Where You Are (7 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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She seems to realize the flaw in her question and gets quiet. I glance back toward Build-A-Bear just as Mr. McNelis, holding both his daughter and the bear house now, emerges from the store and steps into the crowd. I watch him go.
When I get back upstairs, I sit on a bench outside of Hot Topic and wait for Nic. I think about texting Mr. Mac, just saying,
Hi. Saw you at the mall.
But I don't. Fifteen minutes and half a soda later, I'm still waiting for Nic. I check out the store, but he's not there.
Where are you?
Jamba Juice.
I find him sitting at a table with three of the cheerleaders. I'm sure I know their names, but I'm so irritated with Nic I can't recall them.
“Here's your water,” I say, smacking it down on the table.
One of the girls giggles. He turns in his seat and frowns at the soda in my hand.
“I'm leaving.” I turn and drop my soda in a trash bin, then head toward the nearest exit. I am so done with this. Nic catches up with me just as I step through the automatic door.
“Wait, Robert. Wait-wait-wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Would you just wait? Jesus, I drove, remember?”
“So I'll walk home. It's five miles. I'm sure I'll survive.” I turn to go, but he tightens his grip.
“Why are you acting like this? You're upset about your dad—I get that—but you don't have to take it out on me.”
“I'm not upset about my dad. It's you . . . and your stupid bottle of water . . . and your Sleeveless in December guy . . . and your
girls.
”
“Oh, now you're just being dramatic.”
The absurdity of the statement makes me laugh.
“And what are you talking about, Sleeveless in December guy? Are you talking about that guy who passed us upstairs? Oh my God. I was just looking. You can be so jealous sometimes.”
My laughter dies in my throat. “You don't know anything about me,” I say, then pull my arm free.
But he latches back on to me, with both hands this time.
“Okay. I'm sorry. Come back in. I'll buy you another soda, and a pretzel if you want.” He pouts and runs his hand up and down my arm like he did when we first started dating, when he wanted me to go somewhere I didn't want to go or wear something I didn't want to wear. I resist the urge to flinch. “You're my guy. It'll just be me and you the rest of the day. Okay? Just me and you. Nobody else. We'll go to the bookstore and you can browse all you want. I'll even buy you a book for Christmas.”
“I don't want a book. I don't want a present.”
“Then we'll just browse . . . together.”
Later I find myself wishing he'd just let me go.
 
Andrew
 
I don't know who's sleepier when we get home, Kiki or me. I put on
The Lion King
and curl up with her on the couch. A strand of dark hair falls across her face. I brush it away with my fingers as she clutches the dog more tightly to her chest. I drift off thinking this is heaven, or the closest I'm likely to ever get to heaven. Something about that thought leaves a sad imprint on my heart.
Chapter 5
Robert
 
This is Dad's last Christmas. It's the elephant in the room. It's the reason Aunt Whitney has pulled out all the stops—piles of presents, fresh garland wrapped around the banister and over the doorways, holiday music piped throughout the house, evergreen candles, a fire in the fireplace, and an animated Santa rocking in a chair next to it. And pies. Lots of pies.
The day is a throwback to Dad's childhood, an annual ritual he has refused to let go of despite the awkward strain it puts on Mom and me.
Still, I have to admit, it's all very pretty, and the house smells great. But no one thought to help us get Dad there.
He doesn't travel well, or easily.
Getting him from the bed to the wheelchair was bad. Getting him through the front door and over the threshold with his oxygen tank was worse. I was still in their bedroom gathering up Dad's pills when I heard Mom cry out: “I'm doing the best I can.”
When I got to the living room, Mom, flushed and on the verge of tears, had tilted the chair back and was digging in to ram him through the door and over the threshold with brute force. Aunt Whitney always pulled him through backward. Reason enough, I suppose, for Mom to take the more direct approach.
Shit. “Wait-wait-wait. Mom.” I sprinted over. “You're going to pitch him to the concrete if you're not careful. There's a three-inch drop to the sidewalk.”
She shot me a look that said,
Don't tempt me.
I pulled the wheelchair back enough to get through the doorway, then grabbed the frame in front and lifted it. Together we got him through and down the drop to the sidewalk without incident. Dad winced when the wheels landed, but he didn't say anything. I thought that was wise.
At Aunt Whitney's, we did it all again in reverse.
“You're here,” Olivia exclaims when we make our way into the living room. She's sitting on the floor, supervising the kids who are rummaging through gifts, trying to locate the ones with their names on them. She jumps up to help us get Dad from the chair to the couch next to my grandmother. I give Grandma a hug. She barely touches me as she hugs me back.
Grandma—a prim, expensively coifed Southern widow of a prominent physician and the quiet matriarch of the Westfall family—still lives in Louisiana. She's been generous with me through the years, but distant. I'm like one of her charities that she donates to. I wonder sometimes if that will change after Dad's gone, if she'll see me as the last link to her lost son. I wonder if she knows it'll be about eighteen years too late.
“The kids are dying to open their gifts,” Aunt Olivia says. “But I told them they had to wait until you guys got here.” She calls out to Aunt Whitney and my uncles to join us.
Every year I dread this part of Christmas day—the gift exchange. Mom put her foot down years ago about exchanging gifts with extended family. It was just too much—the shopping, the expense. She asked that they not purchase gifts for us either. At first I resented her for that. Why shouldn't they give us gifts? They can afford it.
I don't see it that way anymore.
We sit awkwardly, pretending to enjoy watching our pajama-clad relatives unwrap presents. It infuriates Mom that we are subjected to this year after year, but it never changes. Aunt Whitney refuses to let anyone open a gift until we are all together. And Dad has refused to allow anything or anyone—not his wife or his child—to get in the way of his childhood tradition. They've fought about it for as long as I can remember. Dad always wins.
Mom's jaw tightens when Aunt Olivia hands her a small envelope with a red bow on it. Once again, they have refused to respect her request. Mom opens the envelope. Inside is a hundred-dollar gift card to Chico's. She never shops in that store; apparently, she should. The card is signed by both of my aunts and my grandmother.
For me there's an emergency roadside kit and two tickets to the Iron Maiden concert at the Pavilion. Metal music is not really my thing, but I love the outdoor amphitheater, and at least it's not The Beach Boys or Chicago or Jimmy Buffett. It's that kind of venue. I actually like both gifts, but not nearly as much as the car stereo Mom gave me this morning. I have to install it myself, but I'm cool with that. I don't look at Mom as I thank everyone.
Dad doesn't open his own gifts. They are piled all around him on the couch. Aunt Whitney sits on the floor in front of him, opening them one by one, exclaiming over each like he's a two-year-old.
“Oh, wow, a saint's bracelet. This is beautiful.” She moves her fingers from square to square as she indentifies the saints thereon and their heavenly assignments. I can feel Mom's smirk from across the room. When she's done with muster, Aunt Whitney says to my dad, “Here, let me put it on your arm.”
Another gift. “Oh, look what Mom got you. This throw looks warm too.” She tosses it over Dad's lap.
Grandma tucks it under his leg. “You've always loved owls,” she says thoughtfully, “even when you were a little boy.”
It's hard for me to imagine my dad as a little boy, or my grandmother as a doting mom.
There's a new LSU cap, which Aunt Whitney places on Dad's head. His face is slack on one side, and when he crooks a weak smile, the look is ghoulish. There's a marked increase in his sluggishness today, almost a catatonia. Whether it's the cancer or the morphine, I don't know. Probably both.
I can't watch anymore. I head up to the media room. The cousins are playing Rock Band. I settle onto a couch in the back, behind the captain's chairs, and pull out my cell phone.
“Are you texting your boyfriend?” Franny asks with a knowing grin. She thinks my being gay is so romantic.
“Yeah,” I say.
 
Andrew
 
The first text hits my in-box during Christmas dinner. It's just the three of us—Mom, Dad, and me—so we don't stand much on ceremony. We're eating in front of the television, our plates balanced on our laps, doing our traditional Christmas thing—watching
It's a Wonderful Life.
I fish my phone out of my pocket just as James Stewart crashes his car into a tree during a snowstorm. I don't recognize the number. I view the text anyway.
Hey.
Hmph. I thumb in a reply.
Who is this?
Robert.
I smile to myself. I'm surprised, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little pleased.
Robert! Merry Christmas, my friend.
Merry Christmas to you too.
You caught me right in the middle of turkey and a movie.
Oh. Sorry. What movie?
“It's a Wonderful Life.” Have you had Christmas dinner already?
Just about to. I've never seen the movie. Any good?
The first 20 times, yes. Now, it's just kind of habit.
“Is that Maya?” Mom asks.
“No. It's a student of mine.” When she doesn't respond, I look up at her. “His dad is dying of cancer. I think he's a little traumatized by the whole thing, poor kid.”
“A boy?” she asks. I detect a hint of something in her voice, a slight disapproval, perhaps, but I dismiss it as a figment of my imagination. “Yeah. A senior. He's one of my AP Calculus kids.”
I slip my phone back in my pocket and take a bite of stuffing, ignoring the vibration.
Are you with your family today?
Yeah. In Oklahoma.
Oklahoma? Really? Drive or fly?
Drove.
Is it cold there?
So cold the snowman out front is begging me to take him inside.
So cold Santa had to jumpstart Rudolph?
When I put on my coat to take out the trash, it wouldn't go.
So cold the local flasher had to describe himself to women?
I laugh out loud. I'm walking Shep for my dad. It's actually not that cold outside—I'm pretty sure the flashers are still doing a brisk business. I love walking around my old neighborhood. The houses are smaller than I remember, the trees bigger. But it kind of makes me feel like a kid again.
I flex my thumbs. It's been a while since I've carried on such an extensive conversation using the keyboard on my phone. And Robert is quick with the thumbs. My texts, on the other hand, always take a little longer to compose.
The aging springer spaniel sits patiently while I thumb out another response.
Ahahaha. So what did Santa bring you this Christmas?
The pause drags out, and I'm beginning to think he's grown bored or I've said something wrong when the next text comes in.
So what do you like about AfterElton? The articles, right? Ha, ha.
At first I'm confused. And then I get it. My Twitter account.
Shit.
But I can't help being a little flattered, too, that he's checked me out.
The articles. Absolutely!
My response sounds coy, but it's the truth. AfterElton isn't some kind of online Playboy for gay men, after all. It's more of a pop culture news site, but the articles, columns, and such have a gay focus. The site has nothing to do with Elton John, but the name does refer to the musician's public coming out, a milestone for gay men.
It doesn't surprise me that Robert knows about AfterElton. It does surprise me that he knows about me.
But I'm more concerned that he avoided my question.
Do you have brothers and sisters?
he texts.
Nope. Just me. Are you hanging out with Nic over the holidays?
Ah. You know about Nic. IDK. Maybe. Two numbers that multiply together to equal 1,000,000 but contain no zeros?
Math games. I loop Shep's leash on my wrist and make a few calculations with my calculator app.
64 x 15625
You're brilliant.
I don't know about that!
Shep gets a very long walk. I return him to the warmth of the house somewhat reluctantly.
“Your dad and I are going to drive around and look at some of the lights,” Mom says as I unhook the leash from Shep's collar. “You want to come with us?”
“Would it be okay with you if I take a pass?”
“Only if you promise to take this cobbler out of the oven when it's done.”
“Apple?”
“Of course.”
“Wow. You drive a hard bargain, Mom.”
She laughs and swats me on the butt.
Apple cobbler, huh? Sounds yummy.
Even better with vanilla ice cream. What's your favorite dessert?
Apple cobbler with vanilla ice cream.
I find myself wondering—is he flirting with me?
Liar. Are you home yet?
Just got here. Another Christmas bites the dust.
The cynicism that seeps into his tone every now and then worries me. I have to keep reminding myself that this is a really tough time for him.
Do you want to talk about it?
Yes. No. I think my thumbs hurt too much to speak right now.
I smile. My thumbs hurt too. I'm in my room now, the room I grew up in, surrounded by all my pre-adult relics. I pack the pillows against my headboard and lean up against them. It's late, but I was hoping Robert might want to open up, and if he did, I wanted to be there for him. Before I can reply, though, he sends another text.
So sleepy. Too much tryptophan.
Go to bed, friend. Sweet dreams.
I set my phone on the bedside table and slip under the worn comforter. I think for a moment about Kiki, and wonder what her face looked like when she saw all the toys under the tree this morning. I wish I could have been there. I called earlier, but she was too excited to talk on the phone. I know Maya has taken lots of photos and videos. She's already sent me a couple. I can't wait to see the rest of them.
And then I find myself wondering about Robert's Christmas. I can tell from what he didn't say that it had been a difficult day. My heart goes out to him. He's such a great kid, a good-looking kid, and suddenly I find myself thinking about Robert in ways I shouldn't—the way his blond hair kicks up a little in the front, the wooden choker he wears around his neck sometimes, the way he fills out the seat of his jeans, the way the back hem of those jeans is always chewed up.

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