Authors: Holiday Outing
exploded from the sides of his head like stuffing coming out of a ripped teddy bear.
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15
“Hello, Jonah,” he said, patting my back. “Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too, Uncle Al,” I responded. I had no idea everyone would be here,
and felt overwhelmed.
Uncle Al reached into his breast pocket.
“Here, Jonah. Have a pen.”
The cheap, metallic blue pen said “Albert Levinson” on it.
“Thanks, Uncle Al.”
“Happy Hanukkah.”
“Happy Hanukkah.”
My mother bustled everyone to their seats at the table. “Come on now! It’s going to be
dark soon! Jonah’s delayed us enough as it is. Sit down, sit down! Let’s eat already!”
I stood there, still in my coat, my carry-on over my shoulder. Mother smiled at me. “Go
on, put your bags in your room and wash your hands.”
I slouched up the stairs toward my old bedroom.
I opened the door and felt exhausted. My bed was rumpled and Ethan’s suitcase lay
open on it. The fucker was sleeping in my bed.
Apparently my bed was the inflatable air mattress on the floor, with a sleeping bag on
top and one of the throw pillows from the couch for my head.
“This can’t get any worse,” I told my room.
My room laughed at me.
Oh wait, no, that was Ethan, laughing behind me.
“I’ll help you unpack,” he said, sliding past me into the room.
I threw my bags on the bed, not caring if he’d already called it. I flung off my coat
sulkily.
“You can have the bed if you want,” Ethan said quietly. “I don’t mind the air mattress.”
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Astrid Amara
“Yeah? Well I don’t mind the air mattress either.” I tore at my carry-on backpack a
little overzealously and ripped the zipper.
“Take it easy,” Ethan said. He sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to give yourself
a heart attack if you keep tensing up like that.”
“Good. At least I’ll be dead.”
“No way. I’ll give you mouth-to-mouth and resuscitate you.” Ethan smirked. “Want to
practice?”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He blinked innocently. “What?”
“What the…” I ran a hand over my face. “Fuck. I’m going to wash my face.” I grabbed
my toothbrush from my carry on and left for the bathroom, hoping to calm down my
desperately pounding heart.
Ethan and I had exchanged mere greetings and gossip over the last twelve years. Why
was he now so chummy? So…overt?
I walked back into the bedroom just as Ethan unzipped my vinyl suitcase. I suddenly
remembered what my other bag contained.
“No…wait!”
I slammed shut the suitcase, but it was too late. He had seen them, all twenty copies of
Nautilus, the cover nothing but two bare-chested, bronzed, beefy men, expressions hidden in
shadow, the name “J.D. Levinson” floating around their erect nipples.
I froze, mortified. I could feel my face flame, my entire body shudder, wishing the floor
would open up and swallow me whole.
Ethan very deliberately pulled his hand from the suitcase. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Leave my stuff alone,” I said, breathless. I could feel my pulse sprinting in my throat.
Ethan looked a little stunned by my outburst.
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I rifled through my carry-on, looking for possible gift ideas. What the hell would I give
my parents tonight?
When I turned around, Ethan had a strange expression on his face. I looked away, still
too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“I like your books a lot,” he said finally.
I swiveled. “What?”
“Nautilus,” he said, motioning toward the suitcase. “I thought it was your best book to
date, although I wish you hadn’t shot the dog in the end.”
I stared at Ethan in shock. “Book? You read my book?”
Ethan looked almost shy -- impossible to imagine, but true. “Yeah. I’m a big fan,
actually. I’ve read every one of your titles, even your erotica series through Queer Ink Press.
You create really interesting characters. But this last story was superb.”
I gaped at Ethan for several seconds, remembering two months of being stuffed in
lockers, jeered at, and beaten up.
I shoved him.
Ethan looked puzzled and angry as he pushed back. “What the hell!”
“You’re queer?” Rage pounded through me.
“Of course -- why else would I have been hitting on you for the last hour?”
“You’re fucking gay!” I pushed him again. Now I was furious. “How dare you!”
Ethan looked at me like I lost my mind. “Jonah, what is wrong --”
“You don’t even remember, do you? High school? The locker room? When you called
me a fag in front of everyone?”
Ethan’s rage disappeared. He went still as stone. “I remember.”
“Oh yeah? So that whole time, while I was getting my ass kicked, you were just the
same as me?”
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Astrid Amara
“I was a stupid kid. I’m sorry.” He looked remorseful, and I almost bought it. “I just…”
he ran his hand through his hair. “I wasn’t strong enough back then to do the right thing.”
“The right thing? What was that, plunge my head in the toilet?”
“No!” Ethan reached out and touched my shoulder. “I should never have said anything
in the first place.”
I shrugged his hand off of me. “Yeah, well, I’m over it,” I lied. I turned away from him,
pulling my belongings out of my backpack.
“Jonah.” Ethan’s voice was low and serious. I loved the way he said my name, and it
made me all the angrier that I loved it.
“I was a mess back then,” Ethan continued. “But I never meant to hurt you. I actually
liked you. A lot.”
“You had a funny way of showing it.”
“I still like you.”
“You don’t even know me, Ethan.”
“So let me get to know you,” he pleaded, his voice lowering. “Let me make it up to
you.”
If he had spontaneously sprouted another head, I think I would have been less
surprised.
“The food is getting cold!” My mother hollered from the stairs.
“All right, all right!” I shouted back. I glared at Ethan. “Listen. You’ve never been
anything but a prick to me, so don’t expect to march in here, announce that you’re
homosexual, and have me go all gaga over you. I’m not impressed with your medical degree,
or your fucking amazing shave, or the fact that your hair does that thing.”
Ethan frowned. “What thing?”
“That little flip-part thing.”
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“I don’t have a flip part.”
“Jonah!” My mother bellowed. I could hear her coming up the stairs. “We’re pouring
the soup!”
“We better go,” Ethan said. “She’s pouring the soup.”
I pushed my suitcase under the bed and, with a last, lingering glare, went down to my
mother.
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Astrid Amara
There was never one conversation at a Levinson family gathering. Conversation was a
competitive sport and whoever was heard by nearly deaf Aunt Goldie won.
My mother is not a creative cook, but she makes up for this in two ways. One, she
prepares huge amounts of everything, so at least no one starves, and two, she can whip up a
mean batch of latkes.
Latkes are my favorite, and as a traditional Hanukkah treat, my mother went all out,
frying the grated potatoes perfectly and offering a selection of toppings, including sour
cream, apple sauce, and some sort of new age chutney that Ethan had obviously brought and
she was too polite to refuse.
As we ate, the weather turned worse. Snow built up around the house like God was
silencing us in an icy blanket. At some point my father turned on the television in the living
room and left the volume low, so we could listen to the weather updates.
The worsening weather seemed to affect everyone’s patience. As the meal progressed
and it became clear that everyone would be staying the night, my father and Uncle Al
bickered about the weather girl and what constituted a “real” storm, and then finally about
some baseball game that had occurred thirteen years before I was born. I stopped listening.
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To add to the problem, Aunt Goldie was clearly far more senile than the last time I’d
seen her. She kept interrupting conversations to ask after her dead husband, Moe, or the
location of her slippers, or whether someone was going to take her dancing sometime soon.
Ethan seemed to take it all in stride, however. He helped ladle out dishes on my
mother’s plate, shared amusing stories about his practice, discussed golf swings with my
Uncle Al.
“You golf?” my mother interrupted, appraising Ethan anew. “I always thought golf was
a noble sport.”
I couldn’t help but snort. “Noble? What’s so noble about driving around an
environmental disaster in a cart hitting a ball with a stick?”
“Oh and I suppose you think canoeing is better?” my mother asked.
“Kayaking, Ma,” I reminded her. “It’s not canoeing. It’s kayaking.”
“It’s what Indians used to do before they invented motors,” my father helpfully added.
“What good does that do anyone, this kayaking of yours?” My mother cried, serving me
a second ladle of sweet lukshen kugel. “I bet you meet the most interesting people golfing,
don’t you, Ethan? I bet famous people golf with you, don’t they?”
“Not where I golf,” Ethan said amiably.
“Are you a member of a club?” My father asked, eyebrows raised appreciatively.
“No, I golf on public courses,” Ethan said. He looked at me as if I would give a shit.
“He is one with the people,” my mother said, looking at me. “Kayaking you do
what…alone?”
“I have some friends I kayak with in the summer,” I pointed out. “Last August we went
up to the San Juan Islands and spent a week --”
“You’re a young man, Ethan. How far do you drive the ball?” Uncle Al interrupted.
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Astrid Amara
Ethan swallowed politely before answering. “Oh, very far. But only one hundred and
eighty straight and about two hundred to the right.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure you’re a genius on the course!” my father crooned.
“Your mother used to tell me all about your sports achievements,” my mother said. She
swallowed suddenly. “She was so proud of you, Ethan.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Levinson,” Ethan said, looking awkward.
“She was such a wonderful person.” For a moment I thought my mother would start to
cry. But then she smiled at Ethan. “She used to keep track of all your scores, you know.” My
mother pushed at her food. “You should learn how to golf, Jonah,” she said suddenly.
“I don’t want to learn how to golf,” I protested.
“It would be good for your character,” my father chimed in.
Luckily, my cousin Matthew seemed to detect the mounting fury in my expression and
interrupted.
“So tell us about your writing, Jonah,” he said. “Your mother tells me you may have a
book out sometime?”
I stared at my lukshen kugel, finding the crust of the dish fascinating. “Uh-huh,” I said
noncommittally. No lies, I reminded myself. But half-truths counted too.
“I always thought you could be a real author one day,” Aunt Goldie said.
I glanced up to see Ethan staring at me, eyebrows crumpled in confusion. He looked at
me, and my parents, and then scowled.
“Jonah has a lot of books --” he began.
“I don’t even know what to do with half my ideas,” I interrupted hastily, shooting him
a glare. “A lot of my stories are nothing more than trumped-up settings.”
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“You should give up writing,” my mother said helpfully, ladling a third serving onto
my plate. “You should have gone to school for a profession, like Ethan. You like being a
doctor, don’t you, Ethan?”
Ethan still scowled at me.
“Ethan? You like doctoring?” my mother persisted.
He smiled weakly at her. “Yes, Mrs. Levinson. I love it.”
My mother beamed back. Then she hit my shoulder. “You see? He loves it, he tells me.
When was the last time you loved something you did?”
“I like a lot of things,” I said defensively.
“Not that you tell your mother this.” She tsked. “You always sound so depressed on the
phone, Jonah.”
“I’m not depressed --” I began.
“Once I was depressed,” Daniel chimed in. “They gave me some great drugs at the
hospital. What kind of drugs do you get, Ethan? You get tempted to use them?”
“Ethan would never take drugs,” my mother said quickly. “More kugel?” she offered,
ladle dripping with noodles.
“No thanks,” I said.
“What’s wrong with it?” My mother pointed at my plate.
“Nothing. I’m just full.”
“Full?” her eyebrows shot up to full mast. “When you weigh so little?”
My father hunched over, intent in his argument with Uncle Al, and so would not come
to my rescue.
“I’ll have more, Mrs. Levinson,” Ethan said, holding out his plate, which was perfectly
clean, a mother’s dream.
My mother smiled at him. “You’re an angel.”
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Astrid Amara
Ethan smiled back at her. “I try.”
* * * * *
this to light the first candle on the left, for the first night of Hanukkah. As the wick caught