You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  “What are you wearing?” Hope asked.

  “Tan chinos and a blue oxford,” Dylan said. “I have to dress up for outings like this.”

  I can’t possibly wear this dress now.

  “Gotta go,” he said. “Ramón needs to use the little boy’s room. See you soon.”

  “ Bye.”

  Hope hung up.

  Whack purred.

  “You knew it was Dylan, didn’t you?” Hope said to Whack.

  Whack rubbed against her legs, and then Whack stood on her back legs, claws extended, and latched onto the hem of the dress.

  “What are you doing?” Hope asked. She scooped Whack from the floor. “You want this dress?”

  Whack purred.

  Hope blinked. “You purred for me.”

  Whack batted a paw at the ballerina neckline.

  “You obviously don’t like this dress, do you?” Hope asked.

  Whack purred.

  “Maybe you even hate this dress,” Hope said. She laughed. “It’s yours.” She set Whack on the floor and slipped out of the dress, tossing it onto the bed.

  Whack circled Hope once more, then bounded across the floor to the bed, leaping onto the dress—and shredding the living lamé out of it.

  I wish I had a camera! This is too much! She sat next to Whack on the bed, petting her from head to tail, as Whack reduced a thousand wasted dollars of a party dress to shreds.

  “Good girl,” she whispered.

  Whack purred . . . and continued to shred.

  Hope waited outside her apartment building wearing her brown coat over her tightest jeans, a white wool sweater, and her flats. After a cab dropped Dylan off, they walked by red, green, gold, and silver Christmas lights shining like crosses to Hope’s eyes to Cambridge Place and Locanda Vini & Olii, an old pharmacy converted to an intimate, quiet Italian restaurant.

  “Why’d you meet me outside?” Dylan asked as they sat.

  Well, there’s this shredded dress all over the apartment, and, oh, there are over five thousand greeting cards hiding up there, too. “I was hungry.”

  “I hear this is a good place to satisfy all your hungers,” Dylan said.

  Not all of them.

  Dylan bought a bottle of Barolo “Case Nere,” rated due bicchieri by Gambero Rosso.

  Their waiter told them that “due bicchieri” meant “two glasses.”

  Hope had two glasses of wine by the time they finished their antipasti of marinated mixed olives, cured fish, shrimp, and sardines.

  I am already buzzing, Hope thought. That was only the first course. I should slow down, but this wine is warming every square centimeter of me.

  Lamb prosciutto with pear rosemary marmalade preceded ricotta and thyme ravioli. Cheeses and caramelized onion marmalade followed grilled Piedmontese beef and roasted potatoes.

  Hope held out her glass at the end of the meal, and only a trickle splashed into the bottom of her glass.

  “We killed it,” Dylan whispered.

  I killed it. Dylan only had two glasses.

  “Are you all right to walk?” he whispered.

  Hope looked at her legs. I see them just fine. I only sort of feel them. “It’s only a short walk to my apartment.”

  “But the night is young,” Dylan said. He smiled and held her hand. “I’m not working tomorrow, are you?”

  I like this man. He falls into my evil clutches so easily. “I hadn’t intended to.”

  “We could get a cab and go somewhere,” he said.

  Anywhere with you, as long as we end up in my bed. She sipped the last drops of her wine. “Let’s go.”

  They only held hands after getting in the cab, but Hope didn’t mind. My breath is a mixture of fish, garlic, and wine. I wouldn’t kiss me either. She was overjoyed to be out at night in Brooklyn on a Thursday night with nothing but time and a good man on her hands.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “The two thousand block of Pacific Street, Crown Heights,” Dylan said.

  Hope exhaled. “We’re going to your place?”

  Dylan nodded. “I have finally repaired all the holes in my walls. I know I should have had you over before, but remodeling takes time.”

  Hope’s flats danced. “It’s about time.” She remembered the cards. “Oh, but I already took the cards Kiki ran to my place. Over five thousand of them.”

  Dylan tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Change of plan. Corner of Washington and Eastern Parkway, then Pacific Street.”

  The driver nodded.

  “Five thousand?” Dylan asked as they started moving.

  “Four thousand of them were Aniya’s,” Hope said.

  “We need to hire her as another Odd Duck,” Dylan said. “That child has made over twelve grand already.”

  While Hope buzzed dreamily in the cab, Dylan retrieved the cards from her apartment in one trip, piling them into the cab’s trunk.

  Ten minutes later, they walked up four flights of stairs to Dylan’s floor, Dylan again carrying all the bags of cards.

  “It looks as if we’ve been shopping,” Hope said, leaning on Dylan’s shoulder.

  Dylan stopped Hope at the top of the stairs. “Which apartment is mine?”

  Hope saw four doors, but only one had a wreath, a large round wreath with a velvety red bow. She pointed. “That has to be your apartment. Is that a real wreath?”

  Dylan nodded. “Nothing but the real thing for me.”

  “I can smell it from here,” Hope said, pulling him toward the door.

  Dylan set down the bags and took out his keys. “I have to warn you before you go in. What you are about to see might blind you.”

  “Never again,” Hope said. “Open the door, Mr. Healy.”

  When Dylan opened the door, a winter wonderland lit up in front of Hope’s eyes.

  I have died and gone to Christmas land, Hope thought, stepping inside. Santa himself might live here!

  Tiny white Christmas lights blinked and raced across walls and the ceiling and wrapped around pillars illuminating rooms on either side of her, each room overflowing with Christmas. Santa, Frosty the Snowman, and Rudolph perched on a fireplace mantel to her left, three huge red stockings dangling below and topped with glittering names: “Dylan,” “Hope,” and “Whack.”

  “My cat gets a stocking?” Hope asked.

  “Why not?” Dylan said. “Cats need toys, too.” He brought in all the bags and shut the door.

  Unlit candles and snow globes filled shelves and window ledges, a nativity scene sat on a coffee table in front of a long white couch brimming with red-and-green-striped pillows, and sleighs and holiday tins filled with candy called out to Hope from the top of a bookcase filled with angel and shepherd figurines.

  Her eyes focused on an eight-foot-tall Christmas tree blazing bright red and green lights next to the fireplace. Ornaments of every shape and size, most obviously handmade by children, covered the tree. “Is that real?”

  “Can’t you smell it?” Dylan asked.

  Hope sniffed the air. Oh, that is pine, and I am feeling fine.

  “Look behind you,” Dylan said.

  Hope turned and saw all of their greeting cards taped to the back of the door in the shape of a Christmas tree, “Siamese Snow Angels” at the top. “So that’s what you do with greeting cards.”

  Dylan ushered Hope to the couch, seating her at one end. “May I get you something to drink? I have some more of that fine Brooklyn tap water.”

  “Wine, if you have any,” Hope said. This is amazing. He even has all his windows decorated with lights and that spray snow stuff.

  Dylan left and returned with a single glass of red wine. “It won’t be as nice as the Barolo.” He handed her the glass.

  Hope took a sip. I can barely taste it. “You aren’t having any?”

  “That’s all I have,” Dylan said.

  She leaned back into the couch, kicking off her flats. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “Maybe.”
Dylan winked. “So, what do you think?”

  Hope smiled. “Unexpected, but then not really.” She motioned to the tree with her glass. “Where’d you get your tree?”

  “At the Christmas tree stand on Flatbush and Seventh last week,” Dylan said. “You’ve probably walked right by it and didn’t see it.”

  Because I don’t go looking for Christmas.

  Hope let her eyes continue to roam, drifting over the skinny kitchen with breakfast bar and two stools to the right, the shiny dark hardwood floors everywhere she looked, and the lights blinking in the windows.

  She pointed to the short hallway. “What’s down there?”

  “Take a look,” Dylan said. He held out his hand.

  Hope finished her wine, set her glass near the manger of the nativity scene, and took his hand, and they walked the hallway to a door on the right. She opened it and saw an office, with computers, scanners, and printers in abundance, a rolling chair in front of a drafting table looking out at a literal wall of ceiling-high windows, and boxes of envelopes in all sizes sitting neatly stacked in the corners.

  She closed the door. “No work tonight,” she whispered. “Nice and neat, though.”

  “It isn’t always that neat,” Dylan said.

  She turned her attention to the room across the hall. “Your bedroom?”

  Dylan nodded.

  Let’s see where we will be jooking later. She stood in the doorway. Neat, tidy, TV on a dresser, large mirror facing a queen-size bed. Hope blushed. He has a mirror facing his bed. I will be seeing us in action later. Two more doors. The one on the left has to be the washroom. What’s behind the other door? Let us go see.

  She drifted to the door on the right, opening it. Ah. Clothes. Flannel. More hoodies to steal. A collection of paint-spattered pants. Sweaters. Sweatshirts. A dozen pairs of shoes and boots. These clothes will look so nice on me.

  Hope walked past Dylan and back to the couch, falling into a pile of pillows. “But Dylan, you have no presents under your tree.” I mean, really, it’s not even Thanksgiving. Who even has a tree up by now?

  Dylan stood next to the fireplace. “I haven’t wrapped any yet.”

  Wrapped any? What? “Why are you way over there?”

  “We have some business to attend to, Miss Hope,” he said. He took out a memo pad and readied a pen. “What do you want for Christmas?”

  “A beach house,” she said.

  “Allow me to rephrase my question,” Dylan said. “What do you want for Christmas that I can afford?”

  Hope sighed. “Sit with me.” While my buzz is still buzzing.

  “I’m trying to make a list here, Hope,” Dylan said. “You’ll only distract me.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” Hope asked.

  “Humor me,” Dylan said. “What do you want for Christmas?”

  “Well,” she said, “you’ve already given me my sight.”

  “Dr. Dello Russo did that,” Dylan said.

  Hope lay back, the pillows so soft on her back. “You paid for it. You convinced me to do it. Sorry I gave you such a hard time.”

  “It’s good that you’ve finally seen the light,” he said.

  “Ha.” He’s so cute, but he’s so far away. “I see lots of lights. How can you sleep?”

  “I turn them off at night, Hope.” He tapped the pen on the pad. “So, what can I get you to wrap up and put under that tree?”

  “A new toque.”

  “All right.” Dylan wrote it down. “Color?”

  “Colorful,” Hope said.

  Dylan nodded. “Colorful. What else?”

  I am lying on his comfortable couch in a very fetching pose, and we’re talking about toques. “What else? I don’t know, a new . . . pair of... socks.”

  Dylan wrote it down. “What kind?”

  Hope sat up slowly. “I’m joking with you, Dylan. I don’t need socks, and if I did, I’d go out and get them like most normal people. I won’t wait for someone to give them to me at Christmas. I can’t let my feet freeze off, can I?”

  “No.” He made a mark on his pad. “What else can I get you?”

  You can get your sexy derriere over here. “I don’t want anything. Really. I have everything I need right here in Christmas land with you. We are definitely celebrating Christmas here. Does your fireplace work?”

  Dylan tapped his pen on the memo pad. “No. It’s just for show. Okay, the space under the tree will contain one toque on Christmas morning. I have to put more than just one toque there, Hope. How about an entire new wardrobe for your new body? I could get you clothes from head to toe.”

  “Not necessary,” Hope said. “Don’t I look good in whatever I wear?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Hope rested her head on a pillow. “And I will be stealing your clothes. I love flannel, by the way. I will be borrowing a shirt later.”

  “Could I maybe get you a sweater at least?” Dylan asked.

  Hope rubbed at her face. My face is so hot. That wine was nice. “I don’t need a sweater, Dylan. If I need a sweater, I’ll go out and buy one.”

  Dylan closed his memo pad. “Don’t you want me to get you anything for Christmas?”

  Hope shrugged. “Not really. I just want you.” Now, as a matter of fact. Right here on this Christmas couch. I’ll prop up some of these cushions under my hips . . .

  Dylan wiped at his lips. “Are you serious about that?”

  Hope nodded. “Yep.”

  He shook his head. “But it’s Christmas, Hope.”

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving, Dylan,” Hope said.

  “I like to get started early,” Dylan said. “I don’t want to rush in December.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who had this,” Hope said, throwing out her hands and looking around, “much less all this before Thanksgiving.” Am I making sense? Why are my hands flopping around so much? Maybe it’s because I had an Italian dinner.

  Dylan sighed. “I wanted to impress you.”

  Hope shrugged. “You did.”

  “I was hoping to get a better idea of what you wanted tonight, Hope,” Dylan said. “I know it’s not so much the presents themselves that make Christmas. It’s the act of giving. I am the giver, and you are the give-ee.”

  “You give me your love every day,” Hope said. I said the L-word. The wine has loosened my tongue. Now if I could only feel my tongue. “I don’t need anything more.”

  “You don’t?”

  Hope shook her head.

  “Even if any present I give you would be the manifestation of my love?”

  Ooh, that was a big word. “Manifestation.” He should not be using five-syllable words when I’m buzzing.

  “I want you to unwrap my love on Christmas morning, Hope,” Dylan said. “Tell me what I can wrap up for you.”

  That was an easy question. Hope smiled. “Yourself.”

  Dylan sighed. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

  Hope squinted. Is he getting angry? I’ve never seen him get angry. It’s just amazing what you can see in this apartment. “Dylan, I just want to snuggle.”

  “I want to snuggle, too, Hope,” Dylan said, “but I need to do this first. I love giving gifts. I haven’t had anyone to give Christmas gifts to in years, and now that I do, the receiver of my gifts doesn’t want to get any.”

  I do think he’s pissed. Red face. Vein in forehead. Restless hands. Darting eyes. I’ll just let him talk it out of his system.

  “I want to give you whatever you want. I want to give you gifts that I think you want, you know, surprises, unexpected gifts you open Christmas morning and say ‘Dylan, you shouldn’t have!’ and ‘Dylan, how did you know I needed that?’ and ‘Dylan, I’ve been wanting this!’ ”

  Now he’s getting louder. “But it’s not necessary.”

  Dylan moved in front of the tree. “It is to me. I want to buy you a whole bunch of little stocking stuffers, wrap every one of them, and fill your stocking to the very top.”

&n
bsp; Hope chuckled. “You wrap the stocking stuffers? Why?”

  “I know it’s a shameless waste of wrapping paper, but I do it because I like to,” Dylan said. “I want to shower you with gifts. Please let me.”

  “But I have everything that I need,” Hope said.

  “Look, Hope,” Dylan said, “Christmas isn’t strictly about need. It’s more about wants, wishes, and desires. I want to help you fulfill your wants, wishes, and desires.”

  Hope shrugged. “You do that every day. Let’s just keep Christmas small, okay? It’s only the two of us, right?” Now he’s staring at me with those brown brown eyes of his. What did I say?

  “You want to keep Christmas . . . small?”

  Oh, that’s what I said. “Yes. I want to keep Christmas small. Aren’t we both saving for bigger dreams? What about Art for Kids’ Sake? If we start wasting our money now—”

  “Wasting?” Dylan interrupted.

  Oops. I should have said “spending” or “using.”

  “Are you saying that giving gifts on Christmas Day is a waste?” Dylan asked.

  Hope wiggled her hands in front of her. “I meant spending, not wasting.”

  He scratched his head. “You made yourself perfectly clear.”

  Now he’s looking away from me. Hey, Dylan, I’m over here. “I just think we shouldn’t spend a lot at Christmas so we can reach our ultimate goals.”

  Dylan slumped into the other end of the couch, rubbing his hands together. “Okay, I understand about saving money for a dream, I really do. I’ve been putting away money for five years. You’ve been saving longer for your beach house. I get it. Money is obviously more important to you than properly celebrating Christmas.”

  Now I’m getting a little angry. “It’s not about the money, Dylan.”

  “So what’s it about, Hope?” Dylan asked.

  “I’m saying that we should save our Christmas money so that our ultimate dreams and goals will occur sooner. If we spend less today, we’ll have more for tomorrow.” I am making so much sense tonight. “I refuse to go overboard.” Here’s another great idea. “I know what we can do. We’ll have a budget.”

  “What?” Dylan jumped off the couch. “A budget?”

  Hope blinked. I am definitely getting his Irish up. It’s actually kind of sexy. He’s making me hot. “Yes, a budget. We’ll both agree to spend no more than a certain amount on each other, say, five hundred dollars.”