An Open Window

by Rick R. Reed

  He hurried downstairs to close the window.

  As soon as he got to the bottom step, he stopped in his tracks. His hand flew to his mouth to stifle a gasp or maybe even a scream. What on earth?

  He stared for the longest time, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him, as they had when he’d seen the vision of Barry lying next to him in bed.

  But that vision was a kind of wishful thinking. This was…. What should he call it? Horror? Terror?

  A man lay under his dining room table, the throw his grandmother had crocheted years ago covering him. Breath suspended for the moment, Jim took in the guy. He had a heavy beard covering the lower half of his face. His hair, dirty, long, and stringy, was still, in a sort of freakish way—lovely. Strands of gold mixed with sandy brown and an even darker color, almost black. He looked to be tall. His feet, clad in a pair of black Chuck Taylor’s worn almost beyond recognition, stuck out from beneath the covering.

  He snorted once, and Jim let out a gasp—a good thing because it jolted him back to breathing normally. He backed away from the figure under the table, blinking, hoping the man lying there in his dining room was some sort of Yuletide vision—like Santa and eight tiny reindeer—and that if he blinked enough times, he’d see only the braid rug under the table and not an out-of-place man, who might just be a robber, serial killer, or rapist.

  But if he’s any of those things, would he really take the time out of his mayhem and evil plans to take a nap like a dog under the table?

  Jim sat down for a moment on the bottom step of his staircase. He tried to quell the trembling in his hands, the fear causing his heart to race. A bead of sweat, crawly, slid from the nape of his neck, down along his spine. He told himself that whomever the guy was, he most likely meant no harm. He also told himself that the nearest phone was on his nightstand upstairs, and he probably had time to get up there and dial 911. He knew that’s what he should do, along with creeping outside while he waited for the police to show up. But something he couldn’t quite explain kept him rooted to that bottom stair.

  He leaned forward again to glance over at the man.

  Of course! Why didn’t it come to me before? He’s homeless. Jim felt something well up, a lump in his throat, at odds with the very real terror he was experiencing. The poor soul had nowhere to sleep last night, and he crawled in my stupid open window!

  Jim had thought his Christmas Eve was terrible, with its dashed dreams of romance, its betrayal, and then there was this guy, who had more important things on his mind—like trying to stay alive in close-to-zero temperatures, like where his next meal was coming from. Jim felt a little ashamed at his angst the night before over something that really didn’t count—not when faced with something like what was right in front of him. The poor guy! Jim couldn’t imagine being out in that cold with nowhere to call home.

  It broke his heart.

  As he thought those things, Jim grew less and less inclined to call the police, even though he was still scared almost witless that the guy would turn over, open his eyes, and level a crazy stare at him—just before leaping to his feet and running toward him with a roar, a butcher knife clutched in one grimy hand.

  As the vision started to take graphic shape in his mind, Jim stifled a burst of hysterical laughter with his hand.

  He paused, thinking. He needed to do the only thing that made sense—call the cops. And then quietly get dressed and slip out of his own house, all while hoping the homeless guy didn’t wake and come after him. With a knife….

  Just as he stood, poised to turn and make the quick trek up the stairs, the guy let out a loud noise, somewhere between a snore and a cough.

  Jim looked over at him, and his eyes widened as the man suddenly sat up, smacking his head hard against the bottom of the dining room table. “Ouch!” he yelped, bringing a hand up to his forehead and rubbing. “Damn,” he whimpered.

  Jim knew he was preoccupied with the whacked noggin and believed he hadn’t yet noticed him standing there at the bottom of the stairs.

  The moment of invisibility didn’t last long.

  The guy finally noticed Jim and said, “Oh shit.” He scrambled to his feet, shedding Jim’s grandma’s crocheted handiwork as he did. He really was of impressive height, at least six four, but he was skinny as hell. Jim thought of the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

  And he was shaking, even more than Jim. Jim spotted the trembling limbs from a distance of more than twenty feet, and could also see the fear in his eyes.

  The guy’s gaze found Jim’s. In a panicked voice, he said, “God, I’m sorry. I’ll get out right this very minute. I didn’t mean to sleep this long! I meant to be out of here before anyone woke up—honest.”

  The guy started toward the door.

  Jim’s heart went out to him. His coat was threadbare, as were the rest of his clothes. Everything was tattered, holes worn through, screaming how inadequate they were as protection from winter. He had no gloves, no hat, no scarf. Jim looked toward the window, at the snow still falling, coming down a little sideways because of the wind. What he’d thought of earlier as breathtaking suddenly became brutal as he took in the winter landscape through the homeless man’s eyes.

  “Please, mister, don’t call the cops. I just—” His voice faltered, trailing off, and Jim wondered if he was about to cry. “I just wanted someplace warm to sleep, and you left your window open,” he sputtered, breath coming more quickly. “Not that I mean to blame you or anything. Leaving your window open is certainly not an invitation for a stranger to come in and use your house as a Best Western, for cryin’ out loud!” He smiled, and in that smile Jim saw shame, terror, and a plea for understanding. Why, the poor man was probably more scared than Jim himself.

  “I’ll get out,” he said softly, staring down at the floor. He took a couple more steps toward the door.

  Jim managed to move away from the staircase and toward the homeless man. “Aren’t you gonna be cold?” he asked. He was now only a couple of feet from the guy. He could see the warmth and intelligence in his dark eyes—no craziness there, Jim knew in his heart, which he’d learned always told the truth. He could also see that beneath the grime, there was a pretty handsome fellow. What had happened to him? How had he ended up in such dire straits? Jim wondered. Why, he’s not much older than me! How did he come to such a place? And Jim wasn’t thinking about his house either.

  The man stopped, bare hand on the doorknob. “Cold?” Jim asked, and the guy shook his head.

  “Yeah, I guess so. But you get kind of used to it. I’ll be okay.” He let his hand drop from the door. “Who am I kidding? Yeah, I’ll be cold. Freezing. You don’t know cold, real cold, until you don’t have a shelter from it. It’s mean. A bitch.” He shook his head. “Mean enough to bite. Mean enough to steal your breath away if you’re not careful.”

  Jim stood staring at the guy for the longest time. It seemed something was hanging in the air, but Jim couldn’t put his finger on it. Something about the way they looked at the other….

  After another few minutes stretched out, the guy said, “I need to get out of your hair. Whether you wanted me here or not, I thank you for the warmth and the comfort of your floor. You don’t know it, but you probably saved my life.”

  This close, Jim could see the man’s eyes were shiny.

  And he had a thought…. All those gifts I bought for Barry, gifts I thought I’d return tomorrow, all of them are winter themed. Besides the fleece-lined slippers, there were insulated nylon gloves, wool socks, a red wool muffler with white snowflakes, and a hat Jim thought at first was ludicrous, a joke, but maybe now would be the perfect thing for someone in need. The hat was big faux fur, with ear flaps that came down and buckled under the chin.

  Barry had always shown up at Jim’s in a denim jacket, shivering. And that had brought out Jim’s nurturing side.

  He needed the money he’d get back from the gifts a lot less than how much his intruder could use them. Boy, you are crazy! Just get the
guy out! Pronto! Jim shook his head, and a voice in the back of his head, one very much like the voice of the child Jim, said, But it’s Christmas.

  His trespasser opened the door, and the wind blowing in was freezing. It had to be below zero. Some errant snowflakes fluttered in, borne up by the wind. They danced in the air before settling on Jim’s hardwood floor to quietly melt.

  “Wait!” Jim called.

  The man turned. He closed the door behind him. “Look, I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “No, don’t be. You did what you had to do.”

  Abashed, the man stared down at the floor, at the puddles already forming from the snow that had blown in.

  “It’s okay. Although you did give me quite a scare, I have to admit.” The logical part of Jim’s brain told him he should still be afraid, but his heart said something else. His heart sensed a kind man, down on his luck, taking desperate measures in order to survive.

  “It’s Christmas morning, right?” Jim said.

  The guy simply shrugged. “I guess it is. I knew it was the season to be jolly.” He let out a short, bitter burst of laughter that almost broke Jim’s heart. “The holiday doesn’t really mean much to me. Not anymore.”

  Jim took a step toward him and held out his hand. “I’m Jim.”

  The man looked down at Jim’s hand, uncertain.

  “It’s okay. We can shake.” He smiled.

  He took Jim’s hand in his grimy one and squeezed. Jim looked into his eyes and saw something there—fear, gratitude, curiosity.

  Follow your heart, Jim.

  “Henry. Henry Chefalo.” He let go. “Sorry my hand’s so dirty. It’s hard to keep clean out there.”

  “No worries.” Jim smiled. “Listen, Henry. I have some presents under the tree that were intended for somebody who’s, um, no longer part of my life. I was going to go out to the store tomorrow and take them back, but then I thought, maybe you could use them. It’s not a lot, just some warm clothes, outerwear to keep you from freezing your butt off out there.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Henry looked down at his hands. Jim did too and noticed that under the grime, they were chapped, red, raw in spots.

  “Please. Don’t try and be polite. I want you to have them. Take them if for no other reason than you’ll be making me happy.” Jim hurried into the living room and gathered up the boxes in his arms. He’d spent hours wrapping them just so in bright foils, complete with ribbons and bows.

  He returned to Henry and stooped to set the gifts down at his feet, “Merry Christmas, Henry.” And he looked up at Henry, who stared back at him, confused, but with tears in his eyes.

  HENRY DIDN’T know what to make of this character, this Jim. A normal person, a sane one, would have thrown him out on his ass, Christmas or no Christmas, or worse, held a weapon on him with one hand while, with the other, he phoned the cops.

  And here he was giving him presents. Ah shit! The kindness of it caused tears to spring to Henry’s eyes. He wanted to simply cover his face with his hands and bawl.

  Back in his other life, when he went to church, he recalled a sermon his priest had given at St. Ann’s in the east end of town. “Be open,” Father Safara had said. “Open to receive the gifts life sends your way. Don’t question them and don’t think you don’t deserve them. The Good Lord wouldn’t have seen fit to give them to you if He didn’t want you to have them.”

  Henry didn’t have much faith these days, but he could sure use some warm clothes.

  He watched as crazy Jim stooped again to gather up the gifts.

  “Come on,” he said, softly, and headed into the living room.

  Henry supposed he should follow. He hovered near the doorway as Jim set the gifts back down on an end table. He plugged in the little tree and it lit up with tiny multicolored lights.

  Jim looked up at him. “Don’t just stand there. Come on in and have a seat.”

  Henry stepped farther into the room and perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, afraid he’d soil it, knowing just how bad he smelled.

  If Jim sensed anything, he was giving no sign of it. He was smiling.

  “We need some music.” Jim moved to a boom box on top of a bookcase opposite the couch and pressed down the Play button. Soft, instrumental music began—an orchestra playing “Silent Night.”

  Henry was afraid he was going to blubber.

  Jim sat down on the opposite end of the couch and grinned. He gestured toward the heap of gifts. “Go ahead. Don’t be shy. Rip ’em open.”

  Henry reached out a tentative hand, doubt lingering. Was this some kind of setup to detain him? Were the police on their way? “Are you sure?”

  “C’mon, Henry. I was looking forward to giving these to my boyfriend—” Jim caught himself and Henry watched as a line of scarlet traveled up from his neck to his face.

  Henry got it. He had to laugh. “It’s okay, dude, if you have a boyfriend.” Actually, it was more than okay and gave the feeling of this strange morning more of a sense of something that was meant to be. Henry winked, just to put poor, flustered Jim at ease. “I’m a big old ’mo myself. No lie.”

  “Really?

  “Yes, honey! Don’t you know that these rags were once gold lamé and chiffon?”

  It surprised Henry when Jim cracked up with him—they laughed harder than Henry thought his little fey comment warranted. But it felt good to laugh. Henry couldn’t honestly recall the last time he’d done so.

  After the laughter died down and the music had changed to “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” Jim urged, “Go on. Open your damn presents.”

  “I thought they were for your boyfriend.”

  “Ex.” Jim shook his head. “Ah, not even that. Fuck buddy on the side. He had a wife and two kids!” Tragic as this was, it seemed to tickle Jim’s funny bone, and he collapsed into laughter again, so hard he was holding his sides. When he stopped, he wiped tears out of his eyes and side-eyed Henry. “Sorry,” he croaked out.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you gonna open those presents or what?”

  BACK IN the now, Henry reached over to stroke Jim’s thinning hair. “Not many people have our particular how-we-first-met story, do they, honey?”

  The fire had just about died out, and a chill had crept into the room. Soon they’d head up to bed, and Henry knew Jim would find it hard to sleep in anticipation of the gift exchange in the morning. He was like a little kid that way. Unlike a little kid, he was always more excited about what he’d give to Henry, rather than what he’d receive. And what Jim would give always included wool socks, gloves, muffler, and a ridiculous hat with ear flaps.

  Their tradition.

  Henry sat up and stretched. “We need to get you upstairs, mister. Santa won’t come if you’re awake.”

  Jim grinned. He sat up too and leaned in to kiss Henry. He looked in his eyes. “All I wanted that Christmas was someone to love.”

  Henry shook his head, eyes welling up. His tendency toward tears had worsened as he aged. “And all I wanted was a home.”

  They were quiet for a while, watching as the last orange ember flickered and died in the hearth.

  “We managed to get both, didn’t we?” Jim asked.

  “Yes,” Henry replied. “Each of us got both.” He stood and held out a hand. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  Real Men. True Love.

  RICK R. REED draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…”

  Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their Boston terrier.

  Website: www.rickrreed.com

  Blog: www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com

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  By Rick R. Reed

  Bashed

  Big Love

  Blink

  Caregiver

  Chaser • Raining Men

  The Couple Next Door

  A Dangerous Game

  Dinner at Fiorello’s

  Dinner at Jack’s

  Dinner at Home

  Dinner at the Blue Moon Café

  With Vivien Dean: Family Obligations

  Homecoming

  Hungry for Love

  Husband Hunters

  I Heart Boston Terriers

  Legally Wed

  Lost and Found

  M4M

  An Open Window

  The Perils of Intimacy

  Simmer (Dreamspinner Anthology)

  Tricks

  DREAMSPUN DESIRES

  With Vivien Dean: #15 – Stranded with Desire

  Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Published by

  DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

  www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  An Open Window

  © 2017 Rick R. Reed.

  Cover Art