Tangled Lights and Silent Nights

by Kelly Stone Gamble

  “I was six years old and had been in the orphanage for three years when they told me I was finally going to have a real family. I was so excited!” Her eyes dimmed. “But having a family wasn’t that great, to be honest. It was nothing like they’d told me it would be. It wasn’t anything like what kids at school talked about either. We didn’t celebrate any holiday because my parents said my sister and I weren’t special enough. We didn’t even have birthdays,” Natalie explained.

  “You just had a lot of real-life experiences,” Santa said.

  Natalie stood silently, his words hanging in the nighttime air. Were her life experiences the same experiences all children should have?

  “Ready to go back?” Santa gestured toward the entrance.

  “I think so, but I have a question.”

  He laughed. “Are you an elf?”

  “Well, Mason said—”

  “I don’t think you’re ready for the answer, Natalie. Mason is worried about your reaction if you know the whole story.” He looked at her over his glasses. “What do you think?”

  “I woke up with geese on my bed this morning, Santa. I might need time to process things.”

  He held his belly and tossed his head back. “Ho! Ho! Ho! I think you’re right.” Pulling a small snow globe from his pocket, he handed it to her. “When you’re ready to know the answer to that question, the globe will tell you.”

  “But there’s nothing in it, Santa. It’s just an empty globe.”

  He winked at her. “That’s what you think.”

  They walked back to the Enchanted Forest, and Santa nodded at Mason to assure him everything was all right.

  Natalie smiled. “Mason, I’m fine.”

  “I just wanted to make sure.”

  “I feel great, and I’m being careful with what I say.”

  “That’s super important. I can’t be running around cleaning up after French hens.”

  Natalie laughed and knelt down to talk to a little girl standing in front of her. “What can I do for you, sweetie?”

  “What do you want for Christmas, Miss Elf?”

  “Oh, that is so sweet! Well, you know,” Natalie looked at Mason and winked, “only a hippopotamus will do.”

  Mason groaned. “Oh God … no …”

  Books by Cee

  Tea and Madness

  Black Sheep, Rising

  About Cee

  As a child, C. Streetlights listened to birds pecking at her rooftop, but instead of fearing them, she was convinced they would set her free and she’d someday see the stars.

  Southern California sunshine never gave C. Streetlights the blond hair or blue eyes she needed to fit in with her high school’s beach girls, her inability to smell like teen spirit kept her from the grunge movement, and she wasn’t peppy enough to cheer. She ebbed and flowed with the tide, not a misfit but not exactly fitting in either.

  Streetlights grew up, as people do, earned a few degrees and became a teacher. She spent her days discussing topics like essay writing, Romeo and Juliet, the difference between a paragraph and a sentence, and for God’s sake, please stop eating the glue sticks.

  Streetlights now lives in the mountains with her husband, two miracle children, and a dog who eats Kleenex. She retired from teaching so she can write, edit, and teach her children to pick up their underwear from the bathroom floor. She is happy to report that she can finally see the stars.

  Her memoir, Tea and Madness, was first published in 2015. Her new memoir, Black Sheep, Rising, is now available and was selected as a 2017 Kindle Book Award Semi-finalist.

  C. Streetlights is represented by Lisa Hagan Books and published by Shadow Teams NYC. For all press interviews and other inquiries, please contact Ms. Hagan directly.

  Get in Touch

  http://cstreetlights.com/

  https://www.facebook.com/CStreetlightsAuthor/

  https://twitter.com/CStreetlights

  https://www.instagram.com/cstreetlights/

  Father Christmas

  by Timothy Woodward

  “Don’t forget you have to call me. Do you have my dad’s number?”

  “Got it.” Matt shoves his arm between the front seats of the car so I can see his cell phone. He’s added a new number in his contacts: Sean at his dads.

  “You know, Mom, if I had a cell phone, I—”

  She cuts me off. “We’ve been over this.”

  “I’m literally the only person at school without a phone.”

  “Is this really the conversation you want to have before you leave me for two weeks?”

  “Ten days. I’ll be back on New Year’s Eve. And I’m not just leaving you.” I turn so I can reach Matt in the backseat. Our fingers intertwine for a moment. Mom keeps her eyes on the road, but the corner of her mouth goes up. She doesn’t have to say anything for me to hear her thoughts.

  Seeing the Welcome to Manchester-Boston Regional Airport sign makes me realize this is about to happen. I am leaving New Hampshire to spend Christmas with my father. I’m leaving my mom, my boyfriend, and the snow for the relative warmth of Georgia, the company of a soon-to-be stepmom, and a screaming infant. And of course, my dad. My dad who doesn’t know I’m gay. My dad, who I am going to come out to for Christmas.

  The last time I saw him, he made a surprise visit to see me over the summer. Though I wasn’t thrilled to see him—I actually got a job scooping ice cream so I wouldn’t have to visit him in Georgia—I did appreciate he made the effort. My dad hasn’t always been an easy person for me to be around. He likes sports, fishing, country music—you know, straight guy stuff. (I know there are plenty of gay guys who like those things, I’m just saying my dad and I don’t have a lot in common besides our genes.) Also, there’s the thing where my dad assumes any girl within 10 feet of me is my girlfriend. Awkward.

  It took me most of the summer to get the guts to tell him none of my girl friends was my girlfriend, and none of them ever would be. But just when I was finally ready to use the words, “Dad, I’m gay,” he returned to Georgia for the birth of my new half-brother, six weeks early. My dad left to meet his new son before he had the chance to meet his old one.

  But I’m going to fix that. I learned a lot last summer, especially that coming out is hard, but never quite as hard as you think it’s going to be. And even though I’m still not quite sure how my dad is going to take it, I think he’s ready to hear it. I know I’m ready to say it.

  My mom pulls our Subaru up outside the terminal. All three of us hop out and begin the “airport waltz,” rushing around the vehicle to grab bags and exchange hugs before an airport police officer can decide we’ve lingered long enough. By the back hatch, Matt is already pulling out my suitcase.

  “Ten days? This thing feels heavy enough for a month!” He wrestles the bag to the slush-covered asphalt and extends the handle for me.

  “Georgia in December is like wardrobe purgatory. Is it cold? Is it warm? Could be anything, so I brought my whole closet.”

  “As long as you don’t stay in it while you’re down there.” Matt raises an eyebrow. He knows my plans and helped me rehearse what I’m going to say.

  “You know me too well.” I bite my lip. “I’m not going to chicken out. I’d be too mad at myself for leaving you if I don’t go through with it.”

  “I know,” Matt says. He leans over the suitcase handle and gives me a small kiss on the lips. Just a quick one. “For courage,” he says.

  My mom has been hanging back by the driver’s door, but now she comes around to the back. “Don’t miss your flight. Call as soon as you get there.” She wraps me in her arms, her stiff winter coat crunching against my hoodie. “Merry Christmas. Take care of yourself.”

  The airport in Atlanta is huge, and it takes twenty minutes for me to find my way to baggage claim
—but only twenty seconds to find my dad. He’s tall, with a salt and pepper mustache and passing resemblance to Tom Selleck; he stands out in a crowd.

  “Son!” Deep dimples form on both cheeks, and his mustache seems to double in size. He claps my back with one giant hand and pulls me into a half-hug. “How was your flight?”

  “Not bad. I had a window seat.”

  “We’re glad you came.”

  I hope he feels the same when I leave.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re on the interstate and based on Google Maps, we’ve got almost an hour before we get to the house. I had planned to use this time to get the deed out of the way. But now that my dad is two feet away, and I’m watching the rolling Georgia landscape fly by at seventy miles per hour, I’m not so sure. Do I really want to start things off like that? It’s not like he can just turn around and put me on a plane back home. It could make for a very long ten days.

  I must have been lost in my thoughts for a while because Dad says, “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “Just tired.” He seems to accept this, nods a little, and then reaches for the radio. Of course it’s country: a youngish-sounding woman singing about a merry go ‘round.

  Dad breaks the silence. “Jill should have dinner ready when we get home. You hungry?”

  I realize I’m actually starving. “A little.”

  “Your mother hasn’t turned you into a vegetarian, has she?”

  “No. I like meat.” I turn my head toward the window to hide my smirk. That’s not what I had in mind for a coming out.

  “Good. Jill’s got a pot roast in the oven. And true Southern cornbread.”

  “Sounds good.” Out of nowhere, a surge of adrenaline pushes my heart into my throat. It’s like my heart wants me to get it over with, but my brain won’t let it happen. I open my mouth, not sure if words or vomit will come out. But it’s neither. Instead, my dad is talking again.

  “I know you’ll like Jill. She’s been looking forward to your visit.” And just like that, the need to spill my guts has subsided.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her too.”

  A heady aroma of beef, carrots, and potatoes braised in red wine, rosemary, and garlic greets us as we walk through the side door into the kitchen of the red brick ranch. Jill greets us with a big hug.

  “Sean! It’s so good to finally meet you! I hope you’re hungry.” She turns back to the stove where she’s putting the finishing touches on one beautiful piece of meat. I have to swallow to keep from drooling. “Leonard, show Sean to his room while I finish up here.” Then to me, “Make sure you call your mother. If she’s like me, she’s waiting by the phone.”

  After dropping off my bags and letting my mother know I’ve arrived in one piece, I make my way to the dining room where Jill has done her best Martha Stewart. There are even cloth napkins in napkin rings! I didn’t know people even used napkin rings anymore.

  “Don’t think we eat like this every day,” Jill says. “This is a special occasion.”

  “It looks and smells amazing,” I say. I sit down and grab a piece of cornbread from a towel-lined basket. “Where’s the baby?”

  “He’s asleep,” Jill says with a smile. He’ll be asking for his dinner soon enough.”

  Dad chuckles. “Eat, sleep, and poop. That’s a baby for you.” He lifts a slice of roast onto his plate and passes the platter toward me.

  The conversation drifts between college football (Dad’s favorite team, Alabama, is going to another bowl game), fishing (tomorrow’s dinner will be bass or catfish, depending on what we catch), and the baby (Jill hopes I’ll be able to sleep through his crying). I don’t really have much to contribute, and I keep my mouth full so I don’t have to talk. It’s not hard when everything tastes so good.

  “There’s chess pie for dessert,” Jill says, noticing I take seconds of everything.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll save room,” I say. Chess pie is my dad’s favorite, and mine too. We do have some things in common.

  “So tell us about New Hampshire. How’s school? Did you do the fall play?” My father takes a bite of roast and gives me a smile.

  “It’s good. We did The Importance of Being Earnest. I was Algernon.”

  “They’re still doing that in schools?!” Jill asks. “We did that when I was your age! I was Lady Bracknell.” Jill picks up her wine glass, sticks out her pinky like a “society lady,” and adopts a high-pitched British accent. “To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”

  I pick up a piece of cornbread and join in. “Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter would probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.” Jill and I laugh, and my father claps at our performance.

  “I bet it was really good!” my father says. “I wish I could’ve been there.”

  “We sold out all three shows! And it was so much fun because my … friend Matt was Earnest.” I got so carried away playing Algernon I nearly said “my boyfriend.” That’s not how I intended to come out. But then again, dinner is going much better than I expected. Turns out Jill is (or at least was) a theater person; surely that means she’s okay with me being gay? Maybe now is a good time to do it after all. “You know, speaking of Matt, I should probably tell you—”

  There’s a sudden eruption of electronically amplified noise behind me, and I nearly jump out of my chair. Neither Dad nor Jill seems phased, and I realize it’s the baby monitor sitting on the sideboard.

  “Benjamin wants his dinner too.” Jill stands from the table. “I’m sorry to cut this short, Sean.” She hits the mute button on the baby monitor on the way out of the dining room.

  As I help Dad clear the dishes, the phone rings.

  Dad answers in characteristic Southern style, “Yello?” After a moment, he hands the phone to me.

  It’s Matt. “Hey, babe. How’s your first night in Georgia?” His voice makes me smile, but with Dad a few feet away loading the dishwasher, I’m careful how I respond.

  “Good so far. Turns out Jill is a regular Rachael Ray.”

  “Have you told them yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Don’t chicken out.”

  “Thanks.” Our conversation goes on for a few minutes, but without privacy, it stays pretty G-rated. Even still, my face is tired from smiling so hard.

  “Friend of yours?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah. He’s the one I did the play with. We hang out a lot.”

  “You gave him the number here?”

  “I figured I might get bored.” And that I might need some extra encouragement. And I like to hear his voice. And I should probably stop procrastinating and just tell you I’m gay. Of course, none of these things are close to coming out of my mouth. Instead, I say, “I’m actually really tired. I think I’m going to head to bed.”

  Dad nods his head slowly. “Good idea. We’ll want to be up early for fishing.”

  It’s still dark when Dad taps on the bedroom door, but I drag myself to the kitchen and the promise of coffee. Soon we’re sitting side by side in his truck, a jon boat sticking out of the flatbed, heading to Dad’s latest fishing hole. We don’t say much, but my mind is reeling with ways to start the dreaded conversation. I don’t want to bring it up too early or it’s going to be a long morning. I don’t want to wait too long, either, or I might miss my opportunity. And how does one start this conversation? It’s really hard to just come out and say “I’m gay” without some sort of warmup. It’s not like there’s a book of coming out one-liners.

  The sky is tinged pink when we reach the pond, and a layer of mist floats just above the surface. With the boat in the water, Dad gestures for me to sit in the front. Once I
’m settled, he climbs in, simultaneously pushing us off from the shore. We head toward a half-rotten stump. The water is murky with sediment. I wonder how fish can even see in water like that.

  “See if you can hit that crooked stick on the right there,” Dad says, handing me a fishing rod. I unhook the Tiny Torpedo lure from the rod guide, set my thumb on the reel button, and flick the rod over my shoulder. The line zips out with a soft zing and the lure splashes just a foot from the stick. I still got it.

  Fishing is the one activity that my dad and I share and I don’t have to pretend to enjoy. He started taking me fishing when I was barely walking, and I’m pretty good at it. Plus, it’s peaceful. Even when the fish aren’t biting, it’s like meditation.

  I crank the reel, taking the slack out of the line. When it’s nearly taut, I flick my wrist, and the lure jumps, making a liquid pop and a circle of gentle ripples. And then, the lure is swallowed in an eruption of water and scales; it happens so suddenly I nearly drop the rod overboard. But instead I jerk it up with both hands, setting the hook. The rod bends double and the fish starts pulling out line with a nylon squeak.

  “Hooboy, that’s a big one. Don’t horse it!” Dad exclaims.

  “I’m not!” Now the fish changes direction, and I crank the reel hard to keep the line taut. If it jumps while the line is slack, it could throw the lure. As if reading my mind, the fish explodes from the water, shaking its head like on the cover of a magazine.

  “Don’t horse it!” Dad grabs the net from the bottom of the boat. “Keep your rod up!”

  I’m concentrating too hard to respond, reacting to each change in the fish’s direction, anticipating when it will dive or jump, all the while reeling it closer and closer. When I coax it alongside the boat, Dad is ready with the net.

  Dad pulls the bass from the net, grasping it hard by the bottom lip. He uses a pair of needle nose pliers to pull the lure from the fish’s mouth.