Just For The Holidays (Home for the Holidays)

7. Nichol

Chapter 7

Nichol

Tweedle Twins

T he permeating sear of impatient eyes and rhythmic wafts of cheesy-cracker breath, rouses Nichol from a long nap. He coils away from the stinky alarm, stretching his lanky body beyond the edges of the child-size mattress, pushing a low groan up from his belly.

“You slept all day.” a trolling little voice whispers.

Slimy sandpaper aggressively laps his toes.

“I did?” Nichol’s eyes pry open.

Max leans back on his hands, sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor with his googly-eyed sidekick, Stuart—a chunky little pug—joyfully slobbering the bottoms of Nichol’s feet.

“Nanny and PopPop are here.” Max is studying him with steady curiosity. “You drooled all over that pillow,” his short nose wrinkles.

Nichol swipes his chin with his sleeve, folding his knees to pull his feet away from the pup’s unrelenting tongue, and sits up.

“How was school?” he scratches Stuart’s knubby head and the pug twirls with a gaping smile, wagging his curly-cue tail furiously.

“Fine.” Max is stoic as a grumpy old man reigning over his precious lawn from a rocking throne on his front porch.

Katie has referred to the boy as an old soul since the day he was born. Nichol has only visited four times in Max’s nine fast-passing years, but they have weekly video calls, every Sunday evening, and occasionally enjoy Minecraft sessions together. It’s the only videogame Max’s parents will allow him to play on the console system Nichol sent two Christmas’ ago, insisting every boy has them today when Katie and Anthony—her husband and Max’s dad—tried arguing against it.

Nichol is the oldest sibling and is accustomed to getting his way with his adoring little sister. He does hope that will never change.

“Mom is making dinner . . .”

“Why don’t you head upstairs, I’ll be right there.” Nichol interrupts, desperate to pee.

“Okay.” Max rises to his feet, claps his palm on his hip to signal for Stuart to follow, and the duo tromps up the stairs. “He’s awake,” the boy announces. “He drooled everywhere. Yuck!”

“What were you doing down there? I told you to leave Uncle Nichol alone.” Katie scolds.

Nichol smirks, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and moves to the bathroom, taking in the sight of the seemingly unused lounge. The room is cluttered with boxes of old junk, piled on the sofa and old table, likely unloaded from Nichol's room, having been used for storage.

Once relieved, he fixes his hair and swishes water, cupped in his palm, to rinse his teeth—he’ll unpack his toothbrush after dinner—and draws in a deep breath at the bottom of the stairs, before making the dreaded climb.

“There he is!” His father takes notice as Nichol’s head appears over the banister, looking into the living room.

“Out of the way, Carl. ” His impatient mother pushes past and floats toward him with wide-spread arms, scooping him in, vice gripping his ribs. Aside from her Midwest-mom hairstyle being a bit shorter each visit, she never changes, even down to her signature scent—Mary Kay’s Forever Diamonds.

“Hi, guys,” Nichol wheezes.

“Careful Rebecca, you’ll snap the boy in half.” His father jeers, embracing both of them. “Welcome home kiddo.” His hair is whiter than Nichol remembers and the lines surrounding his features crease deeper than they used to.

“Thanks,” Nichol grumbles.

“Anthony should be home any minute. I’ve just got to set the table, but dinner is ready.” Katie calls from the kitchen.

Max and Stuart are cuddled up on the sofa, like the Tweedle Twins, watching the classic stop-motion animated Rudolph special.

“What time is it?” Nichol can’t tell. It was barely light when he fell asleep and it’s already dark again.

“Six-thirty.” his mother chimes. “I’ll set the table,” she bellows into the kitchen and waddles behind her own trailing voice.

The front door sweeps open and Anthony enters, flipping a red baseball cap off his shaved head and tucking it under his arm.

“Hey, Nichol!” His snow-under-moonglow smile beams and his blue eyes squint. Katie managed to land herself the gawky boy, turned hot-nerd-daddy, for a husband. They’re middle school sweethearts that have withstood the test of time.

Nichol envies them and always has. His sister fell in love as a tween, and it stuck for life. While he barrelled into his mid-forties and has only had brief flings with ridiculous men.

Well, Peter wasn’t a fling, but a four-year-long game of cat and mouse that Nichol was never going to win. Peter was the man he thought would be the one , but Peter had lots of other number ones . That was the last straw that Nichol cared to ever pull out of the dating cup. Aside from a few casual hookups through the Gaydr app—here and there—over the past few years, he’s not gone on a proper date since.

Katie made a rustic spread of perfectly charred turkey meatloaf, buttery garlic mashed potatoes, steamed sweet corn—dumped straight from the microwaveable bag, and a pot full of boxed stuffing. All slightly tweaked versions of the exact same spread they grew up on.

Rebecca loves to point out the differences. “I like to make mine with beef and ketchup, instead of barbecue sauce, and turkey, ” she says.

Katie smiles and swallows the sickly sweet criticism.

“Katie said your rental car broke down?” Carl asks, scraping a glob of potatoes, piled on a chunk of meatloaf, from his fork.

“Shit!” Nichol remembers, “I forgot to call the rental company. It ran out of charge. I'm sure it’s been towed off Main Street by now.” The last thing he needs is that additional charge.

“The silver spaceship sitting halfway in the street?” Anthony sips a glass of cola.

“Yeah.” Nichol cuts through a corner of his meatloaf slice with the edge of his fork.

“It was still there when we passed by an hour ago,” Rebecca adds.

“I’ll call Charlie Baxter after dinner. He owes me a favor, he can tow it here.” Carl always knows a guy who can solve a problem. He’s lived in this little town his whole life. Everyone at the table, except Nichol, has.

“Oh! Charlie Baxter’s son, Chucky, is gay now.” Rebecca wags her eyebrows. “You remember him don’t you?”

“No,” Nichol lies.

Chucky was a terrible bully, two years ahead of Nichol in school. He’d managed to escape the football player’s torments but witnessed other kids being harassed by him for years. The worst bullies are usually hiding their own secret torments—so that makes sense.

“How did you get here?” Anthony asks.

“Theodore Monroe dropped him off,” Katie smirks at her husband.

“Oh, I miss Gertie’s donuts.” Rebecca reminisces.

“He knew me, but I don’t remember him at all.” Nichol shrugs.

Katie scoots her chair back and trots to the living room, chewing a mouthful of food, and returns with a book. She sits and flips it open on her lap, scanning its pages, until she finds what she’s looking for, and passes the book over the table to Nichol.

“Left page, third row, second kid in.” She says.

Nichol accepts the yearbook and peers down his nose at the photo of a pimply boy with gapped front teeth, triggering a memory.

Nichol had been fuming that morning. Enraged after a roaring truck—carrying his own high school bullies—passed the bus stop cheering “faggot” at him, over blaring hideous honky-tonk music from their windows.

The teenager in the photo is a slightly older version of the chubby orange-haired boy that he remembers rescuing from a trio of snarky pricks teasing him on the school bus.

Nichol had grown so tired of their sort and felt compelled to rescue the poor kid because no one had ever stood up for him.

“Oh yeah, I remember him.” He probably never would have made that connection. The burly auburn-bearded baker today looks nothing like the awkward boy in the photo. “He’s sure changed.” He closes the book and passes it back to Katie.

“Mm-hmm,” she grins.

“Have you been seeing anyone?” Rebecca can’t hold off any longer.

“No, mom.” Nichol shoves a pile of potatoes into his mouth.

“How come?” she pushes on.

“Rebecca,” Carl warns.

Nichol shrugs, crossing his eyes into the glass of water he’s dumping down his throat.

She asks him the same question during every telephone conversation, but now he’s stuck in the same room with no handy escape in sight.

“What?” Rebecca coys. “I just want to see him happy.”

“I’m good, mom.” Nichol swallows.

“I know, but . . .”

Stuart shimmies into the room and over to the sliding glass doors, whimpering to be let out on the back deck.

“Max, Stuart needs to go out.” Anthony alerts.

Max slugs through the kitchen and shifts the slider open just wide enough that the pup can squeeze past.

“Hey kiddo, what do you want for Christmas this year?” Nichol aims the conversation off himself.

Max lifts his shoulders, curling his lip, and wrinkling his freckled nose.

Stuart is back, in a flash, tapping his claws on the glass.

Max lets him in and the goofy duo trots back to the living room.

“He’s impossible to shop for.” Katie collects empty plates, stacking them on her arm. A lingering skill from her days waitressing at Curly’s Diner—in town—back when Anthony was still making his way through dental school. He runs his father’s practice now, and Katie is a stay-at-home mom.

Nichol spends the rest of their visit dodging suitor suggestions from the curated list of potential locals that his mother has painstakingly been compiling ahead of his visit. Apparently, the new Universal Unitarian pastor, Brad, wears a wristwatch with a rainbow band and shops at Kohl’s. The peak of fashionable retail for the local gay men, according to Rebecca Anderson.

Katie shuffles Max off for his bath, while Carl and Anthony abandon the table to discuss manly gossip in the living room.

Nichol loves his mom and knows he should be happy to have such liberal-thinking parents in this nightmare town, but his jaded heart isn’t interested in another romantic let-down.

“We should get going Becs.” Carl appears in the archway, a brilliant knight in pudgy armor, to save Nichol from the barrage of his mother’s well-meaning intent.

“Okay,” she pouts, jumping out of her chair and wrapping around Nichol’s shoulders, planting a long greasy-lipped kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll call Chuck about your car as soon as we get home.” Carl pulls Nichol in for a hug as he’s rising off his seat.

“Thanks, Dad.” Nichol pats his shoulder.

Carl and Rebecca say their goodbyes and head out the door.

Nichol starts down the stairs, “Night,” he says to his brother-in-law. “I’m going to unpack.”

“Night.” Anthony waves, flicking through channels on the television.