Next Year I'll be Perfect

by Laura Kilmartin

  “Yup. You have a problem with that?” Relieved to be let off the hook, I heard the Clint Eastwood toned challenge. When I turned to face him, I was pleased to see Eddie's playful glint was back.

  “I wouldn't have a problem if it was still 1978, but it's not. Bell-bottoms and the Bee Gees had the good grace to fade away, so why is Barry still around?” Tying off the garland, I rummaged through the remaining decorations, trying to find the silver bells Jack liked to hang from the front door.

  “Hey. Just because you have issues, it's no reason to take it out on Barry.”

  “He's a plastic, Muzak freak.”

  “He's an icon.”

  “He's a lounge singer who would be singing at the Exit 8 Howard Johnson's if he hadn't met up with Bette Midler,” I argued, emptying the big guns.

  Eddie straightened his posture to his full height, towering over me by more than a foot. Glaring down, he emphasized each word as he said, “Barry Manilow is a misunderstood genius.”

  I couldn't hold back my smile at our fake fight any longer. Chuckling, I shook my head and said, “My god, you are so gay.”

  “True,” Eddie admitted. “But, lots of straight people like Barry, too. Or so I hear, anyway.”

  “No straight people I know.” I remarked, pressing a box of ornaments to his abdomen and pointing to the small tree in the corner while I confiscated the ladder to hang a sprig of mistletoe over the door. “So, what does Shaun think of the amazing Mr. Manilow?”

  Eddie shrugged. “I don't know. Probably not much considering he was more of a Metallica fan.”

  “Was?” I asked, picking up on the past tense.

  Eddie crossed the room and began placing the silver and red ornament on the tree. Shrugging in an effort to appear nonchalant, he said, “I suppose he still is. I don't know.”

  Oh. The unexpected trip home to Portland suddenly started to make a little more sense.

  “I take it that Shaun didn't come back to Portland with you?”

  “Nope. We broke up.” Eddie turned to the coffee pot, emptied the remaining liquid into the sink and began scrubbing with a bit more vigor than was truly called for.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, folding up the ladder and placing it carefully against the wall.

  “Nope.”

  Gay or straight, why was talking to a man about feelings and relationships – actually, talking about anything other than pop music – such a chore? “Let me rephrase. Do you think you should talk about it?”

  Eddie sighed, put down the coffee pot and turned to make eye contact. “There's really nothing to discuss. We broke up. Mutually. Two people decided that they didn't have enough in common to make it work. No drama. No third parties involved. Just us deciding that we shouldn't be together.”

  I searched my friend's eyes and found only the truth. I found something else, though – something that perhaps Eddie hadn't intended to share. Whether or not they had anything in common, Eddie still loved Shaun. Not knowing what to say, I decided on the only thing I could.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Smiling again, he continued, “At least I don't have to figure out how to explain Shaun to Dad at Christmas. He was getting a little suspicious about the ‘work colleague’ routine I kept pulling.”

  “You need to tell him.” I advised, going down a well-worn road. Eddie's father was the only person in the continental U.S., most of South America and many small villages in Europe who didn't know the truth about his son's sexual orientation. Unfortunately, another truth was the fact we were fairly sure Jeremy – conservative, former military, former cop, devout Catholic – would likely prefer not to know.

  “Let's save that subject for another day, okay?” Eddie looked up, hopeful that enough angst had been sorted through.

  “Fine, Scarlett. Tomorrow is another day,” I agreed, letting him off the hook. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “How about Christmas? Have you set the menu?”

  I groaned and threw myself into one of the diner chairs. “I've been trying to avoid thinking about holiday food. Rum cake. Turkey with all of the trimmings. Aunt Marion's ginger cookies.”

  I began to drool just thinking of all the tasty treats that Christmas would bring. None of which were on my “Thin by Thirty” diet plan.

  Eddie, who had been around for both the enthusiastic beginning and slow fade-out of numerous diets over the years just rolled his eyes. “It's Christmas, can't you make an exception?”

  “Sure,” I responded. “Just like I made an exception for leftover Halloween candy. And the pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving and those little fried dumplings at Judge Garand's retirement party last week. Nope. I'm on the wagon with a vengeance.”

  “Sarah, I know you want to lose weight, but I think you look terrific just the way you are.”

  A perfunctory compliment, but I lapped it up nevertheless.

  “Thank you, but again let me remind you that you are speaking as a gay man. Your people like women who have a few extra pounds, but straight men, not so much.”

  Eddie sighed deeply and rubbed his hand across his eyes. I couldn't tell if the gesture was jet-lag related or a result of his amused frustration at our conversation. “I have people? I'm sorry, but when did I get people?”

  “Your people.” I explained, waving my hand at the imaginary throng surrounding him. “Men who love Liza and Liz and Bette in her chubby, pre-blonde days. I love your people, and they love me, but they aren't going to keep me warm at night.”

  My friend stared at me for a moment before shaking his head briskly, apparently trying to clear my words from his head in much the same manner as one would clear an Etch-a-Sketch screen. “I'm going to ignore that semi-homophobic stereotype for a moment. Mostly because it's true. I will remind you, though, that I am not the only Thornton man who thinks you look terrific. And the last I checked, my brother David was not one of ‘my people’.”

  Not that old argument!

  “I am putting a stop to your e-mails with Livvie. That's the same thing she's been saying to me for weeks, but you're both reading David completely wrong. Sure he loves me, but he doesn't love me.”

  “Care to explain the distinction?”

  “I can't believe I have to, but fine. You remember when Jeremy and I went to New York this summer? We saw a few plays with your brother and went out to a fabulous dinner. Everything was perfect, but there were absolutely no romantic undertones between your brother and me. David and I love each other, but in the platonic, ‘Donny and Marie’ kind of way.”

  “Okay, first of all, you were there with my dad. Of course the weekend didn't feel romantic. That really would be creepy. And as for Donny and Marie, they're related.” Eddie paused a moment. “And they're Mormons.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I'm not sure, but I think it does. No, you and David can't be compared to Donny and Marie. You're much more like Greg and Marcia Brady. Not related by blood, but you know there was some action happening in that attic bedroom when the rest of the family was out practicing for the potato sack race.”

  As amusing as the comparison was, I was surprised to find that Eddie wasn't smiling. Actually, he looked quite serious.

  “Eddie…” I began, but my words were cut off as Eddie held up his hand to stop me.

  “I'm not going to get into this tonight, Sarah. I'm just saying that if you really want a relationship, you can have one any time.”

  I shook my head and decided to take the conversation in a different direction. Taking my coffee with me, I plopped into one of the counter swivel chairs.

  “Hey, Eddie. You like to hike, right?”

  “Yes…” His eyes telegraphed a deep sense of distrust at my question. “Why do you ask?”

  I grabbed a straw from the canister on the counter, ripped it open and concentrated on a careful accordion fold of the wrapper. “Well, part of my to-do list includes climbing Mt. Katahdin. I thought you could give me a
few tips, maybe go with me to L.L. Bean to pick up some boots and gear.”

  “Climbing Mt. Katahdin?” Eddie put his mug down heavily, eyes open wider than I'd seen them in some time.

  “Yes.”

  “You want to climb Mt. Katahdin?” His loud, guffawing laughter filled the small diner.

  I hopped out of my chair and kneeled on the floor, gathering newspapers and shoving them in the box that had once contained my manger scene. “Your disbelief is less than flattering, Thornton. I can climb Mt. Katahdin if I want to, you know.”

  “Sorry, Sarah.” Perhaps sensing from my lack of reply that his lukewarm apology wasn't making any headway, my friend carried my coffee from the counter, placing it on the table nearest me. “Hey, I'm sorry, really. It's just…It's just that you're not really the mountain-climbing type. You hate nature unless it comes packaged as a white sandy beach with a cabana. I'm not saying you can't climb Mt. Katahdin if you want to. I just can't understand why you want to.”

  I had to admit that Eddie wasn't wrong.

  “Because it's there?”

  “Lame answer, Sarah. Why do you want to climb Mt. Katahdin, really?”

  Deflating, I went from kneeling to sitting like a cross-legged toddler. Closing the box and moving it to the side of the room, Eddie took its place on the floor beside me as I confessed, “Because she wanted to.”

  “She, who?”

  “She, me. She, 25-year old Sarah. She wanted to climb Mt. Katahdin and be married, and successful at her job and own her own house. She had all these dreams that are so far away from my reality that I don't even remember having them. I want to remember what it's like to be her again.”

  I dipped my head, hiding my face behind my fringe of bangs and the mug of coffee, drinking deeply.

  Yuck.

  The only thing worse than coffee with fake cream and sugar was cold coffee with fake cream and sugar.

  “Climbing Mt. Katahdin, huh?”

  I nodded, too drained from my admission to speak further. Emotional conversations clearly required an energy level I couldn't sustain on my current low-calorie regime.

  “Well, luckily I haven't had time to get your Christmas present yet. Let's head up to Freeport tomorrow and get you some sturdy hiking boots.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I rose from the chair and gifted Eddie with a hug that made my sore shoulders wince.

  “Oh, Christ, Bennett. Get off me. It's just a pair of boots.”

  It was more than the boots, and he knew it. Willing to end his embarrassment, however, I ended the hug with a smack to the back of Eddie's head. “Shut up and come upstairs. I'll make you a twelve calorie sandwich.”

  “Mmmm. Sounds yummy,” Eddie replied. “I traveled thousands of miles and that's all you can offer me?”

  “That's all I have. Just try it.” I knew his sense of adventure and morbid curiosity at what I would serve him would win out over his revulsion at the dish. Grabbing his hand and pulling him up from his seated position and toward the stairs, I belatedly realized that Eddie had about forty pounds on me. My strained muscles that had lain dormant during most of our conversation made themselves known once again with a vengeance and collapsed. Unfortunately, the combination of our forward momentum, the fact Eddie hadn't yet gotten his feet beneath him from his crouch and our aggregate weight tipped us both headfirst toward the pantry stairs where we landed in a tangle of limbs.

  “Bennett!” Eddie's muffled disgust was heard from somewhere under my left armpit.

  “Have I mentioned how nice it is to have you home, Thornton?” I laughed, then yelped at the sharp pain it caused in my ribs.

  Perhaps kickboxing class should wait just one more day.

  * * *

  A few days after nearly breaking the younger Thornton brother's collarbone by merely trying to stand erect, I found myself in a heated debate with the elder brother on my way home from work.

  “You need to talk to your father.” I insisted, clutching my cell phone to my ear as I walked the half mile home from the office, my puffs of breath visible in the frigid December air.

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no?”

  “I mean no, Sarah.” David repeated, sounding just as frustrated with me as I knew I felt with him. “I agree with Dad. If you want to buy a house of your own, that means moving out of your apartment. If you do that, Dad should buy you out of your share of the building. Your dad and mine bought that building together. Uncle Ed left his share to you. If you move out, you should be compensated accordingly.”

  “Compensated accordingly?” I mocked. “Seriously, David, you sound like a tightass corporate borg. Oh, wait, that's right. You are a tight…”

  “Hey, before you finish that sentence you might want to remember that you're the one who called me asking for a favor.”

  Crap.

  I really needed to stop annoying the people I wanted help from.

  “I'm sorry.” I tried to sound as contrite as possible, even if I didn't feel it. “I just don't understand what the big deal is. Sure, if I buy a house I'll move out of my apartment. I figured I'd just rent it to someone else and the rent would pay my part of the mortgage on the diner building. I mean, that's all my rent covers now, anyway.”

  “Sarah, it's not going to be that easy.” The rush of air from David's sigh could have powered a small wind farm. “First of all, you can't rent that apartment to just anyone. It opens up into the diner, so we need to make sure we rent to someone we can trust. Besides, do you really want to be an absentee landlord? Dealing with complaints about water pressure and days when the snowplow blocks you in and all of the little things that you deal with as a homeowner but tenants wouldn't be so tolerant of?”

  My friend did have a point. I loved the charm and character of the old Victorian near the waterfront, but someone paying rent might not want to put up with the closet doors that didn't shut tight, the toilet with the very sensitive handle or the north wind that came down from the attic nine months out of the year.

  I bit my chapped lip, trying to control the tears of frustration that threatened to fall. This was supposed to be one of the easiest tasks on my list. I was sick of stumbling blocks and just wanted to see one task through to completion. “God, David, I just want to buy a house. That's all. I've got some money saved up. I figured I'd call a realtor, sign some papers and rent a moving van. No biggie. Now your dad is hiring an appraiser and talking about refinancing his place to buy me out. That's not what I wanted at all. This is all getting way too complicated.”

  “I swear, Sarah. If you thought buying a house was ‘no biggie’, I'd like to see what you consider an actual big deal.”

  My tears dried immediately at David's condescending tone. Just because I'd called him for advice on how to manage his father and expected my friend to make my problems evaporate with a sweep of his hand didn't mean he had any right to act like he was in charge of me.

  At least in my head that was true.

  “Look, my decision to move doesn't have to impact Jeremy. We'll block off the pantry entrance to the apartment and I'll find a trustworthy tenant before I leave.”

  “Great. Block off the pantry and you leave only one method of exit to the apartment which you know is illegal. Besides, you've known my father your entire life. In that time, what has led you to believe that any major decision you make doesn't impact him?”

  “I'm hanging up now, David.”

  “Sarah, don't be like that.”

  “I'm not being like anything.” I lied. “I'm home and its cold and I can't unlock the door and hold the phone at the same time. I'll call you later.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.” I snapped the phone shut and jammed my key in the door. Once inside I slammed it shut behind me and stomped up the stairs to my apartment. Ready to stab another door open with my key, I was only mildly surprised to find it already ajar.

  Of course. Martha Stewart and Bob Villa must h
ave beat me home.

  I walked over to the counter and placed my purse beside the day's mail that was sitting in a neat pile. Scanning the rest of the apartment I saw my morning coffee mug washed and sitting upside down in the dish drain and a neatly folded drop cloth and ladder in the corner of the room.

  That explained the smell of fresh paint.

  “Uncle Jeremy? Eddie?” I yelled out as I wandered through the living room, pausing to turn on the computer that sat on the desk near the side window. When I walked into my bedroom, I found the closet door off its hinges and lying sideways across my bed. At its foot stood Eddie who was running a plane across what I assumed was the bottom edge of the closet door. Wrinkled curls of pine wafted down and surrounded him in an odd looking nest. Jeremy leaned on my closet threshold, a beer in one hand, issuing instructions to his son.

  “Hi, kiddo.” Jeremy stood to his full height which was just a hair shorter than Eddie and crossed the room to give me a warm hug. “Are you home already? I didn't realize it was so late.”

  “It's after seven. I would have been home sooner, but Frank was at a hearing in Augusta and I spent most of the day keeping Morgan from committing malpractice before he actually gets licensed.”

  “Hey, pest.” Eddie raised his plane in salute. “Morgan? Is that the intern you've been complaining about?”

  “Yup.” I rolled my eyes. “Spare me from talking about him tonight, please.”

  Eddie shrugged, returning to the task at hand while I took another look at my doorless closet and the fresh carpet of shaved wood. “Um, what are you guys doing?”

  “You said the closet doors were sticking, so I thought Eddie and I could take care of them.”

  “And the ladder in the kitchen?”

  “The paint on the kitchen ceiling was looking a little dull. I'll get to the living room tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Uncle Jeremy…” I would have dropped to my bed with exhaustion at having this conversation yet again, but there was a six foot closet door reclining on it at the moment.

  The mere fact of which actually made me even more fatigued and in need of lying down.