A Wealth of Unsaid Words (19 page)

Alex opened his eyes. He"d claimed the chair by the fire,

and he wasn"t moving, not even for rolls. It didn"t matter

anyway. When he looked up, Everett was there with napkins

and hot cinnamon rolls that dripped with too much icing for

everyone. He got halfway across the room, glancing

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purposefully over in Alex"s direction with a plain one in his

hand, before Molly swung him around and pulled him and

all his baked treats onto the couch with her. She made Ty

make room.

Alex hoped she got only socks.

It wasn"t much of a curse. The Faradays weren"t rich,

and there was a houseful of people to shop for. Gifts tended

to be simple, cheap, or homemade—used books, knitted

scarves, jars of spicy pickles, picture frames. Those with

money tended to buy things that were needed. Alex wasn"t

wealthy either, was still working out some debt issues, but

he had enough to get George and Ally tickets to a show in

the city, which meant they"d have to come see him.

And hopefully Everett, his mind added, but when he

looked at Everett, Everett was focused on opening the

current present being handed to him by the child forced to

play Santa.

Alex dutifully opened his presents too. An expensive

bottle of cognac from Robert. Interesting junk from street

vendors and thrift sales and convenience stores that they

knew would amuse him from the others, including a truly

awful-looking movie from Everett.

He raised his head again to thank him and saw Everett

stretching to kiss his mother"s cheek to thank her for

whatever she"d gotten him. Alex turned to see what, and

then stopped to study the familiar bags of caramels and hard

candy and think about Everett having more of his favorite

treat to hoard.

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“I didn"t plan to buy them for you, but I was looking for

something interesting for Alex, and I saw those and thought

of you. You always loved them when you were growing up,

and I couldn"t find a last little something for you,” Ally was

explaining merrily and then must have caught some kind of

question on Ty"s face because she went on. “I know they

aren"t much, but Everett always loved those, especially the

butterscotch. That was always his favorite of all of them.”

Ty said something Alex couldn"t hear, but he supposed

it didn"t matter because then Ty turned to look at him,

revelations all over his face. George turned, too, squinting

across the room at Alex like he"d also just figured something

out.

They could be wrong, but Alex didn"t think so. It wasn"t

as though he"d been especially subtle. He hadn"t seen the

point at the time. Those poems had been borne out of those

first post-suicide-attempt letters to Everett, created from the

words he couldn"t say out loud. Subtlety hadn"t even

occurred to him.

If (when) I live to be old / will I confuse dreams? / one

sweet circle of butterscotch / a lifetime of the bruised bliss of

your mouth.
That was the rest of the line Ty hadn"t been able

to remember, though the poem itself went on from there.

But Alex ignored them, poems he"d hated the moment

they were out for the world to read, and all the other people

in the room, and looked at Everett. He found Everett staring

at him, white-faced and hungover and frowning. Furious, as

he only ever got when Alex refused to take his medication, or

when Alex took too much on purpose and called him to say,

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“I"m sorry, Everett, I"m so sorry,” before hanging up and

locking his door.

Alex rose to his feet and went to the kitchen. He stopped

only because George grabbed his arm. The man paused,

looking around, then lowered his voice.

“Only a few minutes, son. You"ve got gifts waiting.”

Everett"s father was as startlingly kind as he had always

been under the strong words and gruff bluster as he let Alex

go and then stepped back to resume taking pictures.

Alex nodded, but only because he couldn"t speak. Then

he got the hell out of there.

If that meant freezing his ass off again, then so be it.

hat, of course, was a bold declaration made in the

heat of the moment. The moment after was

T

considerably colder and uncomfortable. He"d put on

some flannel pajama pants to come downstairs but not

shoes or even slippers. He wasn"t certain he even owned a

pair of slippers, though he"d once sent Rachel four pairs of

stuffed bunny slippers he"d found in some little shop. “For

the children you"re going to have someday” was what he

believed he"d written in the note he"d sent with them. She"d

been in school and not seeing anyone then, but it had made

sense to him at the time.

It was a joke between them now. She"d say, “I"m two

bunnies down,” or “I"m working on that other bunny,”

whenever she"d see him.

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Nonetheless, he could not be still, and walked, barefoot

and cursing himself, out to the tree and the bench, and sat

down to get frostbite while he awaited his fate.

The world was very quiet Christmas morning, the noise

contained inside thousands of houses for a while until all

that childish glee would burst out and life would go on. The

colored lights were still on around the windows and gutters,

bright but subdued in the morning light, as if aware that

their time was nearly over.

Alex"s stomach growled, wrecking his attempt to fall into

the familiar embrace of his melancholy. It was Christmas,

and the tension in him was rising so high he almost felt

giddy. Everything in him but his stomach was strung out

like a bowstring, humming in the wind, waiting to snap. He

was trembling uncontrollably. He had come this far and

could go no further, at least not without shoes or a snack.

As if on cue, Everett came out the kitchen door, the

delay in his arrival explained by his slippers and coat. He

had what looked like another pair of slippers in his pocket

and a mug in his hand. He did not have the plain cinnamon

roll, but even Everett couldn"t be perfect, it seemed.

Alex accepted the slippers eagerly and the mug

cautiously. He sniffed it and then looked up.

“Santa"s Little Helper? This early?” His voice came out

strained in the quiet of the world around them. Everett

narrowed his eyes, but answered with a brief, sideways

smile.

“It"s good for nerves.”

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Alex took a drink. He was a man in need of a little

courage, whatever the variety. Just the same, he looked up

again. “Everett, need I remind you that you"re talking to

someone who"s been arrested on more than one occasion?

Someone who has won more than his share of fights with the

vicious thugs that passed for our high school football team?”

“Someone who climbed up through my window more

than once shaking and bleeding from those fights, which

were, by the way, usually with boys who"d said something

about obviously faggy me?” Everett countered immediately as

though he"d been storing that answer for just this moment,

perhaps for years. “Someone who"s called me from heights I

can"t imagine to describe every single thing he saw that day

and how it made him think of me, and who then admitted in

a rush that he was worried I would leave him?”

Alex dropped his gaze to the ground, but Everett didn"t

stop there.

“Alex, you… I"ve gone to see you at your worst depths

and had you tell me….” Everett finally stopped, but only for a

moment when his voice cracked. Alex swung his eyes up.

Everett was clenching and unclenching his hands. “You told

me I ought to leave because you were too horrible for

someone like me to be around. You told me to leave you,” he