“It’s okay,” Ben assured him. “You got to miss the scintillating show of me counting the till.”
“Ooo.”
“Come on, dinner should be ready upstairs,” said Ben as he locked the door behind Adam again.
“Wait.” Adam glanced into the window. “We should light the bulb down here first.”
“I thought we’d light them upstairs,” said Ben, a bit hesitant, but it was worth it when he saw Adam smile in response.
“We’ll save the prayers for that,” said Adam. Ben smiled as he watched Adam reach into twist the bulb. “You know, it’s stupid, since those bulbs aren’t all that bright – but I swear it gets brighter every time we light one.”
“That’s the idea,” said Adam, stepping closer to Ben and dropping a kiss on his lips. “Is it rude if I check that dinner isn’t more eggplant latkes?”
The kiss wasn’t nearly long enough to relax into, especially with the cold creeping in through the glass window and door.
“No eggplant,” Ben promised him. “Chicken vesuvio in the crockpot. I just have to make some veggies to go with it.”
“Sounds good,” said Adam. “I’ll set up the candles while you get that started.”
Ben grinned to himself. “Careful – we’re turning domestic.”
Adam’s smile looked stiff enough that Ben wished he hadn’t made the joke. “Yeah... I guess we are.”
The apartment smelled divine when Ben opened the door. Adam’s face relaxed as he stepped inside. Ben thought he probably enjoyed the scent, the way he closed his eyes as he breathed it in.
“I’m not much of a cook,” said Ben, “but I can put a mean crock-pot meal together.”
“My mom was a big believer in slow food,” said Adam. “I just believed in the way it made the whole house smell delicious.”
Ben chuckled as he hung up his coat. “Broccoli or asparagus?”
“Asparagus.”
“Okay.”
Ben rinsed the asparagus under the sink while he waited for the broiler to warm up. He could see Adam in the living room, carefully wedging each candle into place on the menorah.
It really does feel domestic, he thought. Even if Adam doesn’t want to admit it. Like he’s come home from work and we’re about to have dinner and go to bed... which I guess is exactly what we’re going to do.
Well. One night of pretend domesticity isn’t going to hurt anything. He’s only here for a few more days anyway.
“Ready,” called Adam softly.
“I’ll just get these under the broiler,” said Ben, quickly spreading the asparagus on a baking sheet. He added a sprinkle of salt and pepper and olive oil, and then he slid them under the broiler.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” said Adam when Ben joined him in the living room.
“Do you know how often I get to cook? Most of the time I just eat a peanut butter jelly sandwich. It’s too much trouble to do anything more for one person.”
Adam’s smile was so gentle, it made Ben want to kiss him. “I appreciate it.”
It was hard not to watch Adam as they lit the candles. The lights were low, so that as the glow intensified, it became easier and easier to see the features of Adam’s face. He looked so much more relaxed, saying the Hebrew prayers, than Ben had seen him at any other point.
Not that I’ve got that much to judge by, thought Ben, already intent on memorizing the way Adam looked by candlelight. But even after sex, he didn’t look this... content? Although he doesn’t seem all that content, either. More like anticipatory. Like he’s actually looking forward to eating dinner and spending the evening here. Even if he doesn’t seem to like the idea of domesticity.
Adam finished the prayer and slid the shamash back into its holder. Ben shook off the brief melancholy and stood up with a grin.
“Always feel a little bit of a let-down now that I’m an adult, not having any presents to open.”
Adam almost looked chagrined. “Ah. Sorry.”
“I wasn’t asking for one,” Ben assured him, heading into the kitchen to check on the asparagus. “Though if you could set the table, that’d be super helpful. You can put those books – oh, anywhere.”
Adam chuckled, but began to clear the tiny table anyway, setting the books carefully on a cleared bit of countertop. “I actually did want to tell you something.”
He sounded hesitant enough that Ben went on alert. Aha, maybe this is what he’s been holding in tonight, he thought. “Okay. Should I pull out a bottle of wine, too?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.” Silence while Adam continued to shift books; Ben opened the oven and glanced at the asparagus, which was already a brilliant, bright green. Another thirty seconds and they’d be perfect. He closed the oven and went to turn off the crock-pot.
Ben wasn’t a master chef by any means, but he knew how to plate something so it looked good. He carefully scooped the chicken and potatoes from the crock-pot onto two plates, giving them an asparagus border and a tiny sprig of parsley as decoration. It looked as delicious as it smelled, and Ben couldn’t wait to see Adam’s expression when he took a bite.
“Hope you’re hungry,” said Ben cheerfully as he carried the plates out to the living room.
Adam didn’t answer. He was still standing at the counter, staring at a photograph in a frame. Ben set the plates down on the table, wondering which photo it was that had caught Adam’s attention.
“Adam?”
“This is your parents’ house,” said Adam. It sounded almost accusatory.
“Maybe? I can’t see the picture,” said Ben.
Adam showed it to him. Ben recognized the photo almost immediately.
“Yeah, that was the last time my family got together,” said Ben, remembering with a smile. “We’re all kind of spread out over the East Coast, and everyone has different schedules, so it doesn’t happen too often, but we made it work that year. Probably one of the best holidays I’ve ever had.”
“Your house,” clarified Adam.
“Yes?” Ben peered at the photo. “Why?”
Adam gave him a strange look. “There’s a Christmas tree.”
Ben looked at the tree in the corner, clearly visible behind his cousins. Already he could feel the twisting, sinking feeling in his gut, and the way his heart was beginning to pound in warning of oncoming trouble. “Um. Sort of?”
Adam kept staring at him, as if waiting for an explanation. “Are some members of your family not Jewish?”
Ben blinked. “I... don’t think that’s really pertinent to this conversation? Or important.”
“Except that this is a Christmas tree in your house,” said Adam slowly, as if explaining something very basic to an idiot. “And you say you’re Jewish.”
“I am Jewish,” said Ben, just as slowly. “As is my family.”
Adam glanced at the photo again, a troubled expression on his face.
This isn’t a big deal, Ben thought to himself firmly. If I show him it’s not, he’ll have to see it’s not. “What do you want to drink? I’ve got soda or juice, if you don’t want wine. Or water.”
“So that’s it,” said Adam. “You’re not going to explain why there’s a Christmas tree in your Jewish family home.”
Ben met his gaze. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a Christmas tree.”
“It’s a tree,” said Ben patiently. “It’s not a Christmas tree unless we decorate it for Christmas. Which it isn’t. And anyway – Christmas is more of a secular holiday these days than a religious one.”
Adam’s frown only intensified. Little lines appeared on his forehead. “It’s a Christian holiday, Ben. What do you think this tree symbolizes to the majority of the world?”
“Presents on Christmas morning, mostly,” said Ben dryly.
Adam set down the photo and shook his head. “Don’t tell me your parents called it a Hanukkah bush and stuck the Hanukkah presents under it, too.”
It was something Ben had heard before, but the way
Adam said it stung more than Ben had anticipated. “We never called it a Hanukkah bush. For one thing, it’s a tree. And none of the decorations are religious at all – they’re things I made in school, ornaments my mom picked up on family vacations. Stupid macaroni frames for my school pictures. Half the trees in my friends’ houses looked exactly the same, and some of them were religious! A tree is just a tree, Adam.”
Adam snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “You... you honestly believe that?”
“You honestly don’t?”
“It’s a Christian symbol!” said Adam, his voice rising and growing testier with every word. “How can you claim to be Jewish if you have a Christmas tree in your house? I could understand if your parents put it up as a show of respect for Christian family members who were just there that year, but—”
“But not if it was actually ours?” interjected Ben, growing testy himself. “You know there’s a menorah in that room, too? You can’t see it, because it’s out of the frame, but it’s there. There’s a set of Sabbath candlesticks in the china cabinet. My mom keeps the seder plate tucked away, though, because it belonged to my grandparents and she doesn’t want it broken and the dog’s already broken half her wine glasses. We’d probably had my grandmother’s latkes for dinner the night that picture was taken. But none of that counts, does it, because we’re standing next to a Christmas tree.”
“At least you admit it’s a Christmas tree,” snapped Adam. “What kind of Jew has a Christmas tree?”
“The kind of Jew who realizes a tree is a tree is a fucking tree!” Ben grabbed the photo and held it to his chest. “You’re the only one making a big deal of this!”
“It is a big deal!”
Ben closed his eyes and shook his head. His heart was hammering so hard that he could hear his blood pounding in his ears.
“Only to you,” he said. His voice shook, and his fingers were going numb – but none of that mattered. “Christmas trees weren’t even Christian originally, you know that, right? They were pagan. It’s only in the last couple hundred years they’ve taken on a Christian symbolism.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Ben – this is what Christianity does. They pick up other cultures and assimilate them in, so that you end up celebrating Christian rituals before you even realize what you’re doing. How many steps is it from having a Christmas tree to singing the songs to attending Mass because you think the music is pretty?”
Which stung even more. “Or making fruitcakes because they sell well?” asked Ben coldly. “Or sending kids to Mecca, or playing golf with the local imam and Catholic priest? Or does accepting other cultures only go so far with you?”
For a moment, Ben thought it might have struck home. Adam sucked in a breath, his eyes going dull, as if he’d suddenly realized that what he was saying might have more context than he realized.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” said Adam finally.
Ben let out a breath. “It is that simple. I get it. I’m not Jewish enough for you.”
Adam frowned. “That’s not—”
Ben waved him away. “Yeah, it is. Fine. Whatever. I am who I am, Adam. I can’t be anything else.” He paused, heart aching. “I think you should leave.”
Adam swallowed. “Ben—”
“Please,” said Ben firmly, holding his chin up and staring Adam down. He desperately wanted to look away, to close his eyes so he couldn’t see the hurt spreading on Adam’s face.
No. Look at him. Make him look back at me. Make him see me. If he’s going to walk out of here because of some stupid sense of Jewish one-up-manship, he’s going to know what he’s doing.
Adam looked back. Ben wanted to find regret in his eyes. All he saw was something dark that could have been anything.
“Fine,” said Adam finally.
Ben held himself still as Adam walked past him. He closed his eyes as he listened to Adam take his coat and hat from the hooks on the wall.
It wasn’t until he heard the door close behind him that he let himself collapse in the chair and hold his face in his hands, wondering exactly what had gone so very, very wrong.
Chapter Seven
On the seventh night of Hanukkah...
The shop was closed in the morning.
“Noooo,” groaned Andreas, hanging on the door handle. “I’m hungry.”
“Should have eaten more at breakfast,” said Adam, unable to shake the strange relief and guilt that threaded through his nervous system. The shop being closed only made the discomfort worse.
Fuck, thought Adam, staring into the dark shop. What if he’s closed because of what I said?
“You idiot,” said Tom, who was the only one with the pretense of mind to check the posted store hours. “It’s Saturday, he doesn’t open until after lunch.”
I was right, though, thought Adam. How can you expect a kid to respect the differences between religions if you have a Christmas tree in your living room?
Andreas groaned; his head hit the glass door with an echoing thunk. “But I’m hungry now.”
“You’re fourteen, you’re always hungry,” said Farida unsympathetically. “Win your game this morning, you can come back later.”
Andreas brightened. “Promise?”
“As if Coach isn’t going to want to brag about you guys, anyway,” said Farida. Adam jolted at hearing his title. “Come on, guys, get moving. Andreas, there’s a coffee shop up ahead, if you’re really hungry we can get something there.”
“Nah,” said Andreas. “I’ll hold out for donuts.”
Farida held Adam back as the kids surged ahead. “You okay?” she asked, her voice low enough that the kids probably couldn’t hear her.
“Fine,” said Adam.
“Just you didn’t look particularly upset to find the shop closed. Which would make sense if you knew it would be closed, but if you’d known, you would have warned us before we got there.”
Adam cursed Farida’s perception. “It’s fine.”
Farida pursed her lips. “If you and Ben argued—”
“It’s fine,” repeated Adam.
“I know it’s fine,” said Farida. “I’m more worried that you’re going to let some stupid lover’s quarrel make your decision about that job offer.”
Adam groaned. “Farida.”
“Boston’s a big town, Adam. You don’t actually have to talk to him if you move here, you know.”
“I don’t have to move here, either,” Adam pointed out.
“Ugh. I give up.” Farida let go of his arm. “Waste away in Martyr-ville, see if I care.”
Farida sped up, and Adam shoved his hands into his coat pockets with a last look at the Hanukkah-themed window display. The light he’d switched on the night before was still glowing, with two lights left to go. In two more days, Ben would undoubtedly be taking down the Hanukkah décor and replacing it with the garish reds and greens of Christmas.
But Adam wouldn’t be there to see it. He’d be back in Montreal, in his tiny Spartan apartment, taking care of his dad and writing out new plays for the rest of the season’s games. Ben would just be a memory of a week in which Adam had almost been able to pretend like he had a life again.
A bitter memory, as it turned out: not quite what Adam had been hoping for as a Hanukkah present. Maybe the bitterness would fade with time.
Sure, I could move to Boston and not see Ben.
I’m not sure I could avoid him forever, though. I’m not sure I’d want to.
“Hey, Coach!” yelled Pierre. “Are you coming or not?”
Pierre’s voice was sharp and loud. Undoubtedly anyone unlucky enough to be sleeping in on a Saturday morning would be awake now.
Including Ben, in his apartment above the shop. It was all Adam could do not to look up to see if a curtain twitched in response.
“Yeah,” said Adam, thinking of Ben asleep in his bed, eyes slowly opening to the sound of Adam’s voice below. “I’m on my way.”
THE GAME WAS BRUTAL.
&n
bsp; Most of the time, Adam had a pretty good idea of whether or not his team would be able to pull out a win. It came from careful scouting of the other team and a decade’s worth of experience.
This time, though – Adam didn’t see it coming. There’d been too many distractions: Ben. The job offer. Worry about his father.
“Noooo,” groaned Farida as the other team scored its third goal. “Richard is going to kill himself, look at him.”
Farida probably wasn’t wrong; even Adam could see how sick his goalie looked, despite the gear. Richard was probably already thinking of how he could hang himself by his shoelaces without anyone noticing.
“Three goals,” said Adam grimly. “We can do that.”
“In ten minutes?” asked Farida, skeptical.
“Sure. Miracles are to ice like—” Adam searched for a metaphor.
“Candles are to Christmas?” suggested Farida.
The reference was a jolt, even if there was no way Farida could have known about last night’s argument with Ben. “I would have said Hanukkah.”
“Christians do candles, too.” Farida jumped up and pumped her fist. “All right, get that puck, Tom, go go go!”
Adam’s attention snapped back to the ice, where Tom had clearly just intercepted the puck and was racing hell-for-leather across the ice. He slapped with his stick, and the puck sailed into the goal, the other team’s goalie missing the block by inches.
The crowd erupted into screaming and applause, cheers and groans in equal measures.
Farida cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. “Two more, guys! Two more.” She turned to Adam. “Miracles and candles, huh?”
“Hanukkah is the miracle of lights,” said Adam.
“Yeah, well, candles are pretty. Not my fault yours isn’t the only religion that realizes it.” Farida elbowed him gently. “Loosen up. You’re making the boys tense.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are. They can tell how strung up you are, it’s half the reason why they’re not scoring. You’d think getting laid on the regular would have—”
Adam gritted his teeth. “Shut up, Farida.”
Farida stared at him for a moment. “Case in point,” she said, and turned back to the game.
Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle Page 18
