didn’t want him to go.”
“I know.”
He looked off into the distance, hunched a shoulder. “It’s good you were there, I guess. He’d rather have you there than me, anyway.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Right.”
“If I was his dad, he’d be coming to you.” I wasn’t sure this was true. I thought I was a pretty cool dad. Way cooler than Randall, but it didn’t seem like a good time to say so.
“Hell.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, stuck it between his lips, took it out again and pointed it at me. “This isn’t coming out right.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He barked a short, embarrassed laugh and I laughed with him, glad of the moment. We hadn’t laughed at all since I’d found Josh fading out of consciousness in that tub of bloody water. It was about time.
“You want to come in for a beer?” he asked.
“Next time.”
He took a long drag from his cigarette. Then he said, “I hope you spit on the son of a bitch for me.”
“Where he is, he’d probably appreciate it.”
I watched him in the rearview mirror as I pulled away. He was a big man, but he looked small standing there, smoke curling from his cigarette and up into the mottled winter sky. I considered turning the truck around, taking him up on that beer.
But it was getting late, and the icy mix was still coming down, and I wanted to get home before the roads got any more treacherous. There were a thousand good reasons not to go inside and have a drink with my brother.
None of them should have been good enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he house I lived in, a two-story Victorian-style farmhouse with a wraparound porch, was a fifteen-minute drive from my brother’s. The rutted gravel driveway wound for almost a quarter mile through a corridor of trees—white oak, red cedar, slippery elm,Virginia pine. From spring to fall, the house was invisible from the road, but now, with the hardwoods barren and only the evergreens in full foliage, you could catch glimpses of the house and barn through the tangle of branches.
I rounded the last curve, and the corridor opened on either side. The barn and pasture flashed by on my right. The horses looked up as I passed, then resumed munching on a round bale in the middle of the pasture.
Just ahead, my housemate, Jay Renfield, stood at the bottom of an extension ladder propped against the porch roof. Bundled up in a multicolored parka like some kind of pop art Eskimo, he was playing out a string of Christmas lights like a fishing line, while his lover, Eric the Viking, perched at the top of the ladder, hanging the other end of the lights along the eaves.
Jay and I had met in kindergarten, but lost touch after high school. He ran off with a bleached blond biker boy with a Marilyn Monroe tattoo, was disowned by his family, and went on to become a computer programmer, making a small but comfortable fortune designing games and graphics. I joined the force, got married, had a son. Our paths didn’t cross. Part of it was that we moved in different circles, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of it was a certain amount of discomfort with his homosexuality. I’m not proud of that, but it’s true.
Years later, he called me up out of the blue and told me that the biker boy had left him with a broken heart, a dozen maxed-out credit cards, and a virus that would destroy his immune system.
Son of a bitch.
When I found myself divorced, unemployed, and rudderless, he offered me a place to stay. Cheap rent, swimming pool, and a place to board my horses. In return, I played chauffeur when he was too sick to drive, nursed him through night sweats and night terrors, and did odd jobs around the place. It was hard to tell which of us was getting the better end of the deal, so we just called it even.
Eric the Viking waved with his free hand as I approached the house. “Hey, Cowboy. Deck the halls and all that jazz.”
“We’ll be done here in a minute.” Jay’s breath
“I know.”
He looked off into the distance, hunched a shoulder. “It’s good you were there, I guess. He’d rather have you there than me, anyway.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Right.”
“If I was his dad, he’d be coming to you.” I wasn’t sure this was true. I thought I was a pretty cool dad. Way cooler than Randall, but it didn’t seem like a good time to say so.
“Hell.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, stuck it between his lips, took it out again and pointed it at me. “This isn’t coming out right.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He barked a short, embarrassed laugh and I laughed with him, glad of the moment. We hadn’t laughed at all since I’d found Josh fading out of consciousness in that tub of bloody water. It was about time.
“You want to come in for a beer?” he asked.
“Next time.”
He took a long drag from his cigarette. Then he said, “I hope you spit on the son of a bitch for me.”
“Where he is, he’d probably appreciate it.”
I watched him in the rearview mirror as I pulled away. He was a big man, but he looked small standing there, smoke curling from his cigarette and up into the mottled winter sky. I considered turning the truck around, taking him up on that beer.
But it was getting late, and the icy mix was still coming down, and I wanted to get home before the roads got any more treacherous. There were a thousand good reasons not to go inside and have a drink with my brother.
None of them should have been good enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he house I lived in, a two-story Victorian-style farmhouse with a wraparound porch, was a fifteen-minute drive from my brother’s. The rutted gravel driveway wound for almost a quarter mile through a corridor of trees—white oak, red cedar, slippery elm,Virginia pine. From spring to fall, the house was invisible from the road, but now, with the hardwoods barren and only the evergreens in full foliage, you could catch glimpses of the house and barn through the tangle of branches.
I rounded the last curve, and the corridor opened on either side. The barn and pasture flashed by on my right. The horses looked up as I passed, then resumed munching on a round bale in the middle of the pasture.
Just ahead, my housemate, Jay Renfield, stood at the bottom of an extension ladder propped against the porch roof. Bundled up in a multicolored parka like some kind of pop art Eskimo, he was playing out a string of Christmas lights like a fishing line, while his lover, Eric the Viking, perched at the top of the ladder, hanging the other end of the lights along the eaves.
Jay and I had met in kindergarten, but lost touch after high school. He ran off with a bleached blond biker boy with a Marilyn Monroe tattoo, was disowned by his family, and went on to become a computer programmer, making a small but comfortable fortune designing games and graphics. I joined the force, got married, had a son. Our paths didn’t cross. Part of it was that we moved in different circles, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of it was a certain amount of discomfort with his homosexuality. I’m not proud of that, but it’s true.
Years later, he called me up out of the blue and told me that the biker boy had left him with a broken heart, a dozen maxed-out credit cards, and a virus that would destroy his immune system.
Son of a bitch.
When I found myself divorced, unemployed, and rudderless, he offered me a place to stay. Cheap rent, swimming pool, and a place to board my horses. In return, I played chauffeur when he was too sick to drive, nursed him through night sweats and night terrors, and did odd jobs around the place. It was hard to tell which of us was getting the better end of the deal, so we just called it even.
Eric the Viking waved with his free hand as I approached the house. “Hey, Cowboy. Deck the halls and all that jazz.”
“We’ll be done here in a minute.” Jay’s breath
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