by B. G. Thomas
And later, alone in his bed, he found he didn’t resent them and what they had.
In fact, he didn’t even have the energy to masturbate.
He slipped off into dreams, not feeling alone at all.
In those dreams he saw hazel eyes looking down at him.
Felt those lips.
And let the man’s name—the only name he knew—slip from his own.
Hodor….
CHAPTER NINE
CHRISTMAS WAS quiet, but nice. Wyatt spent a big part of the day binge-watching Friends on Sloan’s Netflix account. He’d stumbled on the show a few days before, not realizing it was available, and had watched the first episode—“The One Where Monica Gets a New Roommate”—on a lark. He’d never watched it before and decided to see what all the fuss was about. Just to see why so many people loved it. He seemed to remember the six cast members had gotten a million dollars apiece per episode toward the end.
Wyatt wound up staying up just past midnight, having watched eight episodes that first night. They made him laugh. He needed to laugh. It was strangely better than beating off, and didn’t make him feel lonely when he was done.
Tonight he had just started watching a Christmas episode, “The One with Phoebe’s Dad”—second season, third?—when the doorbell rang. He looked at the front door in surprise—Phoebe was just commenting about the size of Ugly Naked Guy’s Christmas balls—then shrugged and got up to see who it was.
It was none other than Logan, Max’s son, and Logan’s boyfriend Devin. And imagine! Fourteen (or was he fifteen now? Wasn’t he fifteen?) and had a boyfriend! A boyfriend his parents knew about. And the boyfriend’s parents knew about Logan. It was like something out of The Twilight Zone. Quite a different story than Wyatt’s own.
They were both dressed up in their Christmas finery, most notably long hats—Logan’s red and Devin’s green—with a big white poof ball at the tips and huge, ridiculous pointed elf ears to either side.
Then to Wyatt’s surprise, they began to sing.
Deck the hall with boughs of holly, Fa la la la la la la la la.
’Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la la la la la.
Don we now our gaaaaay apparel, Fa la la la la la la la la.
Troll the ancient Christmas carol, Fa la la la la la la la laaaaaaaa!
“Merry Christmas, Uncle Wyatt,” Logan said, a big smile spread over his cute face.
Uncle Wyatt?
“And a Happy New Year,” Devin added.
Wyatt grinned and couldn’t help the tears that touched his eyes. If anyone had ever come to him with Christmas carols before, he couldn’t remember when.
“Thank you, boys,” he cried. “Do you want to come in? I can make you hot chocolate. It’ll be instant, but—”
“Nope!” Logan said cheerfully. “That’s not why we’re here. Get your coat, Uncle Wyatt. You’re coming to our house for dinner!”
Wyatt gaped at the pair. “But your….” Did he say “dads”? He gulped. “But your dad and Sloan helped me celebrate on Saturday.”
“And you are not eating alone tonight!” Logan stated with an authority that could not be argued.
“I… I….” Wyatt didn’t know what to say.
So therefore he said the only thing he could.
“Can you give me a minute to put on some gay apparel?”
Logan and Devin burst into laughter. “Yeah, we can do that. You have five minutes.”
Wyatt spread his fingers over his chest. “Me? You expect me to be ready in five minutes?”
“Four and three-quarters minutes now,” Logan stated firmly.
Wyatt looked at them, horrified, and told them to get inside. “Hurry!” And with that he dashed up the stairs.
When he got to his room he opened drawers and threw things hither and yon. He knew he had something he could wear. Was sure of it. Howard couldn’t have taken it because he would have never fit into it.
Just when he was about to give up… “Eureka!” he shouted, pulled off his oversized nightshirt and pulled on the T-shirt instead. He scrambled into bright red jeans he’d found at a thrift store, then green socks, and finally his red high-tops. Then it was back down the steps just as the boys were calling out, “Five, four, three, two, one!”
They took one look at him and once more exploded into laughter.
“That’s perfect,” Devin said.
Wyatt grinned. The shirt said it all. “Merry Elfin’ X-Mas!”
“It’s elfin’ perfect,” said Logan.
“YOU KNOW you didn’t have to do this,” Wyatt said as Max helped him out of his coat and then got a good laugh at Wyatt’s shirt himself.
“Nonsense,” Max said and chuckled again. “We’ve got plenty. There was no sense in you being alone.”
That almost made Wyatt cry.
The house was lovely. They’d put up a big tree—live, but plantable of course. Max was as green as they came and explained that he liked having a living, breathing tree in the house and was excited about the idea of planting it as soon as he could. As for the rest of the decorations, it was all very gay with only a nod to the traditions. Wyatt decided he could have hardly done better. Lots of huge purple and blue and silver ribbons everywhere. No crèches. Not even an angel on the top of the tree, but some kind of bird instead. Max was more Buddhist than anything; Sloan had no real religious feelings one way or the other. Wyatt suspected all the decorating was more for Logan than anything else. That and habit. He’d read in some Gallup poll recently that only about 50 percent of the people who celebrated Christmas did so for any religious reasons. The rest just celebrated because that’s what you did—like setting off fireworks on the Fourth of July or decorating and hiding eggs on Easter.
Dinner was a huge turkey with stuffing and all the trimmings, all the traditional side dishes—including mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, yams, Waldorf salad, and not one, but three pies. Wyatt was simply grateful that the turkey wasn’t tofu (Max was about two steps to the side of being vegetarian). That and to have been invited in the first place. He hadn’t realized how much he didn’t want to be alone today until the boys showed up at his door, or even more, until he was sitting at this table. It didn’t even bother him that he was the only single person there (well, not too much). It all came with a comprehension that he’d been secretly (secret even from himself) dreading spending the day in his big empty house filled with echoes of Christmases past.
Howard celebrated Christmas big-time, although Wyatt was the one who wound up putting up and taking down the considerable decorations. Except for the outside lights of course. Howard took joyful charge of that. Plus Wyatt was afraid to stand on a chair to change a light bulb in a ceiling fixture (which naturally had been one more thing Howard made fun of him for).
But at least Howard’s celebrations drowned out the earlier echoes—Wyatt’s family Christmases. They’d been even bigger than Howard’s—without Santa Claus or anything to do with the big man in red—and included lots of Baptist church services.
Wyatt could remember just exactly when Christmas had stopped being fun and turned into something almost scary. It was when his father had the accident—one that could have killed him. An eerie accident. One that convinced his father that God had given him a second chance and that he should turn away from his wicked life and rejoice in Jesus.
This had all been early in Wyatt’s childhood. Right before he went into first grade, in fact. His father denounced the existence of Saint Nick (along with all those heathen, idol-worshiping Catholics’ false gods) and made it a point to teach Wyatt the true meaning of Christmas. That Saint Nicholas was something pagan and evil. Wyatt’s little sister Wendy hadn’t had a real chance to believe in the jolly old elf even that long.
The Dolan household had Nativity sets all over the place—every room, every nook and cranny. There was even a night-light in the bathroom with the Christmas star shining down on the silhouette of a manger (Wyatt had found it nearly imposs
ible to take a bath and especially pee when he was little, wondering if the baby Jesus could see him from his manger).
There were still presents to be sure, but it was clear that it was in honor of the wise men who brought the Christ Child gold, frankincense, and myrrh—and not for some profane celebratory ritual.
When Wyatt was in fourth grade and realized that the three kings didn’t come to Jesus in the stable, but later, he’d almost said something to his father. But even at ten years of age he’d figured out that discretion was the better part of valor—especially when it came to his father’s religious conversion. He certainly didn’t point out that the visitors weren’t kings at all, that there weren’t necessarily three of them, and that “wise men” almost certainly meant astrologers. That would only have been more trouble than he wanted to deal with.
It had sparked an interest, though. At ten he was already intrigued by things not-Christian. Things just a little less scary than tales of kings and pharaohs slaughtering babies. Or the beheading of John the Baptist. Or the story of God taking Ezekiel and dropping him off in a valley filled with human bones that rose up, tendons and muscles reforming, as a zombie army. He’d read about Jonah being swallowed by a whale as well. He wouldn’t even go swimming at the lake that whole summer. And those plagues! Frogs and locusts and flies and angels of death and killing poor little baby lambs and painting their blood on thresholds!
But the worst of all was that whole concept of eating the body of Christ and drinking his blood.
No. The worst of all was the idea he was going to hell because of something Adam and Eve did six thousand years ago, and it was only through Jesus’s gruesome death on the cross that he could be saved.
Even at ten he kept wondering about what seemed like contradictions in the Bible and how his father seemed to pick and choose what was evil and what wasn’t. For instance, what about the dreams that warned Joseph to take Jesus and flee to Egypt? And what about those pesky wise men—astrologers? Astrology was something that was not tolerated in the Dolan home. His father even crossed out the horoscope in the newspaper with a big black magic marker (which bled through and often made doing the crossword puzzle impossible).
If astrology was evil, as his father claimed, how had it led the wise men to Jesus? And if God hated fortune-telling, then why would God create people who were able to do such things? And what about the commandment that said, “You shall have no other gods before Me”? If, as Wyatt had been taught, there was only one god, then how could there be any other gods before or after? And what about God being “a jealous God”? Again—it seemed to imply there were other gods as well!
He’d had so many questions but found the minute he asked them, he was punished and told he was a sinner that needed to pray for forgiveness.
“Wyatt, you okay?”
Wyatt gave a little start and turned to see that Logan was looking at him curiously. He cleared this throat. “Yeah. Just got lost in thought there.”
“Was it a bad thought?” Logan asked quietly.
“I…. No. Just….” Wyatt sighed. “Just distracting.”
Then to his surprise, Logan squeezed his knee. “If you need to talk, let me know.”
The gesture touched Wyatt. This young man, not much more than a boy, was offering to be an ear. It was incredibly sweet. This “boy” was going to make a fine man.
“Thanks,” Wyatt replied.
Then from Wyatt’s left: “Would you pass the mashed potatoes?” Sloan asked.
Wyatt nodded, forced a smile, and passed.
After dinner, Wyatt had two pieces of pie—cherry and chocolate pecan—and they watched A Christmas Story. It was nice to be in a room full of laughter. There was eggnog too. With whiskey. Then, just as he was getting ready to leave, Sloan told him he needed to wait.
“One more thing.” Sloan reached under the tree and pulled out a purple-and-silver-wrapped flat box. He smiled and handed it over. “Happy Yule,” he said.
Wyatt’s eyes went wide. “Sloan! I thought we’d all agreed to the Secret Santa thing.” Which was true. Wyatt had gotten Asher’s name and found a lovely tallit—a Jewish prayer shawl—and hoped it was the right choice. The jury was still out on the religious heritage thing. They were supposed to get together on Sunday to exchange gifts.
Sloan smirked. “Come on, buddy. You’re my best friend! Open it.”
Wyatt bit his lower lip and swallowed hard. You’re my best friend. He fought the tears and turned the box over and tore the paper off. He saw it was a shirt box and lifted the lid. Inside was a turquoise T-shirt. Wyatt pulled it out only to see there were two. “Sloan!”
Max chuckled. “Look at them.”
Wyatt unfolded the first one to see the words I Like My Men Beary Hairy. He let out a joyful laugh. “Oh guys! This is a riot!”
“Look at the other one,” Logan cried excitedly.
Wyatt grinned and pulled out the second shirt. This one had the classic picture of Uncle Sam pointing at the viewer. Only what he was saying was decidedly not his classic words. “I Want You To Pull My Finger,” he was saying. Wyatt burst into laughter. “Oh my gods! This is hilarious!” He jumped up, pulled off his Christmas shirt—not caring in the least to be bare-chested and chubby-bellied in front of his friends—and pulled the Uncle Sam shirt on. It fit perfectly. “I love it!” He dashed out of the room to the sound of his chuckling friends and went into the bathroom to check his reflection. And yes. Perfect. He loved it. Loved both the shirts, and ran back to tell his friends just how much he loved them. Both the shirts and all four of his Christmas companions.
“Thank you,” he all but shouted and fiercely hugged everyone.
They even sent him off with a piece of the eggnog pie!
And when Wyatt went home, he found the big house was just a little less lonely.
Yes, he was the only one there. But instead of seeming like a mausoleum, it felt like a home. It was almost like the ghost of Sloan’s mother—who had always been so kind to him—was still there.
“Gods, I hope not!” he exclaimed. Because how many times had he walked around the house naked and sat on the couch and jerked off to stories on porn sites?
Well, he hoped she averted her eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
WYATT WASN’T home a half hour when his cell phone rang. When he saw who was calling, he froze. It was one of his sister’s two annual phone calls. He took a deep breath before he answered it. “Feliz Navidad,” he said cheerfully.
“Merry Christmas to you too, big brother.”
“Thank you, little sister.” He closed his eyes. The familiar conglomerate of emotions were swirling through him: love, hurt, loyalty, shame…. It was always this way.
“And how are you doing today?” she asked. Her voice was cheerful—as usual. Seemingly genuine. And despite everything, he believed she was being authentic. They’d been nearly inseparable as kids, and surely that was what really mattered. Not what came later.
“I’m pretty good,” he answered, deciding to tell her how he felt in this moment, and not the general feelings that had ruled over him the last few months. “Just got back from Sloan’s house. He and Max had me over for Christmas dinner. You should see the T-shirts they got me.” Which she wouldn’t approve of, but what the shit.
“You mean your… Howard didn’t make his big dinner this year?”
There it was. Already. But at least she’d said his name. It was more than his parents had done—when they still spoke to him. They. Meaning her. His mother. His father hadn’t spoken to him in, what? Ten years? When his old man had said he’d been right all along. That Wyatt’s evil ways had led him to hellfire. To homosexuality. And worse. Thinking that he could find love with another man.
(“And you’re never going to last! Two faggots can’t make a home. It takes a man and a woman. He that made them at the beginning made them male and female. For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and the twain shall be one flesh. A
man and a woman. A man brings home the bread and the woman takes care of the nest. How can two men—two sodomites—make a nest?”)
Might as well get it over with. Get it done.
“I’m—” His throat locked up. Shit. It wasn’t going to be that easy. Deep breath. “I’m… I’m not with Howard anymore,” he managed and found himself once more wrestling his grief back down into its place deep inside that room he’d made for it.
Wyatt heard a small intake of breath from the other end of the phone. He didn’t know if he really heard it or if it was just his imagination.
“I…. Wyatt, I….” Then a moment of quiet. Because what was she supposed to say? She was sorry? Because she wouldn’t be, would she? She wouldn’t be allowed to be. But then she surprised him. “Wyatt, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? How long has it been?”
“A couple of months,” he said, his voice miraculously not trembling. “He left me.” Kicked me out is what he did.
“Why didn’t you call?”
Why hadn’t he called? Really?
“And hear you say, ‘Well maybe now you can find a nice lady and settle down and have a family’?”
“Oh, Wyatt.” She sighed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.” Long pause while Wyatt tried to figure out what to say to that. Then just before he could: “Although nothing’s impossible through our Lord.”
“Oh really, Wendy?” Wyatt laughed. It wasn’t a feel-good laugh. How many nights had he cried himself to sleep begging God to make him straight? Hundreds? And when He hadn’t done what Wyatt had prayed for, it was the final straw. It was what made him finished with his family’s God forever. “Don’t even think it.” After all, you knew I was gay before I did. Which wasn’t entirely true. She was just the first to say it out loud.
Another sigh. Then she asked, “So is Sloan your new b-boyfriend?”
B-boyfriend? She could hardly say it. And she was the one who had thought it was so cool to have a gay brother. And could she be his best “person” if he got married? And wouldn’t it be hil-arious when their parents found out? “You’re supposed to carry on the family name,” she had said.
