Page 83 of Serial Killer Games

I leave everything as I find it and close the door.

—

The morning of Christmas Eve,I find Bill watching TV in front of his fire—the fire is lit every day now, even with the power back on.

“…a citywide turkey shortage in grocery stores thanks to a turkey pileup on Highway 1…” a news reporter with reindeer earmuffs says on TV. Behind her is a semi rolled over onto its side, little white lumps of vacuum-wrapped Butterballs pimpling the highway.

Bill taps the mute on the remote control I uncovered under the sofa to give me his full attention. I hand him his mail: a hydro bill, a package from a law firm, and an envelope from a lab. Bill’s health is a full-time job to manage. I don’t know how he’s supposed to do it on his own. He rips open the envelope from the lab first and stares at the contents for a long minute. It can’t be good news, but he doesn’t share it with me. I understand the preference for privacy. He folds it up and stuffs it in his pocket without looking at me.

“I’m going to my aunt’s for Christmas,” I tell him.

He gazes at me long and hard. I feel like he’s looking at my eyes, my glasses, my hair. I don’t know what he’s looking for. He nods his head. “All right.”

I have the impulse to invite him, but I don’t. Andrew is a corrosive substance, and I wouldn’t inflict him on anyone.

“Will you be all right here?”

“I’ve been all right here on my own for almost thirty years,” he reminds me gruffly. “Is this it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you be coming back?”

I’ve been waiting for him to ask. I want to say yes. It’s not like there’s anywhere else for me to go. But there’s a change in the air, a difference in Bill’s mood all of a sudden.

“Do you want me to?”

Bill shrugs without looking at me, diffident. “I don’t see why you’d bother. You’re young. You have better things to do.”

The room is awkwardly silent apart from the babble of the TV. I’ve been carving out a little nook for myself in someone else’s life these past weeks, trying to be useful, essential, and once again it hasn’t worked. Bill and I have been dancing around our connection this whole time. He hasn’t uttered theword “grandson.” I haven’t called him anything other than “Bill.” Blood connection doesn’t equate a relationship, after all. He’s a tired old man who was grateful for some help, and that is all.

I leave him there by the fire with his stack of mail.

36

Christmas Killjoy

Jake

I park Grant’s car threeblocks from Andrew’s prying eyes and nosy questions and walk the rest of the way, until I stand in front of the two-story white polyp of suburban architecture I first washed up at twenty years ago almost to the day with nothing but a bag of clothes and my dog. A sunburst window over the front door, sheer white curtains in the windows, hedges trimmed and fiddled within an inch of their life, manicured lawn on display even now thanks to this green Christmas. Conventional. Unchanging. Eternal.

I haven’t been back in three years, but last night Laura’s name came up on my phone, and for some reason I answered it.

“It would be so nice to see you,” she said. “You and…anyone else you want to bring.”

She meant Dodi, and since all my Dodi thoughts are linked chaotically like a barrel of plastic monkeys, I immediately heard Dodi saying,You need to tell your aunt you’re sick. I’d pictured them all assembled around that long, shining dining room table, the extended family that has always looked at melike something embarrassing that has crept out into the open, as I dropped my bombshell. They would finish chewing and dab their lips with their napkins.Sounds neat, Jake. Can you pass the potatoes?

I accepted the invitation alone and here we are. I wonder if the bichon frisé is still kicking. And as if he reads my mind, he comes snuffle-trotting down the walkway, his tongue hanging out one side of his underbite, his eyes in business for themselves. Princess. He’s delighted to see me. A former cellmate back in the clink.

I stand there for a good minute on the welcome mat, reminding myself the nausea is just Pavlovian conditioning. Princess is a dog, so he’s knows all about it. He shivers and stinks and leans against my leg. His nails need a trim. The hair in front of his eyes, too. I press the doorbell. Footsteps, and the door swings open, and I paste a big smile on my face, quick as lightning.

“Jake!”

Laura wears a Rudolph apron dusted with flour, and just like the house and yard, she’s unchanging and eternal, except in her case I’m grateful for it. I don’t really know what comes over me. Without thinking, I reach in and hug her. She freezes, then puts her arms around me in a fierce squeeze.

“Where’s your bag?” she asks, blinking rapidly with misty eyes and not looking at me. She peers out the door, like she hopes to see another person coming up the walkway.

“I didn’t bring one.” It’s still at Dodi’s. Laura’s face falls, and I change the subject before she can ask if I’m spending the night. Depending on Andrew, I might prefer to sleep in my car. “How many people will there be at Christmas dinner tomorrow?”

---