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  When we finally pulled up to my parents’ house, both of them met us in the driveway, insisting that Everett take a break. Although he had less than an hour to get to Pittsburgh, after a pleasant meal of catching up, he asked to take a nap, and I let him alone for an hour before sneaking quietly into my room, just to watch him sleep in my bed.

  His pants slung over an arm of his wheelchair, his shoes lay on the floor. The curls of his hair poked out of the blanket, his back to me. I resisted the urge to join him, and instead considered all we had been through together, our first abrupt encounters, and an additional one in my own room.

  What problems would he face in Pittsburgh? Between his generous yet somewhat indifferent father, the protective pressures and silent disappointments from his mother, would his sister Holly’s defiant support get him through the next few weeks?

  As if sensing my presence, he rolled over, tugged an arm under the covers to flop his legs over, offered a groggy smile, and opened the blanket as an invitation.

  “Just a little cuddling,” he warned with a smirk. “I gotta get back on the road.”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure of the protocol. ‘Merry Christmas from the parents of your son’s…boyfriend.’”

  “You’re not writing that, are you?”

  “Well, we’re not exactly friends, or in-laws.”

  “Anne?” Dad called out from the garage. He was packing his car for our annual visit to Mom’s brother’s family; the holiday trek to Scranton. We’d begun to limit our visits to a single day, and thankfully booked a pair of hotel rooms. I had even offered to help pay for them, since the previous year I’d been relegated to a sleeping bag on the floor of my younger cousins’ bedroom.

  Although ready to go, Mom was still sitting on the couch with a small stack of cards, envelopes and stamps, poring over a few of what she called her “late entries,” the Christmas cards she felt she had to send because we had received cards from them, but forgotten to send one back.

  “It’s still good through New Year’s Eve. That’s how it works,” she half-joked. “Here, you sign them, too.”

  Before he’d left, Everett had given my mother the separate addresses of his divorced parents and his sister. He’d also reminded me of his invitation to join him and Holly in Pittsburgh for an overnight New Year’s Eve visit.

  “Just one more,” Mom said as she handed me a third card, addressed to some family whose name was new to me. “One of your father’s coworkers.”

  I scribbled my first name as Dad tromped into the kitchen. “Anne. I’m ready for the cake, then we should go.”

  Mom pointed to a large Tupperware container on the counter, then licked the envelopes and sealed them. I grabbed my parka and followed Dad through the kitchen door to the garage.

  We sat in the car as he clicked the door opener attached to the visor. From the back seat, I saw his shoulders slump, then he caught my glance through the rear-view mirror.

  “Another family gathering,” I half-groaned in an attempt at a sympathetic comment.

  “It’s just for one day,” he replied. “Let’s just pretend to enjoy it. That’s what the holidays are about.”

  “Woah.”

  “Sorry, son. It’s just…”

  “Dad. It’s cool. I don’t like them either, except Gramma and Grampa, of course.”

  Mom remained in the house, and we waited.

  “Why don’t we ever visit your mom in Tucson?”

  Dad sighed. “You know why. Your mom doesn’t like flying, and after my father died, my mom went a bit wild with her jewelry-making and took up with a man whom I consider to be a racist idiot.”

  “Okay then.”

  Her holiday cards and infrequent phone calls were a bit eccentric, but I resented his deciding for us which part of our family was worth visiting.

  After Mom finally got in the car, we endured a long drive, and a day of dinner with my uncle and aunt, their brood of kids, and our doddering elders.

  That Everett and I didn’t celebrate Christmas together until days afterward frustrated me. Our initial encounters over that first holiday together had served as an incomparable gift. Mere packages wrapped in paper paled by comparison.

  Still, I had carefully placed my few gifts for Everett and Holly in shopping bags inside my duffel bag, so as not to harm the wrapping paper, along with innocuous cards for his parents.

  The train into Pittsburgh was a bit crowded with people traveling to and from family visits. I spent most of the ride adding up the days I would be away from him, and how much closer we had become with just a little distance between us. Our time together was special, and sometimes, with a phone call, the distance was eased.

  Although Everett’s dad’s apartment would offer a great view of the city’s skyline, and the possible view of the fireworks (only partially blocked by a few skyscrapers), his mention of Holly’s party invite had intrigued me.

  “It’ll be full of theatrical types,” Everett had teased. We would finally be able to celebrate as ourselves, sharing a kiss and a champagne toast among friendly company.

  While my own parents settled for awkward hugs and plain conversation through the many holiday visits and greetings and cheerfulness, Everett’s parents lobbied for his affection in different ways, and from opposite sides of Pittsburgh.

  He split up his time by spending a few days each with either parent, bracketed by visits with his sister.

  Although Holly had promised a party, Everett suggested the possibility of a night alone, especially when I arrived, and his father told us that he would be going out to “a business party; just us old people,” he smiled before retreating to his own bedroom.

  As I unpacked, Everett mentioned that I had received an invitation from his mother to stay with him in her new apartment, but “with the barest shred of sincerity,” he said. I begged off, repeatedly, as he teased me about the possibility of staining her fancy sheets.

  “Besides, the whole place,” he shook his head when he told me. “Lots of the old furniture. It’s amazing how much stuff she’s got crammed in there. Maybe she’s going to sell it off. I don’t even know how she makes a living. She won’t discuss it.”

  As I’d remembered, Mr. Forrester’s apartment had hardwood floors, and Everett said that the spare room off to the side was okay. I hadn’t seen either bedroom when I’d visited his father the year before. It appeared a bit sparse, and the wooden floors made sounds echo a bit.

  “It’s kind of drab,” he admitted. “But wait’ll you see this.” He wheeled off and I followed him into the bathroom.

  “Thank you, Jeeee-sus!” I bellowed a bit loudly in what was an enormous open shower with no tub, a few aluminum safety bars, a plastic chair, and a small plastic table.

  “Dad got it remodeled.”

  “It’s like a porn set.”

  “How would you know?” he shot a glance.

  “I seen plenty,” I lied.

  “Well, shall we test your proposal?”

  “Now?”

  “No, like, before bed. Let’s exercise, go for a run or something later. That’ll be a good excuse.”

  “To be sweaty.”

  Sweat we did, despite the cold weather. With the triangular Point Park set at the apex of the three rivers, and only a few blocks away, he pushed as I jogged. The skyline, river and connecting bridges glistening in the sunlight.

  More energized than exhausted upon returning to his father’s apartment, we explored the expansive shower. I removed my glasses and peeled off clothes as the hot water sprayed. Everett offered a clumsy strip tease.

  Our antics became a giggling splashy romp. The sheer size of the shower almost demanded multiple positions. He sprayed water with the detachable nozzle, aiming at my bent-over butt. I lathered his chest, rinsed him off, slurping up and spitting water as it cascaded along his chest. I slipped a few times while trying to straddle one leg on a safety bar. The loud thumps made us giggle.

  The pounding at the door, and its hal
f-opening, stopped us.

  “You okay in there?”

  “Yes, Dad. We’re fine, we’re just…”

  “Okay.”

  He whispered it; “…playing.”

  More stifled laughter covered whatever his father tossed off as he closed the door behind him.

  The next morning, I woke before Everett with a groggy hunger, and snuck into the echoey marble-countered kitchen, where I encountered his father making coffee, in a robe and not much else, and felt a surge of desire. His legs and chest resembled Everett’s from before his accident. His stature was a sort of cocky side stance, and his eyes were framed in the face of Everett’s future handsome self. I fought off a pang of loss, tried to shut away the thought of trying to recall the last time I’d seen Everett stand so casually.

  “Sleep okay?”

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  He smirked, offered me a cup, which I nodded for, despite having rarely drunk coffee.

  “I take it you like the renovations.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Coupla years, we’ll start moving from leasing to selling; from luxury apartments to condominiums.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m still holding a single for Ev. It’d be nice to have him, and you, nearby.” His smile was playful, but his intent was clear. “Look, I’m really glad you enjoy it here. But you boys are gonna have to keep it down, or else do that when I’m not in.”

  “Yes, sir. Definitely. Understood.” I sipped the cup, retreated abruptly, saying I preferred to dress before breakfast, and joined Everett for an entirely non-sexual shower.

  New Year’s Eve afternoon, Everett’s father again offered to take us to his hotel gala, but Everett begged off on my behalf. “We have plans,” he assured his dad, who seemed mildly relieved.

  “So, what time’s the party?” I said as we lounged in the living room, flipping channels on the enormous TV.

  “Oh, it’ll keep. You hungry?”

  “A bit.”

  “I got us reservations at a fancy-ass restaurant.”

  “Who’s paying for it?”

  “My mom; a sort of extra Christmas present.”

  “I’m not too comfortable knowing your mother’s paying for it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Everett brushed it off. “She has family money. It’s not all my dad. Besides, once I turn twenty-four, my trust fund’s released and then we’re on our own.”

  He took the remote, switched channels.

  “Your trust fund?”

  “Dad’s been investing it; stocks, mostly. He invested low during this wonderful recession your hero Jimmy Carter created. And now, thanks to some evil conglomerates, plus some smart real estate deals, we’ll be set after graduation, or grad school.”

  “How set?”

  “A hundred thousand or so.”

  “Dollars?”

  “There’s some gold, but I’m not supposed to touch that.”

  “So that makes me a gold-digger?”

  Everett hit the mute button, scrunched his face in mock concern. “I think prior knowledge of said gold would be a prerequisite.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “So, let’s get dressed.” He shut off the TV.

  “For what?”

  “Dinner at eight. And speaking of gold, wait ‘til you see the menu!”

  “You spoil me.”

  “I can’t spoil you since you’re worth it.”

  Chapter 13

  January 1981

  “A holocaust; a damn horticultural holocaust,” I sighed.

  Dad didn’t want to miss the truck as it approached down the street, the loud grinding noise having roused us to drag the dried-up Christmas tree to the curb.

  There would be later days for the tree pick-ups, but Mom had already stripped the tree of the ornaments by the time I trained back from Pittsburgh after New Year’s Day. In Greensburg, the clouds had shifted to a drab grey, uncertain whether to rain or snow.

  Everett had a few more family days before we would drive back to Philadelphia and was due to pick me up later that day.

  “We really should get a fake tree.”

  “Don’t you like tradition?” Dad asked as he tried to wipe off a bit of sap from his hand.

  “The sacrifice of a few million spruces is not one of my favorite rituals,” I replied with a dry edge. The truck slowly approached, and with it the chomping noise of the mulcher attached to it.

  “You know they’re farmed,” he said. “It’s not like forests are being stripped for the holidays.”

  “I know, but it’s the concept. Douglas Fir, Blue Spruce; proud trees bred to be tiny, like pug dogs. They’re a mutation.”

  “How is that different than farming? Where would we get all those vegetables growers put in cans for me to sell so I can pay your tuition?”

  “It’s a vicious cycle,” I shook my head, pretending to be some wise philosopher. And yet, we stood curbside, fascinated by the approaching roar. I couldn’t help but feel a strange combination of satisfaction and horror as the gloved worker nodded to us, took our tree, and shoved it into the machine, which chewed it into bits.

  As the truck passed, Dad offered a supportive shoulder pat, continuing our half-serious debate as we returned to the house.

  “Wolfe Nursery sells live trees,” I offered. “We could get one next year and plant it after the holidays.”

  “In the middle of winter? You want to dig a hole in frozen ground?”

  “We could dig it in the fall, or we could buy a fake one. It’d be campy.”

  “Campy?” Dad asked with a confused glare.

  “Yeah, Mom would love that.”

  I caught myself, and wondered if I’d let slip a too-gay comment.

  The New Year’s Eve party had been as festive as Holly had promised, with several older gay men who shared flirtatious and funny comments through the night. I had forgotten to reign in my newly acquired expression.

  Dad shrugged in surrender. “It’s your call. I’m staying neutral on the subject.”

  “Think of the money you’d save!”

  Our trail of needles in the living room to the porch door was already being vacuumed to a mere memory by Mom, whose enjoyment of the holidays seemed matched by her efficient removal of its evidence.

  Dad grabbed a scrub brush and washed his hands over the kitchen sink, then, once Mom shut off the vacuum, said, “Our son the environmentalist suggested we go artificial next year.”

  “What, the tree?” Mom asked.

  “Or a live one,” I added. “We could plant it. I can do it.”

  “Oh, and leave me to clean up a bag of dirt?”

  “We can put it in a bucket,” I suggested.

  “So we have to buy a bucket, too?” With her hands on her hips in mocking astonishment, I couldn’t help but grin at her.

  “Well, the Christmas decorations are all fifty percent off right now.”

  I clapped my hands in partial victory.

  But as I put on my coat and gloves to go shopping, the phone rang. Feeling giddy, I raced to it ahead of Mom.

  “Hello?”

  “ETA’s about an hour, sport,” Everett said with an abrupt clip.

  “Okay. I gotta–”

  “Be ready to roll, okay?”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I hung up the phone, discarded my coat.

  “I thought you were going out. I need some things, too.”

  “But Everett’s coming.”

  “When?”

  “In, like, an hour.”

  “Well, hurry up then.”

  “But what if he–”

  “We’ll keep him company. Don’t worry. We’ll get him inside.”

  “But–”

  “We won’t eat him. Go.”

  Was I really afraid to leave him alone with my parents? They got along, certainly better than I did with his.

  Distracted in thought, I drove across town to the Greengate Mall, where, in the variety store, after impulsive
ly grabbing the first half-off artificial tree I saw on a shelf at the store, I didn’t even notice who was standing in line behind me.

  “Conniff?”

  I turned, surprised that I couldn’t recall the name of a former classmate from high school.

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Greg.”

  “Right. Greg Harris. How ya doing?”

  “A little late for a tree, innit?” He gestured toward the box under my arm.

  “Oh, you know, after-Christmas sales. My mom wanted me to–”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I looked at him, a twelve-pack of beer under his arm, a John Deere cap on his head. I barely knew him, and could only recall some tossed-off insult from him back in grade school. Greg was by no means a friend, not even an acquaintance.

  “You hangin’ around for the holidays?”

  “Actually, I’m leaving, today.”

  “I was jus’ gonna say. Havin’ a little post-post-holiday party.”

  “Sorry. I’m–” Some people ahead of us checked out, moved on. I stepped away.

  “Whatever. Hey, you were friends with that rich kid, the one’t got crippled, right?”

  “What?” I dropped the tree box on the conveyer belt. It slid past me. I heard a few beeps from the register.

  “Yeah, the Forrester guy. I heard about you.”

  Confused, unsure where this was going, I asked, “From who?”

  “Yeah, Graff tole me.”

  Wendell Graff. Then I remembered. Greg was friends with the only person I had ever punched, only after being punched, all because back in high school some country club waiter had told anyone who would listen that he saw me and Everett making out on the golf course at a party.

  “Yeah, whatever.” I turned away.

  “Well, ‘scuse me for breathin’.”

  The cashier almost sang, “That’ll be thirty-seven thirty-nine.”

  I pulled two twenties out of my wallet.

  “Do you need a bag?”