the house and making Dad’s bed,
which I’ve never seen tousled before.
Dirty Dishes and an Unmade Bed
Dad must have been feeling really
bad to leave the place like this.
And what will I do with it now?
I click the heat lower. I’ll be back
later, but I’m supposed to share
Christmas dinner with Aunt Kate
and the clan. I load Ralph into Dad’s
Ford, drive slowly along the vacant
road, the route to town so familiar
I can drive it with my eyes closed,
as Dad used to say. Damn. I miss it,
and I also miss the family gathered
at Aunt Kate’s—cousins and in-laws,
and little kids, laughing and arguing
and jostling around. Everyone seems
welcoming, either because they don’t
know or care I’m gay, or maybe they
just feel sorry for me. Doesn’t matter.
They suck me right into the midst
of them, and today that is necessary.
In Honor of Dad
Aunt Kate chose to roast a huge prime
rib. It was his absolute favorite. She’s even
fixed it just the way he liked, with a rock
salt and cracked peppercorn coating. As it
finishes, filling the house with its heavenly
scent, the men find a game to watch while
the women play a rousing game of euchre
and the kids entertain themselves. When Kate
goes to check the meat’s progress, I follow
her into the oven warmth and quiet.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, watching
her set the roasting pan on the granite
countertop. I think I’ve got things under
control, thanks. She turns toward me,
grinning. You know, considering how much
you always liked to cook with your dad,
I kind of thought you might wind up a chef
in some fancy restaurant or something.
“I’ve actually been considering culinary
school. But now . . .” I think about the farm—
about the sparring emotions coming home
initiated. Home. I’m here. But can I stay?
“Aunt Kate? Did Dad tell you why I left?
I mean, did he tell you . . . about me?”
She inserts a digital thermometer into
the heart of the prime rib. About you?
Not sure if she’s distracted or acting
coy. But I have to know. “Did Dad tell
you he kicked me out because I quote-
unquote chose the path to damnation?”
I thought I was cried out, but I was wrong.
The room sways slightly. “Did he tell you
he wouldn’t talk to me or let me come
home until I decided I’m not . . . not . . .”
Gay? She turns to face me. No, Seth.
Bud didn’t tell me. He was a private
man and held everything close. But I
knew. I’ve known for a very long time.
I want to talk more, but now we hear
a volley of rapid-fire questions beyond
the door: How’s that meat coming?
Are we going to eat soon? Should
someone set the table? Did Kate
make eggnog? Hey. Where did Seth go?
I’ll finish the conversation with
a question of my own. “If you can
accept me, why couldn’t Dad?
Now we’ll never get the chance—”
Oh, there you are! Uncle Dan comes
looking for us. Everything okay?
Just fine, says Aunt Kate. The meat’s
resting for ten, then I’ll ask you to carve.
Sure thing. Smells mighty fine. I’ll go
let everyone know it’s almost time.
Kate waits till he’s gone. Try not to fret.
I’ve got something for you later. Now, here.
She hands me a platter of baked potatoes,
and I carry them to the dining room table.
I don’t care if I look like I’ve been crying.
A dead dad at Christmas gives me the right.
After Dinner
Aunt Kate pulls me down the hall,
into her room. She lifts an envelope
off her dresser. I picked up Bud’s stuff
from the hospital, and this was in it.
I’m not sure when he found the time
or energy. I’ll leave you alone with it.
It’s a note to me from Dad, written
in a shaky hand, barely legible.
Dear Seth, I wish I could say this face-to-face,
but I don’t think I’m gonna make it. I wouldn’t
mind dying so much except for a couple of things.
One is the farm. Without you there, I’m scared
of what will become of it. I don’t want it to fall
into bad hands. See to it that doesn’t happen.
The other is you, son. I’m a stubborn fool, and
I let my pride get in the way of loving you without
conditions, as God would have me do. Please forgive
me, and I pray the Lord forgives me, too. Just know,
despite the harsh words, I never stopped loving you,
though it took this to see it. I promise, if God allows,
I’ll always stay close to you. All my worldly
possessions belong to you now, including this:
It’s the Recipe for Venison Sausage
Guess Dad approves of my culinary
ambitions. I reread the note ten or twelve
times, etching his words into my heart.
I need time to think. I call for Ralph,
bid adieu to the family. Snowflakes dance
in the headlights as we maneuver the icy
road to the farm. Home. Suddenly, I understand
I can’t go back to Vegas. Not sure I’m cut
out to be a full-time farmer. But maybe
I can hire outside help, keep the old place
in good hands. I still want to go to school,
but I bet I can find a good program in
Louisville and commute. Memories, good
and bad, linger in that city, but that’s where
I first found my community, and I can always
tap into that there. Community leads me to
Pippa, who I adore, and Micah, whom I love.
Neither belongs in rural Indiana, but maybe
I can convince them to give Louisville a try.
If not, I’ll weather the loss and move on.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Move On
I want to. I really do want
to turn my back on yesterday,
leapfrog today, into
tomorrow,
but how is that possible,
tethered by fear? People keep
asking what I’m frightened
of. The real question
is
what doesn’t trouble me?
I’m scared I can’t escape
the legacy of turning tricks,
that too much filth and
too
little affection will forever
define my relationships.
I’m afraid I’ve deviated so
far
from decency that I’ll never
again deserve respect,
let alone a full measure
of love, and keep pushing it
away.
I’m terrified that faces
will float from the past,
into the present, and there
will be no place to hide.
Whitney
Top to Bottom
Left to right, the Lang family
totally defines dysfunction. I mean,
after everything that happened
yesterday, the sun rises and everyone
pretends it’s just another Christmas.
Mom wanted to drive me straight
back to rehab, but I managed to persuade
her to bring me home, and let me mend
my mind via outpatient therapy.
I built a strong three-pronged argument.
One: I need to rely on my family
to follow through with treatment.
Two: Inpatient care costs a whole
lot more. And three: They’d be closed
for Christmas anyway.
Okay, the last one is weak, but
the other two swayed her, or maybe
it was her feeling guilty about Kyra
unwrapping presents while I was locked
away. So home we came, and with a stop
for dinner, we arrived before Santa.
Lang tradition dictates no presents go
under the tree until Christmas Eve,
which made sense when Kyra and
I were little. Not so much after
we knew what was what, but Mom
has always insisted on it anyway.
So this morning we wake up,
grab coffee, and collect ourselves
at the tree, where someone-not-Santa
has deposited presents sometime
between midnight and dawn.
Quaint tradition, but it put a strange
slant to the big picture. Whatever.
I’ll just try to embrace the weirdness.
I don’t have presents for anyone,
and truthfully, I am surprised to
find gifts for me. As usual, Mom
gives Kyra and me clothes. She loves
to shop, and building our wardrobes
gives her pleasure. I don’t think she realizes
how much weight I’ve lost. She’s bought
me last year’s size six, and everything
from jeans to sweaters will be baggy.
That’s fine. I’m not into “tight” at
the moment, and won’t be for a while.
From Dad, an iPad for each of us,
and a Mac Air for Mom. He’s all
about Apple, from his phone to
his computer, and probably gets
volume discounts. Kyra gives me
a purse. Coach, of course, maroon
leather, and way too big. It will
swallow the few things I carry.
After the Whole Gifting Thing
The four of us, yes, including Dad,
go to work on dinner. I can’t
remember ever doing something
as family-wholesome as that.
Mom assigns jobs. Kyra, of course,
is responsible for the plum pudding.
Dad volunteers to do the pumpkin
pie, which only scares me a little.
And, no surprise, I get to do
the gingerbread while Mom takes
charge of everything else.
The kitchen feels claustrophobic,
and a few seconds of panic set
in. But when I try to explain,
rather than let me get some fresh
air, Mom is adamant that I stay.
Sit at the table and take deep
breaths. We’re doing this as
a cohesive unit. I realize that’s
new for us all, but I can’t see
another way to keep us together,
and I refuse to let us fall apart.
I have no idea what’s gotten into
her, except maybe it has everything
to do with almost losing me, not
once, but twice. Turns out, she had
GPS tracking installed on my phone.
Just in case. And that proved provident.
That Information
Was passed down on our trip
home last night, when I asked
how the cops knew where to find me.
You didn’t think we’d take
a chance on you disappearing
again, did you? Mom asked.
You do realize technology
makes tracking people relatively
easy these days? interjected Dad.
So then they gave me the lowdown
on GPS tracking, and made it very
clear that if they are paying my cell phone
bill, I can expect they will know
where I am anytime they need to.
But there’s more to this story,
the surprising plot twist if this were
a novel. Mom shared this part on the way
home, too. I haven’t as yet approached
Kyra, asked about motive. I’ll wait until
her plum pudding is steaming.
Who knew that’s how you make plum
pudding? Who knew the absolute best
plum pudding begins a year in advance?
She only started a couple of days ago,
so tonight’s will be decent. Then, I bet,
she’ll go straight to work on next
Christmas’s, and it will be perfect.
Of Course It Will
Because Kyra will make damn
sure to improve. That’s my sister.
As this part of the story goes,
she was putting together the fruits,
spices, and cognac that went into
her plum pudding when Mom
dropped me off at the mall,
where Bryn lay in waiting
like the predator he is.
She was missing an ingredient
and wanted to call Mom to pick
it up, but her phone was dead,
and she’d left her charger back
at school, so she went into my
room to look for mine.
I guess I’d dropped Bryn’s business
card on the floor the night I found
it in my pocket. Kyra discovered
it, and something about the Perfect
Poses Photography logo sparked.
When Mom couldn’t find me at
the mall, it clicked into place and
was an important piece of the puzzle
when Mom reported me missing.
With the pudding steaming nicely,
she excuses herself and goes into
the other room. I follow. “Kyra?
Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She flops on the sofa, signals
for me to join her. Guess so.
“Why did you show Mom Bryn’s
card? You didn’t have to, and I’d
be back in Vegas, out of your hair.”
She squints, and her forehead
creases. What? Like I wouldn’t
show it to her? Whitney, you piss
me off regularly, and there are
things about you I don’t get at
all. This last little “adventure,”
for instance. Just . . . why? You’ve
got so much potential. Why are
you so intent on throwing it away?
“I . . . I don’t know. I guess
I never thought anyone cared.”
We all care! Look, just because
none of us is the huggy-kissy type
doesn’t mean we don’t love you.
Do you really believe I’d rather
you were back in Las Vegas?
I can only respond with a shrug.
Kyra is quiet for a moment.
Looks like we’ve got to work
on some relationship building.
It’s an Acknowledgment
And it’s a start. I’m thinking long
and hard about the roles I’ve played
within my failed relationships.
My family has been fractured
for a while. The support I’v
e received
lately is the most I’ve had from Mom
and Dad since I was a little kid,
before their partnership ruptured.
That they’re trying to repair it now
is largely because of me, so maybe
I can be a catalyst for good there.
Or maybe they’ll fail at it again.
Kyra? When we were little, I looked
up to her, but she outshone me in
every way, and after a while it got
old taking the backseat to her well-
earned accomplishments. I chose
silent resentment in favor of expressing
my feelings, and that was a mistake.
Lucas was never a real relationship
at all. I clung to the idea that he cared
about me, though he was nothing but
all out for himself. Good riddance.
And now, James. If there’s the slimmest
chance for us, it will be rooted in honesty.
I want to try if he does. I need someone
wonderful in my life, and guess what.
He’s calling me right this minute.
A Poem by Eden Streit
Someone Wonderful
Is in love with me.
He’s my light, my warmth,
my bread and water.
How did I make it
through even one day
without
him? Someone wonderful
promises to spend the rest
of his days by my side.
People will say we’re too
young to experience undying
love
that time will agree.
But the bond between
our hearts is steel, unbreakable,
and with proper care, won’t rust.
One day he and I will explore
the world
hand in hand, and maybe
little hands will join ours.
Someone wonderful
gives me hope for the future
and without him my life
is colorless.
Eden
Mama and Papa Listen
To my Tears of Zion exposé.
I’m not sure they really believe
me, but at least they don’t send
me away. They haven’t as yet
agreed to remove Eve from
Ruenhaven’s grasp. What else
can I say to convince them
she’s in evil hands? “May I ask
you something? What did Father
tell you about how I left?”
As always, it’s Mama who
answers. He said, like your sister’s