by Roan Parrish
“Holy shit, are those Christmas trees?” I ask. All around us, rows of trees stretch as far as I can see.
Rex nods. As if on cue, a cheery-looking couple steps out of the hut, door bells tinkling their exit.
“Hello, gentlemen,” the man says. He’s got to be eighty years old, but his eyes are sharp and he’s smiling.
“Here for a tree, I presume?” the woman chimes in. She’s got pink cheeks and her white hair is in a bun. I actually have to hold my hand in front of my mouth to keep from laughing. This is the most ridiculously stereotypically Christmas couple I’ve ever seen. All the guy needs is a beard and a team of reindeer pawing at the roof. Rex, of course, is the picture of manners.
“Hello,” he says, his voice soft like it always is when he’s speaking to strangers. “We’d like to cut down a tree, please.”
“Of course, of course,” the man says. I zone out as he and Rex discuss type of tree—who knew there were different kinds of pine trees?—height of ceiling, spread of branches, etc. The woman looks at me kindly and I try to smile in a way that doesn’t reveal my actual thoughts, which are, at this moment, running toward gore-splattered horror movie posters of the American Gothic aesthetic featuring a background of beautiful trees and this pleasant little hut.
“All right?” Rex is saying—to me, it would seem.
“Huh? What? Yeah, great,” I stammer, looking around.
Rex is holding a saw. I do not like Rex holding a saw. Wait, cut down a tree? As in, cut down a tree? Rex waves at the couple and takes my arm—fortunately for me, not with the hand holding the saw.
“Um, Rex,” I say, as we set off down one of the rows of trees. “Are you about to use that saw to… to fell a tree?”
“Is that what you say?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply, “because where I come from saws are something out of horror movies and trees live in parks so if you cut them down you go to prison.”
Rex laughs. He sounds truly delighted. I look up at him and his face is radiant. He’s striding through the cold air and shin-high snow like he’s never been happier to be anywhere in his life.
“When we find the one we want, we cut it down. Then Wallace will come with the tractor and take it to the car for us.”
“Wallace?”
Rex shakes his head.
“Where do you go sometimes?” he asks. “Back at the hut, what were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking that those two looked like Mr. and Mrs. Claus on a diet and that it was, like, the Platonic ideal of Christmassy coupledom and so of course it was too good to be true, so they would probably turn out to be creepy serial murderers who cut our heads off with saws”—I gesture to the one in his hand—“and turned us into mulch for next year’s trees.”
Rex is staring at me.
“Oh, and then I started thinking about American Gothic. You know, the painting of the couple with the pitchfork?” He nods. “Only, they weren’t actually a couple; they were the painter’s dentist and his daughter, but the point is that there’s this horror movie called American Gothic, and the cover of it is like the painting only the couple are these murderers who trap people in the house and kill them. And on the poster you can see people, like, clawing at the windows and stuff, trying to get out, and the pitchfork is all bloody and the woman is holding a knife dripping with blood.” I laugh.
“That’s what you were thinking about while I was talking to Wallace about Christmas trees?”
Rex looks serious.
“I mean, I don’t really think that they’re serial killers, Rex.”
“I get it now, I think,” he says.
“Come on, I was just kidding.”
He nods. He drops the saw and where it falls there is a perfect impression of a saw in the snow.
“You look at things that you think are nice or happy or cheerful and you think they’re too good to be true. You think they’re too good to be real, so they must actually be bad.”
“I….” Well, actually, yeah, that is exactly what I think, but he said it like it’s a bad thing.
“You’re suspicious,” Rex says, like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Suspicious that something you might like or want is a trap. That if you trust it, it’ll all go wrong. No?”
“Well, I mean—”
I drop my head and stare at the saw-shaped hole in the snow. Rex tilts my head up. I don’t know what to say, but it seems somehow crucial that I say the right thing. Rex looks like he’s in actual, physical pain.
“I… I used to,” I say. His face softens. He takes the ends of my scarf that have come untied and tuck them back in. I look back down at the snow.
“I… do you… you don’t like that, I guess?” I ask, unable to meet his eyes. Rex bends his knees to look me in the eyes.
“I don’t like that you’ve had to think that way,” he says. “But I get it.”
“I thought that about you,” I admit. “For a while.”
“Yeah,” he says.
“I just—you were too good to be true. So handsome and strong and kind. Understanding. And I felt like, if you were true, then why the hell would you want me? You know? And so I guess it was just easier to think that you didn’t.”
“What I think you still don’t get, Daniel,” Rex says, “is that, for me, you were too good to be true.”
I snort and Rex grabs me by the shoulders, his expression fierce.
“When I first met you, all I knew is that you were this real educated, real smart professor and I’m the guy who never graduated high school. Who can barely read.” His face flushes. “You’re gorgeous and sexy and ambitious. You’re from the city, used to hanging out with famous bands every night, and you showed up in this little town in the middle of nowhere where I barely leave my house.”
“Rex, I—”
“But my point, Daniel,” he says, his face close to mine, “is that all those things are true. We are good for each other. But not too good to be true. Complementary. That’s the word, right?”
I nod.
“The other night, you said that we mean different things when we say I love you. That you don’t know what it means to have someone love you. This is what it means. It means doing things together and learning what each other needs. I give you what you need. You give me what I need. And they’re not the same. And that’s fine. It’s not too good to be true. It’s just good.”
I’m nodding spasmodically as Rex talks. My hands fist automatically, which looks ridiculous with the gloves I’m wearing.
“But I have to tell you that… I just—still, every time you start to say something serious like this, a part of me thinks you’re about to end it. I don’t mean to go there, but I just—I’m sorry.”
I search his face for any clue that I haven’t just set us back months. Rex lets out a breath.
“I know,” he says. “I can see it in your face.”
“It’s just where my mind goes, automatically,” I say, wanting to explain.
“Well, I think we’ve established that where your mind goes and the truth aren’t exactly the same place,” he says. “Seriously? Is all you think about serial killers? I think you watch too many horror movies.”
I laugh, incredibly grateful that Rex is willing to joke about it.
“Hey,” he says, “I love the places your mind goes. I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious about it. Just… you know, you don’t have to think that way about me. You’ll see.”
“Okay,” I nod, trying not to sound suspicious. Rex kisses me, his hot mouth a shocking contrast to the cold air around us. I gasp into his mouth and try to put my arms around him, but I lose my balance in these damned boots and start to stumble. Rex tries to grab me, but he overbalances and we both fall into the snow, Rex landing on top of me.
Rex uses his position to kiss me again, and I try desperately to roll us over so he can be the one getting snow jammed into his collar.
“Ha, get off me!” I say. Rex is laughing,
trying to find a way to stand up without squashing me. When he finally manages it, and pulls me up with him, he kisses me again, our faces both cold with snow. He reaches down and plucks the saw from its pocket of snow, putting his other arm around me.
“What does that look like to you?” he asks, indicating the spot where we rolled around.
“A murder scene,” I say, but I’m smiling at him.
“Hmph,” he says.
“Well, what does it look like to you, then, Mr. Sweetness and Light?”
“A snow angel,” he says, with an expression that clearly says that this is not what he thinks. “See? Complementary.”
“Fucked-up angel,” I say and grab the saw from him. “Come on. Are we doing this or what?”
It’s cold and I’ve got snow places snow should never be, but I feel warm from the inside out. Rex is gleeful, explaining to me the different types of trees and how long they last. He points out what makes them different, but I’m content just to walk next to him and practice thinking happy thoughts: this is our tree. We’re going to decorate it together. We’re having Christmas together. There will be a fire, and food, and the dog. There will be Rex.
“Hey, you okay?” Rex says, stopping when he realizes I’m a few paces behind him.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just happy.”
Rex’s smile is pure joy. He looks like a little boy who was told he did a good job.
By the time we find our tree, there are families wandering the lanes alongside us, kids plowing through snow that’s up to their thighs, pointing at which trees they want—always the biggest ones.
“That one,” Rex says, pointing to a medium-sized tree at the end of the row. It doesn’t look any different than any of the others to me, but what the hell do I know? The last Christmas tree I had was made of beer cans.
Rex kneels in the snow and starts to saw through the trunk of the tree. I’ve never seen anyone cut down a tree before. It’s strange.
“You want to try?” Rex asks.
I don’t, really, but it seems like one of those things that we’re supposed to do together. I take the saw and slot it into the notch Rex has started. After sawing for a few minutes, I’m exhausted. Rex touches my back and takes over again. When he’s sawn through, we stick the saw into the snow so we can find it again, and walk back to get Wallace. Rex gets on the tractor or baler or whatever it is with Wallace, but there’s only room for two, so I wait for them by the hut.
I’m watching an adorable little girl trying to braid tree branches when my phone rings. I expect it to be Rex, stuck in the snow with Wallace, or Ginger, calling to confirm when I’ll be in Philly for Chanukah. But it’s Brian.
“Dan,” he says.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, before he can say anything, because damn trying to be less suspicious, Brian has never called me in my life.
“Um,” he says, “have you heard from Colin?” His tone of voice says he assumes this is ridiculous but needs to ask.
“No,” I say. “Not since the funeral. Why?”
“We haven’t seen him since the funeral either,” Brian says.
“What? But what about the party at the shop?”
“He didn’t show.”
“Is he at home?”
“No, man, we didn’t think of that!” Brian says, like a jackass. “He isn’t at home and he hasn’t been at the shop. We haven’t seen him since the funeral. I keep calling his phone and he never picks up.”
“I haven’t talked to him, Brian,” I say, “but if I hear from him I’ll let you know.”
It’s a testament to how anxious Brian must be that he doesn’t say a single nasty thing as he hangs up the phone. I dial Colin’s number and his phone rings to voice mail.
“Colin,” I say, “um, it’s Daniel again. Look, Brian just called me and he says no one’s heard from you since the funeral. I just… want to make sure everything’s okay. Okay? So, even if you don’t want to talk to me, maybe call Brian or Sam? Okay, bye. Oh, and I didn’t say anything. Okay, bye.”
“All right, son, you’re all set,” Wallace says, pulling the trailer thing with the tree in it up in front of me. Rex hops off and hands Wallace some money. I reach for my wallet, but Rex waves me off.
“Thank you,” he says, shaking Wallace’s hand. He looks so happy.
“Merry Christmas, boys,” Wallace says, waving.
Rex smiles at me and then grabs the bundled-up tree like it’s nothing more than a baseball bat he’s casually resting on his shoulder and sets off for the truck. He straps the tree to the roof and we set off. Rex is unusually talkative, explaining some of the things Wallace told him about tree farming. I love seeing him so happy, but the call from Brian is nagging at me.
“Hey, what’s up?” Rex asks a few minutes later. I glance up at him.
“You don’t think….” I begin. “I mean….” I shake my head. “It’s just, Brian called while you were getting the tree. And he said no one’s heard from Colin since the funeral. He’s not at home, won’t answer his phone. I just… I don’t know, I just wonder if he’s okay. I’ve called him. A few times. And he hasn’t called back.”
A few nights ago, when I took Marilyn out for her evening walk, I called Colin again. At first I was just going to leave a generic, “Seriously, dude, are you ever going to call me back,” message.
But as I was walking, I started to think about how it might have been if Colin and I had been allies instead of enemies. How different things would have been. How different I might have been.
So, when his voice mail picked up, I said, “Hi, Colin. I’m so angry with you because you cheated me out of a brother. I don’t understand why you never told me. I mean, I can think of lots of reasons, but I don’t know what yours was. No matter what it was, though, I think it sucks. I think it sucks that you let me think I was alone in this, when I wasn’t. I wasn’t, was I, Colin?”
My hands were shaking when I hung up the phone, and Marilyn was sitting at my feet, looking up at me like she was worried about me.
The next night, I snuck into the bathroom after Rex was asleep and left another message.
“Colin, it’s Daniel. Look, I’m mad at you, but I still want to talk to you, okay? I want to know what the fuck’s going on with you. Why were you so horrified when you found out I was gay? Because I know you weren’t faking that. You almost killed Buddy when you found us together. I just want to know why. Please call me back, okay?”
“Do you know any of his friends he might go stay with?” Rex asks. “Any of them you could call?”
“No. I don’t know any of his friends. I don’t even know if he has any. If he hasn’t talked to Brian and Sam then he hasn’t talked to anyone.”
I stare out the window, the snow suddenly seeming oppressive instead of magical. I try to shake it off, though, because today is supposed to be about the Christmas tree—about making Rex happy.
“He’s probably with that man, don’t you think?” I ask. “The one from the funeral?”
“That makes sense,” Rex says. But I’m not so sure.
We spend a lazy day decorating the tree with some tinsel and lights that Rex says he found in his workshop but that I suspect he may have bought especially for us. Marilyn is confused to see a tree inside and we have to keep taking her outside to stop her from peeing on it.
“I’ll take her,” I say when she circles the tree again as Rex is about to start dinner.
Outside, a few more inches of snow have fallen since this morning and the scene of snow-draped pine trees outside Rex’s cabin, with its warmly glowing windows, looks like a postcard that I can’t believe I can walk into it. I fiddle with my phone, flipping it open and shut uncertainly until it almost breaks in half. Jesus, I really need to get a new phone. I mentally add it to the ever-increasing list of shit I need to buy in a couple of paychecks.
I flip the phone open and call Colin before I can change my mind. But, of course, it goes right to voice mail.
“Colin,” I sa
y, my teeth chattering. “I have this memory. At least, I think it is. I’m not totally sure it really happened, but… if it did…. It’s—it was a snow day at school and I came home early. You were in bed, drunk, and I remember Dad’s pills, for his back. Anyway, I remember a lot of them, Colin, and I just. I wanted to make sure—I wanted to see if…. Look, just don’t do anything fucking stupid, all right, you asshole? Because I…. Just, please be okay. Okay?”
I’m lying in front of the fire, groaning, stuffed so full of Christmas brunch that I can barely move. I don’t even know how I’m going to be able to eat the roast chicken Rex is making for dinner.
If I tip my head back a little, I can see the lights on the Christmas tree reflecting in the window, making it look like I’m surrounded by trees. Last night, Christmas Eve, Rex and I watched Little Women, which is one of Rex’s favorite Christmas movies—the 1933, Katherine Hepburn version, not, Rex explained, the 1949 one with Elizabeth Taylor. It was pretty good, actually, though I never cared for the novel. If one of my brothers burned the only existing manuscript of my book, he would be in a world of pain.
We watched because Rex told me how he and his mother used to have a set of Christmas movies they watched every year and how he hadn’t done it since she died. Their lineup was Little Women, Holiday Affair, It Happened on Fifth Avenue, and The Bishop’s Wife. He was shocked to hear that I’d never even heard of any of them except Little Women and hadn’t actually seen a single one. I made it about twenty minutes into Holiday Affair before falling asleep and drooling all over Rex, so we went to bed instead.
Now, Rex is in his workshop doing something mysterious that he wandered off to after brunch when I collapsed on the rug to try and digest. Presumably, it’s something to do with a Christmas present, since we’re about to exchange them.
I have Rex’s present hidden in the closet. I really wasn’t sure what to get him. Everything either seemed too generic—music, clothes—or so expensive I didn’t have a prayer of affording it. Like, probably there are some tools or something that he’d like for his workshop, but hell if I know what they would be even if I could afford them. I thought about something for the kitchen, but it’s pretty well stocked, and I wouldn’t know where to start there, either. I hope he likes what I finally landed on. I felt pretty good about it last week, but now I’m nervous it’s not a good idea.
