Second Chances (8 page)

“Hey man, I got a surprise for you,” Antonio said, the excitement loud and clear in his voice and his face was animated again. He jumped out of the truck and went around to the passenger side. He unbuckled the kid and they both came around the front.

I had
puh-lenty
of nephews and nieces, so I could tell he was about ten. He looked like a little chip off the big cannoli. Strong features, dirty blond hair. Big-ass smile and he walked like he owned the world. I liked him immediately. He walked right up to me and stuck out his hand.

“Hi. You must be Mark. My name’s Jason. Dad said I’d get to meet a friend of his today.” He eyed me up and down, and that kind of appraisal from a kid was amusing. It was really easy to tell he was his dad’s son. “He’s been looking for a new friend since Mario went back home. So, do you have any kids? Is that your car? It’s nice, but I like my dad’s truck better. I can see out the windows but they’re tinted so we can watch everybody else and nobody can see us.” I swear it felt like a ten-year-old’s version of a police interrogation.

“It’s good to meet you, Jason.” I smiled and shook his hand. “Yes, I’m a friend of your dad’s. No, I don’t have any kids. And yes, that’s my car.” I laughed, looking up at Antonio.

The pride in his eyes was fucking amazing. It was good to see him smiling and happy after this morning. It was kind of weird to see him like this though—as Dad. Usually he was so blustery and macho and imposing. Or tried to be anyway—I wasn’t anybody’s bitch. But to see him like this, this was new. And I liked it.

“Why don’t you jump back in the truck and we’ll go and get some dinner in a minute, buddy. Okay?” he told his boy.

Jason climbed back in through his dad’s side of the truck after giving me one more glance, and Antonio closed the door. I came up beside him and we stood there, side by side with our backs leaned against the cab. I figured I needed to be a little discreet here, so I pulled out the envelope and reached over and slid it in his front pants pocket.

“Here,” I explained, “we can talk about the details later. The paper for you to sign’s in there. I’ll get it from you tomorrow at the gym. Go have dinner with your kid. I need to get going.”

“You can come with us if you want to. Jason usually wants hamburgers or chicken fingers. But I make him eat healthier stuff and we might go to the sushi place over on Piedmont,” he said, looking kind of hopeful.

“I can’t. Brian and I have plans tonight. We’re having dinner with my dad.”

He looked down, frowned a little, and then back up at me. His gaze met mine for a minute and I wasn’t sure exactly what I saw there. It wasn’t bad, just like he had something he wanted to say but didn’t quite know how, or what. Then it was gone.

“Cool. You guys have a good night,” he said quietly.

He stuck out his hand, and I looked down at it. We never shook hands. I reached out, took it and gave it a firm shake. It went on for maybe three seconds longer than it should have. Then he pulled me into a man hug, bumping shoulders, and let me go with a squeeze. He climbed up in that fucking ridiculous huge truck thing, buckled himself and Jason up, then left.

If I didn’t know better, I would think he was compensating for something with that monstrosity. Hah. But I did know better.

December 2002

C
HRISTMAS
in my family always meant family dinner at Dad’s on the Sunday before the actual holiday. It started out that way so that each of us siblings could spend Christmas Day with our own spouses and kids, and any single sibs could catch a fucking break from the noise of early rising, over-sugared kids. Now, though, we all had someone. I loved my nieces and nephews, but I was more than ready for them to go back home after about two hours of playing, screaming, and fighting.

Last year was the first one without Mom, and we all managed to make it the whole meal without crying. She’d loved the holidays so much, and it felt like a hole in my heart the whole time I sat there and looked at her empty chair. Nobody could sit there. And Dad glanced at it every ten seconds so sadly.

I couldn’t take it again, so this year I went over early and Brian and I decorated a tree. Put up all the lights and even wrapped garland and fairy lights around her chair. I tried to put the reindeer out on the front lawn, one on top of the other like they were humping, but Dad took them down and said Mom would’ve kicked our asses.

While the holidays weren’t what they used to be, we were at least able to celebrate again without having to feel like it was forced.

And damn, but the kids loved it. Brian’d called each one of my brothers and sisters and gotten favorite toy names, clothes sizes, and video game preferences. He took this huge-ass list and the Jeep out to the malls and came back late Friday night with more presents than I’d seen. Ever. We’d stayed up late that night, then again on Saturday wrapping and tagging everything.

Brian was an only child. He’d never gotten close to any of the foster families he was with as a teenager, and of course the Egg and Sperm Donors, as he called his parents, were God only knows where. Fuck ’em.

Every year, on Christmas and his birthday, I swore if I ever found them, I’d kill them. He didn’t know I saw him go into the bathroom every fucking year on those days and that I heard the sobs from the shower. That grief was his alone; it would have been unwelcome and an invasion for me to betray his dignity by bringing it out into the light. But someday, I thought, someday I hope I run into those fuckers and then they would know.

And that’s why I let him do anything he wanted with my family. The kids adored him. He’d get down in the floor and play Hot Wheels, or Barbie, or GI Joe, and was always friendly to all of my brothers and sisters. Even the Holy Roller, the Asshole, and Sister Mary Vagina.

My sister Linda was the Holy Roller. She was the one who was ashamed to let her preacher know she had a gay brother. She and her husband Roy had a boy and a girl. She didn’t know it, but he’d made a pass at my sister Patty while Linda was in the hospital giving birth to their daughter. One of our little family secrets we all knew but never talked about.

Sam was the Asshole. He was a former Marine and just fucking pleased as punch he had a faggot for a brother. And wasn’t above telling anybody who would listen that he hated how Mom and Dad called Brian their adopted son. He never quite managed to say it loud enough for Dad to hear. He was fifteen years older than me, and when I met one of his future girlfriends for the first time when I was a toddler, I threw my bottle at her and broke her nose. Even then I knew how to make a statement. He and his alcoholic wife Jean had a daughter.

Brenda was Sister Mary Vagina. She had three marriages under her belt, and the first one of her exes was now gayer than me. He had this little white streak in the front of his hair that everybody said was from when he got really sick as a young man. Bullshit. Peroxide sickness if I knew him. Her present husband Frank, who I actually kind of liked, had gone to high school with my mother.

Yeah.

They went to church three times a week and she prayed for me and Brian every time they went, she was sure to tell me. She had three children: a son and daughter by her first husband—the Twink—and a son by the third. Those kids especially loved Brian and would go to him when nobody else could calm them down.

Patty and her husband Ray had two kids, both boys. Ray was a good guy, and if he wasn’t straight I would have had him on his back with his legs in the air so fast he wouldn’t know what hit him. He was six-two, one hundred eighty pounds of hairy hunk. If he lived in Wyoming he would’ve been a cowboy. Brian and I both always walked behind him so we could watch his ass. And those long legs with the slight bow. Usually Patty was right there with us. Also usually whispering, “Mine, all mine” in my ear. Bitch.

Robert was my younger brother. He was newly married but had two kids, both girls by two women other than his wife. But he and I were the closest in age and got along well enough. He was a dreamer and wanted to be a writer. He wrote poetry that was beautiful, but it didn’t pay the bills. His wife Jennifer was a social worker and made most of the money in the family. She was a little wisp of a woman but I wouldn’t want to fuck with her. I’d fear for my balls.

So there were the six of us sibs, plus spouses and kids. And I counted Brian as a spouse, significant other, whatever the fuck. And with Dad, that made twenty-three for dinner. And twenty-one people we bought presents for. More love and fun and fussing and wrapping paper than you could shake a stick at.

Antonio had repaid the money he borrowed in cash. He didn’t want to work it out in trade, so I let him give me money as he got it. Since it was a pain in the ass to go to the credit union, I’d stuck it in a drawer and forgot about it. When it came time to shop, I just handed the wad of cash to Brian and told him to go forth and spend.

I sat back and watched as Brian took two of Brenda’s kids and played Santa and they were his elves. They darted back and forth, distributing presents and gift bags and cards. I caught Brian’s eye and gave him a smile, then put a little heat into it. He blushed a little, because he knew what
that
meant, and glanced away fast.

When I looked around, I saw Sam looking like somebody farted in his drink. He glared at me, and I mouthed “Fuck you” at him and gave him a middle finger salute. If he had his way Brian wouldn’t be there. Hell, I wouldn’t be either. No love lost.

But as Patrick Swayze says, nobody puts Baby in a corner. So I got up, reached in my pocket, and pulled out a hammered silver chain, like a collar, that I’d been carrying for just the right moment and came up behind Brian. I reached around and draped it across his neck and did up the clasp. He looked down, then around and up at me. His smile made me a little weak. Must be getting warm in here, I thought.

I turned him around and pulled him up against my chest and wrapped him in my arms. We were standing right there in front of the tree, my family, and God and I kissed him. Not a friendly kiss, or a brotherly kiss, or even a full-press fuck-me kiss. But it was long and deep and open eyed and it meant
I love you
.
Merry Christmas. You’re mine.

“Ewwww, they’re kissing. Gross. Uncle Brian, stop, you’re gonna get cooties,” one of the rug rats screamed and tried to work in between us.

“Make him stop, Uncle Brian. I want you to play Legos with me. You said you’d play Legos with me, and you can kiss him and all that gross stuff when you go back to your house. Pleeeeaaaassseee, Uncle Brian,” another one begged.

Brian grinned at them and pushed me back and said, “Okay, babies, just for you. Jed, you and Andrew get the boxes and we’ll take them and put them on the table in the den, okay?”

That seemed to appease the little heathens. They grabbed a couple of their cousins and took off to get the boxes. He looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows at me. “Later,” he promised, fingering his chain.

I smacked him on the ass and walked back into the dining room to get some more of the pecan pie I knew Patty’d made. She’d gotten the family recipe book after Mom died and was taking over as the baker in the family. Good damn thing, because none of us could make a decent crust except her.

“Fucking filthy faggots,” my brother breathed as I passed by.

I stopped and leaned down so he could hear me, but nobody else could. I kept my voice low and looked straight ahead, a small smile on my face. Anybody looking would’ve thought I was sharing a quiet laugh with him. Well, maybe Brian would’ve known better.

“If you say one more fucking word, if you
use
that fucking word one more time, under your breath, out loud, however the fuck you want to do it, I’ll knock you on your damn stupid redneck ass. Right the fuck out. You’re nothing but a piece of shit. I’ll call Child Protective Services and tell them how you kick Jean’s ass when you have too much booze. And I
will
tell Dad too. Everything. Now are you going to shut your hateful mouth or am I going to shut it for you?” I asked, my voice quiet and even and low.

He went still and looked up at me. His eyes widened then narrowed and he started to open his mouth, but I wasn’t done. Not yet.

“Think really, really hard about what you’re going to say here. Because this is it. I’m done. You don’t scare me and you never have. I let it go without saying anything because Dad loves you. I don’t. It would hurt him if I kicked your worthless ass. I don’t care anymore. Yes or no. Are you going. To shut. The fuck. Up?” I bit off every word, still smiling.

He didn’t look at me. He just nodded and went back to his drink. I patted him on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary, and went off to look for that pie. God, that felt so fucking good.

L
ATER
than night, at home, Brian and I sat on the couch watching television—one of my favorite traditions was a double feature of
A Charlie Brown Christmas
special and
How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
.