Chapter 11
In the afternoon, when the sun was getting closer to the horizon, they went inside, shucked their outdoor things, and played Scrabble with a football game on the TV with the sound turned low.
Then, after they'd each won a game and declared the third one a tie, Kyle rubbed his belly and announced that he was hungry.
"I make a mean grilled cheese," said Clayton, offering one of his few cooking skills.
Kyle's smile in response was one of those sweet ones, with one corner of his mouth turned up and the other one turned down.
"That sounds perfect," he said. "Shall we drink some of your French wine with it?" he asked.
"I thought about taking it down to my sister's," said Clayton, too late realizing that what he should have said was, yes, great idea. Only he wasn't sure why what he'd said was wrong.
"Oh," said Kyle. He got up and went into the kitchen.
While Clayton saw him going to the fridge, Kyle's face was hidden by the door, and the echo of his response to Clayton was tinged with something that he couldn't identify.
Not easily, at any rate. He put away the Scrabble game, changed the football game to something else, something innocuous, and went into the kitchen to make grilled cheese.
There, he found Kyle leaning against the counter by the stove, arms crossed over his chest, one foot crossed over his ankle.
Clayton could still see the hole in the heel of his sock, and wondered why he didn't just race into Kyle's room to get him a new pair from the drawer, one without a hole in it.
But he didn't. Instead, he went to the stove and started assembling the bread, layering each slice on the outside with mayonnaise while a little bit of butter bubbled in the frying pan.
He placed two slices of bread mayo-side down and then layered them with cheese, and topped each one with another slice of bread, mayo-side up.
After which, he placed a lid on the pan and nodded.
"You need to leave those alone so they can melt nice and slow," said Clayton. He stood there with the metal spatula in his hand, pretending he was a guard at the castle gates: none shall pass!
"I'll remember," said Kyle, smiling. He said it in such a way that Clayton wondered whether, like himself, Kyle would ever be able to not remember that moment, the two of them standing in the kitchen, cooking together. Or was that only in Clayton's head?
When the grilled cheese sandwiches were ready, Clayton sliced them diagonally, the way they were meant to be sliced, and they sat at the table to eat them, not with French wine, but with tall, cool glasses of goat's milk from the fridge.
Having food to focus on instead of his own thoughts made it easier for Clayton to make sure that when Kyle bit into his grilled cheese, he was enjoying it.
"Yes," said Kyle, his mouth full, nodding. "Very good, very good."
The goat's milk was delicious, though that was something Clayton never thought he'd be saying.
It was thick and creamy on his tongue, but he would probably never drink it again.
Not with the memory of sitting across the table from Kyle, who was looking more glum as the evening sky grew dark outside the window.
Time was racing forward with such dangerous speed that Clayton felt like he was again driving around a curve in the highway with the blizzard all around, and whiteout conditions that blurred his vision and made it hard to see where he was going.
"You know what I could do," said Kyle as he finished up his sandwich and drained the last bit of goat's milk from his glass.
"What's that?" asked Clayton, his attention focused on Kyle, which thankfully pulled him away from his memories of driving in the blizzard.
"I've got plenty of paper and ribbon," said Kyle. "I could wrap the knife and sheath for your nephew, so you don't have to do it in a hurry when you get there."
"Thanks," said Clayton. "I can wrap a present, sure enough, but it would have been awkward the second I got there to ask to borrow tape and scissors and stuff."
He had a thought in his head, and it was a little like a vision, soft-edged and sweet.
Him and Kyle at the front door of Luke and Sarah's house, him slipping the present to Kyle to hold while his nephew Shawn leaped at him for a hug.
Beyond the open door the house gleamed with the promise of a Christmas held back until Clayton could get there, white and gold, with blinking lights, and the glitter of garland and shiny wrapping paper where the presents were piled beneath the Christmas tree.
"Hey," said Clayton. He waited until Kyle's attention was on him, which didn't take long at all, before he spoke. "Here's an idea. Why don't you come with me tomorrow?"
"Come with you?" asked Kyle, his eyebrows drawing together as though Clayton was suddenly speaking Urdu.
"Tomorrow," said Clayton. "To my sister's house for Christmas." He let out a rush of air as he said it, nervous at Kyle's reaction, while at the same time feeling very, very glad he'd suggested it. "If the roads are clear, of course. And if not tomorrow, then the next day."
"I couldn't do that," said Kyle, his face flushed.
He got up from the table and started clearing the plates, seeming to want something to do with his hands while he avoided catching Clayton's eye.
"I couldn't intrude on your first Christmas with your sister and her new husband.
Especially since you've not seen her in, what, two years? Three?"
Kyle shook his head and was busy at the sink, the water running hot and at full bore. Clayton stayed where he was, licking his forefinger and tapping it in the crumbs of fried bread on the table. He needed to move slow. He needed to make sure that Kyle knew one hundred percent that he was welcome.
And beneath that was the warm, joyful desire to let Kyle know that a visit for Christmas at his sister's house wasn't all that Clayton wanted. But he couldn't just say, Hey, while I'm driving a truck back and forth across the western states, can I use your house as a stopping off point?
Can I wipe my boots on the mat before I open the door without knocking?
Can I holler for you and find you in the kitchen where you are laying out a strip of darkened leather and making sure it's just as it ought to be before you start stamping it with a design?
Can I draw you close and kiss you and tell you that honey, I'm home?
He couldn't go that fast himself, couldn't rush through this or he'd mess it up.
And he sure as hell wasn't going to rush Kyle through it.
Yes, they'd talked and eaten meals together, and sheltered from the storm together, and spent Christmas morning together.
But that didn't mean there was anything else to it but that.
Maybe it was just the magic of the season, and Clayton's head had been dazzled by tinsel and glitter and the scent of a pine tree in the warmth of an orange and gold fire.
His belly had been fed, and he'd been warm, and maybe that was just it, that was all there was.
A Christmas host and a Christmas guest, and tomorrow, they would part ways and it would be over.
But he didn't want it to be over. His throat grew thick as he thought of it being over and he was sure, quite sure, that he didn't want it to be.
Swallowing, Clayton thought of getting up and going to Kyle's side, where Kyle was standing at the counter wrapping the bread and the cheese, putting things in the fridge.
Kyle shouldn't be doing that with his hands, not if he wanted to be a craftsman, making beautiful articles that would stand the test of time.
Clayton would do the dishes forever and a day, if it meant that Kyle didn't have to—
Forever and a day. Christmas lasted a day, but forever was forever. And the memories beneath both of those entwined the two together, like a red ribbon, or a Christmas scarf.
The least Clayton could do was say what was on his mind.
He didn't have to drop all of it on Kyle at once, like a hot and unwanted potato.
But if he walked away from this encounter without saying what he felt, what warm feelings were inside of him, then he was a liar and a coward. And Clayton knew he was neither.
"Kyle—"
"I can't intrude," said Kyle firmly. "It wouldn't be right."
Kyle turned away from the sink and the fridge and the after-dinner chores, finally, and leaned back in that way he had. With his one foot crossed over an ankle, and his hands behind him, bracing himself against the kitchen counter.
"It would be," said Clayton. "If you'll let me explain."
"Fine," said Kyle, in a short way that let Clayton know, or at least he thought he knew, that Kyle did want to go with him, only he couldn't think of a reason why he should intrude on some other family's Christmas. "How would it be okay?"
"My Uncle Bill says—you remember Uncle Bill, right?
" Clayton raised his eyebrows and ducked his chin to let Kyle know he was joking around.
And maybe Kyle knew he wanted a smile, because Clayton got one.
A little one, but it was there, quirking at the corners of Kyle's mouth.
"He says that what Luke wants is a table full of family at holiday time with a big, golden turkey in the middle. "
"I'm not family, though," said Kyle.
"There's different ways to define family," said Clayton. "And you and I both know how true that is. Besides, are you going to call my Uncle Bill a liar? If he says that Luke wants as many people around that table as can possibly fit, then that's what he means."
For a moment, Kyle was quiet, his head tipped down as he studied his own feet. He must have seen the hole in his sock then, for he tsk tsked at himself, and lifted his heel to poke at the hole and then put his foot down, both literally and figuratively.