’re getting a phone call from Santa. They’ll eat it up. And I’ve got the Santa tracker. It’s going to be perfect.”

  “No,” Hazard said. “I’ll do it. I’ll play Santa. And then, after, I’ll tell them about the anti-socialist underpinnings of the story.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “And the corporate hijacking in the 1950s.”

  “Every kid loves a corporate hijacking story. I told Evie one last night.”

  “And they’ll learn about the French Cathar dualist traditions that led to the rise of Zwarte Piet.”

  Somers was just nodding and making soothing noises. “Just like Bing Crosby always sang about.”

  “Ok,” Hazard said. “I’m ready.”

  “Ok.”

  “It’s not fair, doing two things like this in one day.”

  “Two big, scary things?”

  “I didn’t say scary.”

  “Two terrifying, emotionally-fraught things like asking me to marry you and speaking to a group of children?”

  “You’re saying that like you think it’s funny.”

  Somers kept trying to tuck away the corner of a smile, but he wasn’t quite managing. “Scout’s honor. Nothing funny about it at all.”

  “I knew I should have pawned that ring.”

  “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  Hazard couldn’t help it; he growled at his boyfriend.

  Somers slipped out the door, whispering, “Give me a minute, and then come down.” And then he was gone.

  After sixty seconds, Hazard stepped out of the bedroom and moved toward the stairs. His boots clomped on the floor. The bag of presents dragged behind him, giving off a slow rustling like a snake in the grass. He could picture all of it: the banality of the requests; children exposing their deepest desires, which consisted entirely of toys and video games and clothes; the fundamental silliness of pretending, play-acting, even though everybody could see through the disguise. But he didn’t slow down; he took the steps at an even pace, and then he swung around at the bottom and headed toward the living room and the Christmas tree, where everyone was waiting.

  The best plan, he told himself, was to keep his eyes fixed in the middle distance. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw Somers laughing. He’d go in there, get it over with, and then get out of this silly costume. He didn’t even have to be very enthusiastic about the performance, did he? He hadn’t promised to be a good Santa. He’d just promised to put on the suit and make an appearance. That’s all he was going to do. No nonsense. No frills. Just fifteen minutes.

  He stepped into the living room. The air smelled like pine and overheated children and the tamales steaming in the kitchen. The LED lights on the tree twinkled in shifting blue-red-green. Seven kids, three adults, and one Santa. Hazard’s eyes went straight to Evie, who was staring up, her features laid open with wonder. He couldn’t hear her little voice through the hub of the other kids shouting with excitement, but he saw her mouth move in two syllables of pure joy: “Santa.”

  And then Emery Hazard forgot about Marxism, the axio-epistemological challenges of the Santa story, the twang of systemic racism in the myth. He even forgot about American cultural hegemony and the global triumph of Santa Claus. All he saw was that tiny, perfect face.

  He didn’t even try to stop himself; swinging the sack of presents down from his shoulder, he belted out, “Ho, ho, ho.”

  VALENTINE’S IN SIX BEATS

  This story takes place before Wayward.

  I

  FEBRUARY 23

  SATURDAY

  4:00 PM

  HAZARD LAY ON THE SOFA, trying to read. He wasn’t illiterate, but he was finding it hard to force the words to make sense. Part of it had to do with his fiancé, John-Henry Somerset, who was sitting at the end of the sofa with Hazard’s feet in his lap. Part of it had to do with the TV, which was showing Love, Simon. Part of it had to do with the way Somers was eating his popcorn, tossing kernels up in the air, head bobbing as he caught them in his mouth, and then snapping his teeth shut with obvious self-satisfaction. Part of it had to do with the moments when Somers forgot about the popcorn and leaned forward, his whole body connected to the film as though a live wire ran between them.

  “He’s going to get outed,” Hazard said, flipping back a few pages. A Comprehensive Registry of Missouri Migratory Birds was delightfully comprehensive, but he kept getting the snow goose confused with the greater white-fronted goose, and all the distractions weren’t helping. He glanced at the clock. “Probably in about two minutes.”

  “Nope,” Somers said, chucking another kernel in the air, teeth clicking shut around it, and then, after he swallowed, “Not gonna happen.”

  Hazard tried to pay attention to the section about the greater white-fronted goose’s albifrons, but now he was mostly tuned in to the film. He did his best to keep a straight face when the kid in the movie got outed.

  “God damn it,” Somers said. “No!”

  Hazard didn’t say, I told you so. He didn’t smirk—smirking was almost exclusively a Somers thing. He didn’t even raise his eyebrows. He kept his focus on the book. But he did, maybe just a little, wiggle his feet.

  A popcorn kern
el pegged him in the forehead.

  “Ow.”

  “We.” Popcorn kernel. “Talked.” Popcorn kernel. “About.” Popcorn kernel. “This.” Three popcorn kernels in rapid succession.

  “Jesus Christ, John.” Hazard brushed popcorn off his book and then flipped it toward Somers in display. “You got butter all over the greater yellowlegs.”

  “You can’t even tell,” Somers said. “Its legs are already yellow.”

  “It’s a new book.”

  “Yeah, a new book about birds.”

  “Birds are important. And interesting. Did you know that feathers are one of the most complicated structures in vertebrate animals?”

  “I’m watching this,” Somers said, settling back into his seat and giving Hazard’s feet a playful shove. “No more spoilers.”

  “It wasn’t a spoiler; I haven’t even seen this movie.”

  “Well, no more predictions.”

  “It’s not that hard, John. It’s a romantic comedy about a closeted gay boy. You’re a detective—pick up the clues.”

  Somers shushed him.

  “Once you know the Hollywood Three-Act Structure, it’s actually very easy to—”

  Somers shushed him more loudly.

  “It’s all the same movie over and over again,” Hazard grumbled into his book. “The same stupid formula, just with a different name. I don’t know why you get so invested.”

  “Emery. Hazard.”

  “I’m being quiet.”

  “Not quiet enough.”

  “I’m reading my book.”

  But it was hard to read when every five minutes Somers was oohing and awwing and swearing a blue streak at the television.

  “Come on,” Hazard said when Somers leaned forward abruptly to grab his Pepsi, knocking Hazard’s feet off his lap.

  “He’s being an asshole to Simon!”

  “Ok,” Hazard said, checking the clock and then beckoning. “Remote.”

  “It’s almost over.”

  “Remote, please.”

  “No, I want to finish this.”

  “I know; you’ll have to finish it later.”

  “What? Why?”

  Hazard stretched and then rolled off the sofa. “Time to go. Well, time to get dressed. Then go.”

  “Did we have plans?” Somers grabbed his phone and checked it. “You didn’t send me one of those anal-retentive calendar invites.”

  “First of all, shared calendars are an incredibly useful tool; they’re not—”

  “Anal retentive.”

  Growling, Hazard said, “Don’t do that. Second of all, get off your ass and come upstairs and get dressed. I already laid out your first outfit.”

  “What is going on? My first outfit? Is this some kind of—”

  “Today is make-up Valentine’s.”

  “But we did Valentine’s. I was really cute and thoughtful. I got you food from all the important places we’ve eaten, and those weird flowers you like, and three heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.”

  “You got me one heart-shaped box of chocolate; you ate the other two boxes yourself.”

  “As a favor!”

  Hazard bent down, kissed him, and then tugged him to his feet. “That was a wonderful Valentine’s. But now it’s my turn.”

  “Ree, you don’t have to—”

  “I know.” He turned Somers toward the stairs and nudged.

  “We can just—”

  “I know.” He swatted Somers on the ass. “Up. Change.”

  “I love going to dinner with you, but we’re crunched for cash. Why don’t you take care of next year? We can alternate.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Hazard said, prodding his boyfriend down the hallway to the bedroom. “Where were you Monday when I spent seven and a half hours planning this.”

  Somers dug in his heels when he saw the clothes on the bed: a chunky sweater, his barn coat, blue jeans, boots.

  “Are we going to a rodeo?”

  Hazard stripped out of his sweats and began pulling on the outfit he’d planned for himself: khakis, a button up, a cardigan, and Warby Parker glasses that didn’t have a prescription.

  “Ok,” Somers said, eyeing Hazard as they each dressed. “Why are you dressing like a sexy tax accountant?”

  Hazard tossed the first envelope on the bed. Two words showed in his chicken scratch against the white paper: Meet Cute. As he headed for the door, he called back, “See you there.”

  II

  FEBRUARY 23

  SATURDAY

  4:58 PM

  THE WINTER DAY WAS WARM; Magnus Shelton was glad for the break in the cold. Ever since moving to this small town in the middle of nowhere, he had felt like the world was trapped in ice. Today, snow on the branches dripped and melted, and the last of the day’s sunlight glittered in a thousand drops. He drove his Honda Odyssey down the gravel drive; there were no other homes out here, so it was impossible to get lost, but he checked the tree-lined fields on either side as though he might have accidentally passed his destination.

  When he took the gravel road around a stand of pines, the red-and-white barn came into view. This was it. Magnus’s heart beat a little faster. All of a sudden, the whole thing seemed stupid. He was making a big mistake, coming out here, doing this. He was going to make a fool of himself. He slowed the van at the gravel circle in front of the barn. His foot hovered over the gas; he could still drive home and call the whole thing off.

  But Magnus wasn’t a coward. Magnus wasn’t a quitter. He’d moved to this flyspeck town to take over his dead aunt’s used bookstore, and he hadn’t given up when he’d seen the disorganized accounts and the chaos of the stockroom. He wasn’t going to give up now; he certainly wasn’t going to let a bully like Nickolas Knight run him out of his new home.

  Dropping out of the van, Magnus made his way toward the barn. He pushed open the judas door and was met by a mixture of smells: the dry dustiness of hay, an animal musk he associated with horses, the damp cement. Flicking on the lights, he paced the length of the barn, passing empty stalls. Everything was swept and clean; the smells were old, engrained in the wood. The only sign of the barn’s original purpose remained in the assortment of tack and tools that hung on the walls, and even this was more decorative than utilitarian.

  Gravel crunched under tires, and Magnus turned and made his way back to the judas door. When a car door shut, he called, “Knight? Is that you? I’ve been looking for you.”

  No answer except the crisp grinding of gravel against gravel, the sound of footsteps moving rapidly towards the barn.

  “Knight,” Magnus called again, slowing his pace, trying to gauge the other man’s speed. “I’m warning you. You think you can buy up everything in this town and run it like your own amusement park, but I’m not going to stand by and let it happen.”

  The steps were almost outside the barn. Magnus picked up his pace, hoping he had the timing right.

  When a shadow fell across the judas door, Magnus launched forward. The movement brought him crashing into another body, and they fell hard, entangled. Slush soaked Magnus, seeping through his cardigan and shirt, chilling him. But he lay on the gravel, dazed. He’d lost his glasses, and he blinked up at the sky while he ran a hand across the ground, searching for them.

  “Here.” The voice was smooth and confident, and a moment later, the familiar shape of the glasses was pressed into Magnus’s hands. “Sorry about that.”

  As Magnus sat up, wiping the lenses, he let out a bitter string of words. “What the hell were you thinking, getting right in my way like that?” He tried to focus on the man kneeling over him, but all he got was a vague impression of blond hair and a brown coat. “Did Knight send you out here to deal with me? Well, you can tell him what I said. You can tell him I won’t be bullied and pushed around and forced out of my home by a greedy industrialist who wants to play at being a cowboy. This is a good town with good people; we don’t need
his type coming in here and ruining everything with his money.” Magnus shoved the glasses into place, got a look at the man he’d bowled over, and tried to keep his tongue from falling out of his mouth. The guy was gorgeous. Drop-dead, model gorgeous. Blond, with golden skin even in the winter, he had Caribbean blue eyes deep enough to swim in. Magnus tried to cover his disorientation with more words: “You tell your employer I want to talk to him face to face. He can’t hide behind thugs like you.”

  The blond man nodded, a smile creasing one corner of his mouth. “And who’s the message from?”

  Magnus had a sinking feeling, his gut plummeting, although he wasn’t sure quite why. “Magnus Shelton. I own—”

  “Page Turner Collections,” the blond man said, his smile breaking free. It was a little like the sun coming out. “I’ve been in a time or two, but I haven’t seen you. I like books.” Then the man added drily, “About cowboys.”

  “I’ve been cleaning up the mess my aunt left me; most of the days, Narcisa works the register.” Then the last bit of what the blond man had said sank in, and Magnus covered his face. “Oh no.”

  The blond man’s smile was huge. “Oh yes.”

  “You’re—”

  “Nickolas Knight.” Taking Magnus by the hand, Knight helped him to his feet. His grip was strong, and so warm it felt almost hot against the slush soaking Magnus. His eyes raked Magnus up and down, and he said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Shelton. I hope the feeling’s mutual.”

  “It’s not,” Magnus said, ripping his hand away and stalking toward the minivan. “You heard what I said: I’m not letting you bulldoze the old downtown. It doesn’t matter how much money you throw at these people; we stick together.”

  Knight moved faster than Magnus expected, his long, lean form flying over the wet gravel. Interposing himself between Magnus and the van, Knight held up both hands. “Hold on, Mr. Shelton. You hit your head pretty hard when you fell, and I’d feel like a total heel if I let you drive home with a concussion. Let me take you up to the house. You can warm up, maybe shower and put on some spare clothes.”