XXIII Jack
XXIII
Jack
“OK, now signal,” Tom says as we approach the on-ramp of the 101. “Accelerate—not that much!” He braces his hand against his door as I ease my foot off the gas.
“Sorry, sorry.” I check my mirrors and claim my place in the right lane. “Tom, look! I’m merging!”
“And what a job you’re doing of it. Have you told CJ yet that you passed your permit test?”
“Tonight,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “I’m going to show her my driver’s permit during Saturnalia.”
“Is that what you kids are calling it now?”
“Very funny,” I respond, but all I can think is I’m doing it! I’m driving down a highway! In a foreign country!
“It’s an ancient pagan ritual,” I explain. “Stuart’s thing.”
“You’re not doing yourself any favors here,” Tom volleys back.
A glance in my rearview mirror tells me that there’s a Jeep eager to pass and willing to weave dangerously in order to do so.
I lean my hand on the horn, letting my frustrations be known.
“OK, easy.” Tom laughs. “Was that your first honk? Your first road rage?”
“You know what, it was .”
“Great job. Never would’ve known it was your first time. Though, it’s rather unusual to honk at a car behind you. No matter. Good on you. You’ve been racking up a lot of firsts lately.”
“And what’s that mean?” My hands are glued to ten and two.
“Your first, uh, adult relationship. First time dating a woman who has a kid.”
“Are you going somewhere with this?” I ask. “You don’t have to warm me up.”
“I just... want to make sure you know what you’re doing. With Agnes. The stakes are different when there’s a kid.” He fiddles with the air vent. “I just, uh, want to make sure you’re not... playing house. That this isn’t some phase before you jump back onto the Ascendant Actor World Tour.”
“I know what the stakes are. You know how I feel about CJ. And this is the first time I feel like I’ve been in charge of my life since Flames .” It’s more than that , I think. “It’s also the first time that I’ve... really felt... part of a family.”
My eyes swipe quickly toward Tom, who is well aware of my distant relationship with my own parents and brother. I see his expression soften in my periphery.
“They’re lucky to have you, Jack.”
“Sappy.”
“Right, right. Two more exits. We’re saving I-5 for another day.”
When CJ said “the holidays,” I didn’t know we would be celebrating three: Christmas for me, Chanukah for CJ, and Saturnalia for Stuart, who, like the ancients before him, has embraced the Roman holiday that celebrates its namesake, the god Saturn. According to Stuart, he is a direct descendant of the emperor Nero, which would also make CJ and Agnes direct descendants of the emperor Nero, but I don’t mention this.
“Io, Saturnalia!” Stuart says, pulling me in for a hug and clapping me on the back when I walk through the door on December17.
“Io, Saturnalia!” Agnes chimes in, jumping up and down.
The pair of them are wearing fir-and-ivy garlands on their heads, clearly constructed by CJ. I picture her researching which plants are traditional and why. Tea lights flicker on the surfaces that are high enough to be out of Agnes’s reach. A series of sun-and-star drawings that appear to have been a group effort hang around the doorframe.
CJ appears from the kitchen, drying her hands on her fisherman sweater. I can smell lemons and thyme, and the wholesome coziness—set forth for a holiday I hadn’t heard of two weeks ago—threatens to overwhelm me.
She stands on her tiptoes to give me a peck on my cheek. “See anything good today?”
Brent Chase is returning to Los Angeles in the New Year, and for some reason, he wants his home back, giving me a new hobby of house hunting. “Eh, same as usual.”
The open houses I visited were unremarkable, places without personality that the agent assured me could be transformed into anything with the right architect-and-designer duo.
After dinner of roast chicken, a date-olive-orange salad, and honeyed wine that Stuart concocted for the occasion, we exchange gifts, sitting cross-legged around the trimmed Christmas tree, the menorah we lit last week on the mantel, the tin foil and dried wax still underneath it. Saturnalia presents are supposed to be intentionally small, tokens of our appreciation for each other.
CJ got Stuart a celluloid print of a Kenneth Anger movie; Stuart got Agnes a velvet bow for her hair; I got Agnes a tiny stuffed Jiji from Kiki’s Delivery Service ; Agnes got us all drawings, originals signed by the artist.
Seated next to me, CJ hands me a small box and watches with anticipation as I rip off the silver paper.
It’s a framed needlepoint of a bag of Walkers crisps. Cheese and onion. My favorite. My missing-home comfort food.
“You made this?” I look up at her and feel a tingle in my throat.
She meets my gaze, and I can see how happy it makes her to have moved me in this way. “I did. I thought you could put it in your bedroom at Brent’s—or wherever you are—to make it feel a little more like it’s yours.”
“CJ,” I say, and she looks between Agnes and Stuart, waving off any emotional overtures.
I pass an envelope to her. She cocks her head. “A gift certificate?”
“Cash,” I joke back. “Oh, go on, just open it.”
She pulls out the official document and skims it.
“Did you get your driver’s license?” she asks, her eyes wide, her mouth open.
“Well, not just yet, but I got my driver’s permit . I just need to take my road test to get my license.”
“How—? When—?”
“With my cable bill as proof of address and Tom as my teacher.”
CJ throws her arms around me and kisses me on the mouth.
“ Mommy! ” Agnes shrieks, clapping excitedly at the overt display of romance. Deprived of Disney princesses, this is her fix.
“I can’t believe it,” CJ says as she pulls away slowly.
“What? That I can very nearly drive?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “That you outdid me.”