Winter Holidays Story Contest 2023
entry - don't forget to vote! My longest piece in a while. Hope you enjoy.
-T
*
What my father offers me isn't what I want, and I take it. Always have. It's just the way of things.
This time it's whiskey. We're in a corner booth at the back of the bar - the sort of place a Clint Eastwood character might fight an outlaw. Dim light shines from bright bulbs inside dirty fixtures. One wall is covered in old license plates, another in wagon wheels. Half the folks in here were old enough to drink during Watergate.
He pats me twice on the forearm before wrapping his fist around the handle of his glass. It's a beer, at least as far as anyone watching can tell, but I know he's mixed in something from the flask on his lap. I don't say anything about it. Our peace is fragile enough as it is.
"Your sister's back in town." He takes a swig, belches. "We're doing the whole holiday getup on Thursday. Think you can make it?"
It's a ridiculous question - we both know I don't want to be there. But I've learned to appreciate the small talk. I used to hate how superficial our relationship was; now I know how much worse things could be. The havoc true intimacy wreaks.
"I don't know," I mutter. "Got a lot on my plate."
"Of course." He looks stern and studies his glass. "Of course."
Pierce's Bar has a maximum occupancy of sixty-two, but there's at least twice that in here, not including the staff. I really ought to put a stop to it - I'm the fire chief, after all - but I can't be bothered with the drunk stomping that would ensue if I ended the party early. There's a desperate edge to the reminiscing and boisterous laughter. Five new bars and three new restaurants in town, but the old-timers pack in here every night like it's a lifeboat, and maybe it is.
"How's she doing?"
He nods thoughtfully, like he knows anything about what Londra's been up to, like he's ever paid her a lick of attention except to berate her for fucking up.
"She's doing alright," he says. "Got a big new job a while back, so, you know. Things are going pretty well with that, I think."
Londra was fired from that job months ago, but there's no point in going down that road. It would just make me angry.
"That's good to hear," I tell him.
He doesn't respond, just keeps swigging. Drawing up his courage. The nervous jerk of his meaty arms, the anxious scanning of his eyes, the shrinking volume of alcohol in his glass - the familiarity of him crashes into me like a rogue wave and suddenly I can feel how much of me he still holds hostage, how much I miss him.
Someone slams a glass down too hard and it breaks; stools scrape backward across the old floor and people start swearing. A few of them look over at me like they expect me to put the offender on time out.
"You really should come, Caleb." He drinks some more beer, five or six swallows worth. "To dinner, I mean. Things are different. And it's Thanksgiving - "
"Don't." I try not to sound exasperated. "Let's just leave things alone tonight, okay?"
"Sure, I understand that," he says. "Sure."
I look out the front window again. Kurt's waiting for me; I can see his silhouette leaning against my pickup. I told him to come in, to show his face around here, that I didn't care what people thought. He pretended to believe this, and I pretended to believe him when he said he'd rather wait outside.
"Your mom, she...we've been talking to someone, and things are getting better. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I...well, you should come by. That's all."
"You've been talking to Mom?"
She'd hardly been around at all when we were growing up, disappearing for long periods before popping back up like a deranged jack-in-the-box. My father practically raised us on his own.
"Yeah," he says. "With a therapist."
"You went to see a therapist?"
"Up in Cleveland. Your mother insisted." He grimaces. "But it's been helpful. And you know I wouldn't say that if it wasn't true."
He's hanging on to his mug for dear life, and I can't help but feel a little sorry for him.
"Okay."
"Okay?" He squints at me. "Okay, what?"
"Okay, I'll come." I shrug. "I mean...I'll try to come by."
He lets out something between a sigh and a laugh and then takes another long swig.
"I'm happy to hear that, Caleb. I want to say that."
"You really have been going to therapy."
Ha laughs again, something I haven't seen him do since time out of mind. It's unsettling.
"It's not always easy." The shadows return to his face and he starts examining his drink again. "But he says we're all just works in progress. Not to rush too much."
"That's good," I hear myself say. "Sounds like you trust him."
My father doesn't so much walk through life as trudge through it, uphill, both ways, against the wind, even when there are a dozen easier paths right in front of him. None of this therapy business makes any sense. I wonder briefly if he's sick or something, but thinking about that makes
me
sick.
"So how are you?"
"Uh, fine. Just dealing with all this grant stuff, you know, the renovations."
The state got a big rural investment grant from the Uncle Sam after the big P; the Town of Greystone got a decent chunk. It turns out that being on the allocation committee is thankless work that nobody but me is interested in doing, so I've been up to my eyeballs in it, making sure the grant recipients meet all the code requirements. This is the first night away from begging the local septuagenarians to install smoke detectors that I've had in weeks.
"Pierce was complaining about that all last week."
I shake my head. "Dragging his feet like you wouldn't believe. This bar is one cigarette butt away from going up in smoke, but do you think he cares?"
My father starts to speak -
Hesitates...
Stops.
"Is everything okay?" I know I might regret the question, but I can't help myself. "You seem - "
"I am different," he muttered. "Thought that's what you wanted."
"It is," I say too quickly. "But - "
"Pierce says you been doing really good in the new job." There's a gentle slur to his words. "It's good. Didn't think it would work out so well in the beginning, you know."
"Dad - "
"I know you're still mad at me." He's gazing at a fixed point over my shoulder, nodding slowly. "I know that, Caleb."
"Please, let's just - "
"I'm better about that. Even your mother says so, and you know she doesn't say much."
"I really don't want to talk about this." I fight to keep my voice even. "Let's just keep doing what we've been doing. It's easier."
"Your mother misses you, too."
"I know." I'm suddenly very glad we're in a corner booth, a little away from the crowd. "I know that."
"We...we've hardly seen you around, hardly talked to you." He's staring at me, pleading, lips pressed into a thin line. "About who you been seeing, and all."
And it dawns on me, the reason he's bothered to meet me, the small talk.
Kurt.
He knows I'm back with Kurt.
"I'm not up to anything."
"Didn't say you were, I just - "
"Stop it."
"Come on - "
"It's none of your damn business."
"That whole family is nothing but trouble - "
"This has nothing to do with you. It's my life."
He sighs. "I'm just looking out for you. You've worked so hard to put it all behind you - "
"I have worked hard." My lips are pressed so tight they feel numb. "To make this place less of a shitshow than it's been in the past."
"So why throw it away?" His voice is scratchy, like he's about to cry, though I know he won't. Therapy or no therapy. "Why tear it all down over one - "
"Go to hell - "
"I just mean..." He shakes his head. "You can find someone else, can't you? There have to be others."
"It wasn't his fault!"
I'm loud enough that a few people turn to look at us, not bothering to pretend otherwise. My father's repressed smile returns to his face as he gives them a two-fingered salute; they go back to their drinks and chips and their own business.
"Kurt's not his brother," I whisper sharply. "Or his parents. About time people acknowledged that around here."
"I know I've messed up some," he says, "but you make things so damn difficult for yourself. I'll never understand it."
"I guess not." I get up from the booth and drop a twenty on the table. "It was good seeing you."
"Son - "
"I can't make it." I hate him and I'm desperate to see them all again, but I won't back down. Not again. "Give Londra my love."
He's still talking, but I'm already walking away.
This too is the way of things.
*
Kurt sees me storming toward him and tosses his cigarette to the ground. It glows briefly in the dark before he crushes it with his heel.
I climb into the cab, digging in my pockets for the keys. He leans against the driver door and reaches inside, gently holding my wrist until I stop searching and go still. His expression is softer than I can handle and I pull my arm away, though not hard enough to break the contact between us.
Kurt's six five and honey blonde and built like Jack Black with longer legs. He's got a character actor's face - one too broad for Hollywood but perfect for me. His hands are enormous, eclipsing mine, and I feel more secure in their grip than I'll ever admit out loud.
"Hey."
He leans in through the window and plants a slow kiss on my cheek, his stubble scratching against mine. I think about pulling away, saying something sarcastic to cut the tenderness. And then I just lean into it, resting the side of my face against his lips and jaw with my eyes closed.
"You want to go somewhere?" he says quietly against the skin of my cheek. "The lake?"
I like to park next to the marina sometimes in the private lot and watch the water. I'm surprised he noticed, but I shouldn't be. He notices everything about me now, and he's conscious about it, like he wants me to see him caring. I love it and I don't know how to take it.
"Hey," he says again. "I asked you a question."
I sigh and lean back against the headrest, eyes still closed.
He kisses me briefly on the temple. "What's going on in there?"
"Nothing," I bite out. "It doesn't matter."
