Page 126 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Don’t get too excited,” I say as I get up and grab another meal from the freezer and pop it in the microwave. “You should know by now that these things taste like shit, but they say it’s food.”

His lips press together with a scowl. “Hmph.”

“What did Meals on Wheels bring you today?”

Roger is living on a fixed income that is pretty broken as far as I can tell. When I moved in here a few years ago, I realized he was eating soup so thinned out he was practically drinking flavored water. I started inviting him over for dinner and leaving cat food in his cupboard. Cleo, an orange tabby cat, was Roger’s only friend at the time. Just like Bingo used to be my only friend. Turns out being imprisoned for grand theft auto helps you figure out who your real friends are—and I didn’t have any. Roger and I have become friends (Mrs. Rosa calls it a May–December friendship), but Cleo and Bingo still hate each other.

Can’t win ’em all.

Roger comes over almost every night now, right around dinnertime, so I always make sure I have enough to feed him too. The only reason he didn’t eat with me last night was because he got roped into playing bingo at the VFW by a veteran he worked with back in the day. The guy had been bugging him to do it forever, and Roger finally relented. But as soon as he got back, he dropped by to let me know bingo wasn’t for him—no insult intended to Bingo the cat—and went straight to bed.

“Meh.” He waves a hand as he sits in the chair across from mine. The table is small and round and covered in chipped white paint, and none of the four chairs match. One is black with spindles, two are white with slat backs, and the one I just vacated is a simple oak. I used to have a nicer set before I went to prison, but I have no idea where it is now. Somewhere in Sydney, North Carolina, probably. I spent my entire life there until my sentencing.

Dwelling on that will only drop me down a well of grief, though, so I try not to think about it.

“What does that wave mean?” I ask as I grab a glass and fill it with ice and water. “Does that mean they skipped you again or the food sucked?”

“How many sandwiches can a man eat?” he grumbles.

“I’ve eaten quite a few sandwiches in my life. It beats canned soup.”

He makes a face and shrugs. “You got home later than usual.”

“I had a thing after work.”

His rheumy eyes brighten. “A thing?”

I laugh as I set the glass in front of him. “Simmer down now. Butterfly Buddies accepted my application. I met my new buddy today.”

He narrows his eyes in confusion. “You sent in that application ages ago. They just called you?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to dwell on the insecurities and bitterness that his observation dredges up.

When you are charged with a crime, you get your sentence and do your time. When you get out, you’re free to join the rest of society. That’s nice in theory, but every application you fill out for the rest of your life, from housing to jobs to Butterfly Buddies, will ask if you’re a convicted felon. And for the rest of my life, I will always have to check “yes.”

For the rest of my life, I will pay for a stupid-ass mistake I made as a twenty-year-old kid. A mistake that didn’t catch up to me until I was arrested at twenty-nine, because it turns out there is no statute of limitations in North Carolina when it comes to a felony charge.

The microwave dings, and I pull out Roger’s dinner, burning my fingers as I hasten it to the table. It plops out of my grasp, and I’m thankful for the plastic film covering it so it doesn’t fling out everywhere. I grab an extra fork and place it next to the meal, frowning.

Roger tries to remove the film, but his hands are shaking so much he can’t grasp the edge.

I step in and take off the cover. “You taking your meds, Roger?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, but I’m not reassured.

“Medicare still covering everything?”

He has Parkinson’s, and his medication is expensive. Medicare sometimes makes changes to which prescriptions it covers, leaving him in a bind without a much-needed medication. I’ve gotten it straightened out before for him. I have no qualms about stepping in again, especially since Roger has no one to intercede on his behalf. He never had kids, and he’s outlived his wife and his siblings.

“Yeah, I got everything,” he says in defeat.

“Sounds like you need another trip to the doctor. Maybe he can increase the dose.”

He shrugs. If he’s telling the truth about taking his meds, then his Parkinson’s is progressing. He hates his disease and barely acknowledges he has it. Pushing him now won’t get him to admit he needs to make an appointment. I’ll have to ask again later.

I drop the plastic into the trash can and sit in front of my now-lukewarm meal, not that I’m complaining. I’d rather be eating tasteless imitation cardboard with Roger than a five-star Michelin meal alone.

“So, tell me about your buddy,” Roger says as he digs his fork into his mashed potatoes.

---