by Jackie North
In the morning, gold and blue light was pouring through the open doorway to the guest room, though Clayton usually slept with his bedroom door closed, even in his own apartment. Here though, with the good smells on the warm air, it seemed better to leave it open, and so he had.
He remembered standing there in the darkness the night before, listening to the sounds of Kyle in the bedroom just down the short hall, scuffles of feet, the slight, muffled bang of a closet door being slid closed. All the sounds of human occupation, all the normal sounds of someone nearby. Clayton had been overcome with awareness that he'd not had company in the night in several forever-long years, even if that company was separated from him by a bedroom wall.
Now that it was daylight, there were more sounds of human occupation, the dull thud of a fridge being closed, the clink of china on a wooden tabletop. The clatter of silverware. The low bubble of hot coffee in an old-fashioned coffee pot on the stove. And from somewhere, Clayton still couldn't figure out where, came the low, pleasant sounds of instrumental Christmas music.
He got up, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, and saw his newly washed clothes folded and laid on the dresser.
"Damn him," said Clayton without any heat. It was like Kyle to go that extra mile, and Clayton swore to himself that he'd figure out a way to be as generous, as kind as that.
He took a quick shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, even, and dressed in his clean clothes, enjoying the smell of whatever detergent Kyle had used on his flannel shirt and jeans. Then, barefoot, he padded out to the kitchen to find Kyle at the table, his elbows propped up, sipping slowly from a thick china mug of coffee.
"Good morning," said Clayton.
"Merry Christmas, said Kyle, nodding, as if he was showing Clayton how it was done.
"Merry Christmas," said Clayton, because he was a fast learner.
Kyle tipped his head and smiled at Clayton with his lovely, generous mouth.
The small blossom of warmth that had begun with that first serving of brandy-laced coffee when he'd come out of the blizzard expanded inside of him, pushing something good, something full of hope, all through the empty parts of him. He'd not known, or at the very least had forgotten, that Christmas could be like this.
He was silent for a moment as Kyle lifted the coffee pot from the brass trivet and poured Clayton some coffee in a thick, white china mug, which Clayton would forevermore associate with Christmas. He sat down and doctored it with cream and sugar, and stirred it around and around, the clink of the spoon against the sides of the mug a thin, silver sound.
He looked up to see Kyle watching him. Kyle had both hands curled around his mug, and had lifted it to rest against his chin, as if enjoying the warmth of it against his face.
"What's the plan for the day?" asked Clayton, knowing he'd totally enjoy whatever it was that Kyle had planned.
"Well, we can have breakfast first and then open presents, or vice versa."
Clayton contemplated this as he took a large, comforting swallow of good, hot coffee.
"I still don't like the idea of you giving me presents, when I have nothing for you," said Clayton, finally.
"Hey, now," said Kyle, and he snapped his mouth shut over what he'd been about to say. "You know how this works," he said firmly. "You're the guest and I'm the host. I'm only giving you the presents I'd bought for Brent and Richard, anyway. I told you."
"But what—how am I—" Clayton sputtered to a stop, not knowing how to continue. What would a good Christmas guest do in this situation?
Gently, he laid his hand on Kyle's forearm, and for a moment let it rest there. Kyle's eyes were wide, but he didn't pull away.
"What can I give you?" asked Clayton. "I need to give you something."
It was what he needed to do, and he was very glad when Kyle didn't put him off yet again, but instead put down his coffee mug and, still holding it cupped in his two hands on the tabletop, contemplated Clayton's request.
"I know what you can do," said Kyle. With his eyes half closed, he ran his thumbs along the curve of the handle of the mug. "It's like I saved that knife and sheath for you and your nephew by buying it from that asshat that sold it to me. But I want you to tell me, now, how it came into your hands."
"Really?" asked Clayton, surprised. "You just want me to tell you a story?"
"Yes," said Kyle, nodding. "And then we'll open presents, and then I'll make pancakes. Buckwheat pancakes with real butter and maple syrup."
Kyle poured them both another cup of coffee, which, sweetened with sugar and softened by cream, tasted as good as any Clayton had ever had. Taking a swallow, he leaned back and reached into his mind to tell the tale that Uncle Bill had told him. And told Kyle how Uncle Bill's Great Grandad Pete, back in the 1880's, had run a general store in the frontier town of Farthing, Wyoming. And how, one fall, near the end of the Indian Troubles, which was what Grandad Pete always called them, he'd noticed an Indian woman walking up and down the wooden plank sidewalks, as though in a daze.
She had a long face and dark brown eyes. Her moccasins were worn thin on the soles of her feet, and her leather dress, though of high-quality leather and beadwork, was ragged around the edges. Her hair, done in a long dark braid down her back, was coming undone. She had no coat, no rucksack with supplies. The only thing she carried with her was a round pouch that she wore on a leather strap over her shoulder.
She seemed to have nowhere to go, and several of the townspeople were starting to stare at her and point. Grandad Pete, seeing the sheriff heading over from the jail, tugged on her fringed sleeve and gestured that she should come into the warmth of his store.
"Did this really happen?" asked Kyle.
"Shhhhh," said Clayton, putting his finger to his lips. "This is how I heard it from my Uncle Bill."
"Who's Uncle Bill?" asked Kyle, and it was quite clear he was very interested, for he leaned toward Clayton, his mouth slightly open, those blue eyes of his wide with expectation.
"He's my Uncle Bill," said Clayton. "On my dad's side, I think. Anyway, let me tell the story. Or do you not want to hear?"
"Oh, I want to, believe me," said Kyle. He settled back in his chair and let Clayton continue.
As the story had been told, Grandad Pete took the Indian woman to the back of his general store, where he had a small stove and a table where he took his meals. He bade her to sit down and gave her some water to drink, and then he fed her a bread and butter sandwich.
As she ate it, she told him her name was Summer Cloud Woman, but that the whites called her Adeline. She offered to pay him for the meal, and reached into her round pouch, pulling out three pennies.
He cupped his hand around hers and told her to keep the money, as he was glad to show her kindness. As she put the pennies away, her hand shook. Grandad Pete saw that she had sewing supplies in the pouch, a needle and thread, a small, curved knife, and a whole mess of Indian beads, some of which spilled on the table.
A long slender shape curled out of the bag, a length of beaded leather that Grandad Pete always assumed was being made as a replacement for the leather strap to her pouch. He never did find out, he always told Uncle Bill, what that strap of leather was for, but the beadwork on it was the most beautiful he'd ever seen.
Then and there he offered her a proposition, in which she could sleep in one of the empty rooms over the store, and in the daytime, she could sit at a small table in the window and do her beadwork. He'd buy some beads and sell them to her, and then she could earn money to pay her own way by selling her beadwork.
"It was in grandad's store," said Clayton, nodding. "That was where Adeline made this beaded sheath. It's been handed down from father to son, and then from uncle to nephew, ever since."
"How did she get there?" asked Kyle. "How did she end up in Farthing?"
"Well, according to Uncle Bill, Grandad Pete never asked her, and we never knew. Uncle Bill says she was half white, and that might have been why she wasn't with her own people with winter comin
g on."
"Oh, man," said Kyle. "Winters out here aren't tame; she wouldn't have made it."
"She might have," said Clayton. "The way Uncle Bill tells it, Grandad Pete thought she was very smart, always behaved in a businesslike way, determined to make her own way in the world, and not rely on Grandad Pete's charity. Uncle Bill says they were both quite comfortable living together in that general store."
"Were they lovers?" asked Kyle, smiling, as if at the thought of such an old west romance. "Was he sweet on her?"
"Not as far as I know," said Clayton. "The point is, the beaded sheath was originally made by a half-Native American woman from the Arapahoe tribe. It's worth a lot of money, but I think the history it tells is worth a lot more."
Kyle got up with a quick shove to his chair, went out, and came back with the sheath in his hands. He laid it on the table, smoothing the fringes with his fingers. Then, sitting down, he traced the top of the sheath with some reverence.
"Look at this little bit," he said. "Why is the leather a different color all along the edges?"
"That's where Ricky took the leather of the original sheath and wove it like a ribbon beneath the lines of newer leather, all around the edges. That way, the old sheath is part of the new. The beads are all hers and the pattern is hers, but Ricky used new string and re-sewed them on in exactly the same way." Clayton traced the lines of faded leather, his finger only a tiny bit away from Kyle's finger. "This'll last another hundred years, if not more, it's that well made."
"It really is a bit of history," said Kyle, his voice soft, almost reverential. He looked up at Clayton. "I'd like to make history like this."
"Well, you can," said Clayton. "You have your plan, right?"
"I do," said Kyle. "Though it's more like a pipe dream than a plan, I think."
Kyle got up to take their mugs to the sink and rinsed out the crockery beneath the stream of water. As he prepped the pancake batter, doing mysterious extra things to it that would make it delicious, Clayton found that, in the bright warmth of the yellow and white kitchen, he was frowning.
It was one thing for someone like him to exist beneath the drudgery of a job he did not always care for, but it was another to think of someone like Kyle doing that. He seemed to look at the world in a different way, with hope and a sense of expectation. Someone must have told him, repeatedly, that becoming a craftsman of leather was not a solid occupation, that it was fraught with uncertainty, and that he'd be better off just doing what he was doing.
He could hardly bear to think of how Kyle might react to such a negative reaction to his dream. Such a cold response would make those blue eyes sad, and that quirky mouth of his frown. Someone like Kyle should be lifted up, should be supported, just like he'd lifted Clayton out of the snow and supported him into the house. Someone like Kyle deserved the best.
Clayton reached for his coffee mug, not because he wanted more to drink, because he needed to do something with his hands as he watched Kyle at the counter, busy at his task, humming under his breath. He had a straight back beneath his t-shirt, and was slender through the hips, and in the warmth of his own house, he was sock-footed. One of his socks had a small hole near the heel, and as well run as everything else about the place was, it must be that Kyle had not yet noticed.
The urge to get up and tell Kyle about it was strong. Even stronger was the urge to go down the hall to Kyle's bedroom to rummage through the sock drawer and bring him a new pair. Even better, he should have a pair of Christmas slippers, done in leather, and beaded along the top. If Clayton had had the time, he would have gotten Ricky on the phone and told him what he wanted. Paid for it with his credit card, which he almost never used, and then raced up to Dickinson to fetch them for Christmas morning.
Only it was already Christmas morning, too late for a flurry of activity that, truth be told, Clayton had no idea how it would be received. What would he tell Kyle about the impulse inside of him, how could he explain the directions his mind was going? They'd only just met, and the words would come out in starts and stops and make no sense whatsoever. He could barely get his own mind around it and it'd been so long since he'd been with anyone himself, it'd be like a bad game of Scrabble that he didn't have enough letters for.
Kyle covered the bowl of pancake batter and left it on the counter. When he turned to Clayton, his russet hair was sticking a bit to his forehead, and there was flour on his nose. He was as cute as a button and sweet as a long draw of mountain air on a summer morning.
"Ready to open presents?" asked Kyle. His eyes were bright blue and open and so full of that kind of joy that Clayton envied.
"Yes," said Clayton, barely managing that. He coughed and stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, which made Kyle laugh, so he knew it was practically standing straight up. "I'm ready, for sure."
They went into the living room, and in the sunshine that made the silver tinsel sparkle, Kyle gestured that Clayton was to sit at the foot of the tree. He went over and brought the two Christmas stockings down from the mantel and sat cross-legged next to Clayton.
"The other one is for Brent and Richard," said Kyle, handing one of the stockings to Clayton. "If they ever come out. If they don't, I'll mail it to them."
Clayton knew that while he felt bad about Brent and Richard not being able to make it, he suddenly didn't feel that bad. For, after all, he had this moment to share with Kyle, all to himself.
Together, they unloaded the goodies from the stockings. Clayton laughed under his breath, feeling like a little kid to be so pleased with gold foil-wrapped chocolate coins, and silver foil-wrapped cones of chocolate, a new toothbrush, a small packet of gum, a rolled book of puzzles, and another rolled book of Poor Richards Almanac and, last but not least, in the toe of the stocking, a small, sweet-smelling nectarine.
"Look what I got," said Kyle, excited like a kid. "I got a puzzle book, too!"
Clayton was about to shake his head at such a foolish statement, for it had been Kyle who had loaded the stockings either the night before or early in the morning before Clayton had woken up. There was no way he did not know what was in those stockings, and yet—Clayton stopped himself.
"Mine's got a green cover," said Clayton holding his puzzle book out. "Yours has got a blue cover, and I like blue. Can we trade?"
The sparkle of joy in Kyle's eyes as they traded made Clayton glad that he had gone along with Kyle's small game, the one where they pretended that they were ten-year-old boys. Where the innocence of Christmas had not yet been sucked out of them by bills and rent and leaking pipes and bad news on the internet. Here, in this moment, Christmas was good and sweet and full of loving impulses and happy reactions.
They sat at the foot of the tree and sucked on their chocolate candies for a bit, and ate sections of nectarine after that, until Clayton's mouth was bursting with sweet flavors, and the air was scented with citrus. Then, at last, Kyle handed Clayton two packages, brightly wrapped in blue and green, with red velvet ribbon and bows.
"Now, remember," said Kyle. "You gave me your story, and that was your Christmas present to me, so no objections. These are for you."
Obediently, Clayton opened the first gift, which turned out to be a very nice bottle of some kind of red wine. At least he assumed it was a nice bottle, as the label was in French, and it looked like there was a real cork seal, rather than a screw top.
"This looks like it'll drink well," said Clayton, nodding. He'd heard that expression on a cooking show once, so he used it as though he'd saved it just for this moment.
Kyle tipped back his head and laughed out loud, knowing, somehow, that Clayton had no real experience with expensive wine. It wasn't a mean laugh, however, and Kyle smiled and patted Clayton's shoulder, and pointed at the other present.
"I think you'll like this one," said Kyle. "Go on, open it."
Clayton unwrapped the long narrow box and found beneath a layer of white tissue a finely knitted red wool scarf. The ends of the scarf, as he lifted it ou
t of the box, had fringes of narrow braid, long and soft beneath his fingers as he ran his hands over the scarf. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and closed his eyes.
"It's handmade," Clayton heard Kyle say. "A local woman does them for her Etsy shop, and so I got her to knit a red one for me."
Without saying anything, keeping his eyes closed, Clayton nodded, his chin tucked into the folds of the scarf. Of course it was handmade, of course. That was the best kind of gift, and Clayton knew he'd wear it every time it got cold. He also knew that he'd never forget how he felt at this moment, sitting in front of a Christmas tree on Christmas morning, drinking in the silence, the peaceful feel of Kyle at his side.
The trouble was, he'd never wear the scarf without thinking of Kyle, and the warmth of his house, the smell of good things being made in the kitchen, the comfort of the presence of another human being, the idea of getting new socks and beaded leather slippers and bringing them to Kyle, and having Kyle say, in that sweet way of his, Thank you for thinking of me.
"Do you like it?" asked Kyle.
There was worry in that voice. Clayton opened his eyes, nodding.
"Yes," he said, making sure that Kyle knew he meant it. "Yes, I love it. I love it."
"Good," said Kyle. "Is it time for pancakes now?"
Clayton wanted the morning sitting at the foot of the tree to go on and on, but the sun was moving in the sky, and the snow would soon start to melt. The roads would get plowed and soon he'd have to be on his way. He didn't want that, he wanted this moment, this moment right now, to go on forever.
But of course it could not, so he got up when Kyle got up, and unwound the scarf from around his neck, placed it on the back of the couch and followed Kyle into the kitchen. There, Kyle made pancakes and bacon, while Clayton puttered about bringing butter and syrup to the table.
Kyle made a fresh pot of coffee, and when everything was ready, they sat down to eat. Which was its own kind of pleasure, with the sun streaming in the windows, the sticky, sweet smell of maple syrup in the air, the warm swallows of coffee. All of it wound its way inside of that spot of joy that had started the moment Clayton had arrived on Kyle's doorstep, and made it grow and expand until the only bleak thought that remained was the idea of leaving.
