Blame It on the Fruitcake (4 page)

When I got to my place, I locked myself inside and stood in the center of my huge loft space and felt as lost as I’d ever been in my life. I’d done what I told myself never to do. I’d walked up to the window of the white house with the green shutters and the neat yard surrounded by a picket fence. I’d put my nose to the window and looked in at the family eating Christmas dinner, and I’d drowned in envy.

Funny how sometimes you know you shouldn’t do something, but you do it anyway. Whatever it is hurts you so much, just like you know it will, but you can’t stop yourself from doing it anyway.

I sat down in front of my TV and found a repeat of a NFL game and turned the sound up real high. I needed noise to fill the loft and return me to my usual self. I needed something to fill me up so I wasn’t just a hollow robot plodding through the rest of the day.

I ended up going down the back stairs to the bar, leaving my TV on so I wouldn’t have to come back to silence.

A
T
TIMES
like these, some guys get shitfaced so they can suffer double—first from the pitfall of too much booze, and then from the horror of whoever they end up dragging home with them. Me? I drink alone and then not enough to feel like crap the next morning. I drink to think. And then more not to think. That’s what I did on Saturday.

“Hey, Sam!” Estefan, the bartender, yelled at me over the guys arguing about who’d win the Super Bowl this year. “What the hell happened to you, kid?”

Estefan’s maybe twenty-five or thirty years older than me and was the one who egged me on to apply for the expansion loan. At the time he’d said, “I’d give you the money myself, kid, but I don’t got it. Sorry.”

Since I hadn’t expected him to fork over so much dough, I’d told him it was okay and then filled out the forms for the bank loan.

“Aw, it’s nothing, Este. I’ve been fucking this suit, and he’s way outta my league.” He put a third beer in front of me and parked himself behind it.

“So you tell your papi ’bout it.” He started wiping the bar around my beer. “You a good guy, Sam.”

“He’s, I don’t know, amazing,” I started feeling even more like a fucking preteen. “He’s educated, bright, funny, comes from a big, loving family. I thought we were simpatico, you know?”

“You forgettin’ ’bout Wayne?” Papi gave me the sorrowful eye.

I rubbed my face. Yeah, Wayne, another preppy guy, another past mistake. How come the clean-cut, well-educated ones reeled in my dick so easily?

Since the idiots at the other end of the bar had started yelling for him, he left shaking his head. I finished the beer. Even Papi didn’t have advice for me.

On Sunday I woke and felt a little better. The world was still merry and bright out in the stores and the churches and wherever. I was still the head of a profitable garage that was about to branch out into more space. Everything was in its place.

I microwaved some bacon, scrambled some eggs, and didn’t look at my phone. I drank some OJ from the bottle, brewed some coffee, and refused to look at my phone. All was right with the world.

Until I heard the knocking at my door.

“Who is it?” I bellowed.

I’d finished my breakfast, done the dishes, and was making big plans for the day. Big plans that included whatever TV had to offer.

No answer, but more knocking. I sighed. Gonna be like that, is it?

I went to the door and peeked out. An older heavyset woman stood there dressed in a light-blue Henley knit T-shirt, jeans, and colorful shoes. I didn’t know her, but she didn’t look hostile even though she had a heavy-looking purse slung over her shoulder and was carrying a plastic bag with what looked like something equally heavy in it.

I unlocked the door and opened it about halfway.

“Can I help you?” I didn’t really want to deal with her crap right now, but manners win every time.

“Are you Sam McGuire?” She was studying me as if I had the answer to some problem that bothered her.

“Yeah. What can I do for you?” Was she maybe my next-door neighbor, the elusive Ms. Watkins? The woman with the mailbox next to mine for five years, but who I’d never seen? Oh Lord, what crisis had arisen at her place that she wanted me to fix?

“Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

Okay, I don’t usually let strangers into my place, but looking her over, I figured I had six or seven inches and maybe a hundred pounds, give or take, on her. Unless she was packing or had a bomb or something, I should be able to stop her if she got rough. Then I smiled. She didn’t look like the rough type. Plus she was wearing a wedding ring. If she meant me harm, she would’ve sent her husband, right?

“What’s this about?” On the other hand, I wasn’t in the mood for some religious zealot’s come-to-Jesus speech. It was the Sunday before Christmas. Whatever she was selling, I wasn’t buying.

“I can see this will be harder than I thought,” she muttered. She opened the plastic bag and took out a loaf-size something wrapped in tin foil. “This is for you.” She shoved it at me.

I let her stand there holding it out. She was some kind of delusional wacko. I started to step back and close the door.

She sighed, dropped the foil thing into the bag, pushed me aside, and walked into my loft. As I watched, openmouthed, she made a beeline for the kitchen. She looked around and dropped the plastic bag on the counter.

“I could use some water,” she said. “I’m winded after walking up all those stairs. You might want to refrigerate this.” She was pointing to the bag and its mysterious contents. “I’m Joyce, by the way.”

I just nodded. Who the hell was Joyce? Was I supposed to recognize her name? I shut the door, walked to the kitchen, and got her the glass of water.

“Do I know you? Am I supposed to know you?” I asked as I handed it to her.

She crooked her head to the side. Just like Brian, I realized.

“Are you related to a guy named Brian?”

She took a drink of water, let out a sigh, and nodded. “I’m his grandmother.”

Oh shit. That meant she was Jay’s grandmother too. What in the hell was she doing here in my loft? As questions bloomed in my mind, my manners rose to the top of the chaos.

“Oh, uh, hello. I really enjoy eating your fruitcake.”

She smiled softly and muttered, “I know.” Then she turned and looked at the loft. “Can we sit down? I’m a little tired after all the stairs.”

I gestured toward the central area where my recliner, sofa, and TV were. “Have a seat.” I was really freaked now. What the hell did she want with me?

She sat in the recliner, wiggled around a little, and let out a sigh. “This is nice,” she said, stroking the arms.

“So what do you need from me?” Rude, I know, but I couldn’t figure this out.

“Sam, we have a problem. I thought it would be better to talk it out together than for me to keep calling you.”

I took my phone out of my pocket and looked down at it. Oh yeah, I’d turned it off.

“Okay. What’s the problem?” I sat on the couch with my elbows on my knees. I hadn’t realized I had a problem with Jay and Brian’s grandmother.

“I don’t usually get into my grandsons’ affairs, but since I feel like maybe I’m responsible, I should this time.” She took a breath. “Jay told me a couple weeks ago after his holiday party that he met someone he really liked. You. He said you got along great and had a lot in common. Then he went away for a few days, leaving Brian in charge at his place, and when he came back, he said at first you were a little distant.

“Then I invited you over for Christmas dinner, and everything broke off. I don’t know what I did, but I apologize. If you don’t want to be friends with Jay, well, that’s one thing. And it’s between you two. If, however, you don’t want to have anything to do with him because I was too pushy or something, well, then that’s between us.”

Oh God. I didn’t want to have to explain the facts of life to Jay’s grandmother. What the fuck? Still, she looked like the kind of woman who wouldn’t move until I told her something.

“Uh, well, it’s not you. See, I haven’t told Jay this yet, but I was abandoned as a baby and raised in the Children’s Home. He thinks we’re a lot alike, but we’ve got nothing in common.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. You’re not gay?” she asked gently. No judgment, which was nice. Just concern about the mix-up.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I am. That’s not what I’m saying.” I sat back and ran my hand through my hair. “See, I’m a mechanic, and I own a garage. I didn’t go to college, and anything I know about anything probably didn’t come from a book. I don’t have a family. Jay’s a really great guy, and I like him a lot. But we’re not what anybody’d ever call a match.”

Fuck me. I sounded pathetic. I sat up again.

“Look. I’ve been with a Jay before. Well, not your Jay, not this Jay. But an educated guy with lots of family who cared a whole he… a whole lot about him. Like, I’ve been with a bunch of Jays. In the end it all boils down to us not getting along because I’m too clingy or some sh… something like that. I could see the whole thing happening again, and then I had dinner with Brian and, well, I don’t have the time or the stomach for it.”

“What did Brian say? What did he do?” Her eyes had narrowed to slits. She didn’t look happy.

“Nothing. Nothing much.” I couldn’t believe I was really talking to Grandma, of all people. How crazy was that? Jay’s whole family was weird. “He just made me look in the mirror and ask myself why I wanted to jump in the race again.” And come in last again. But I didn’t spell out the end game to her. “He just told me the truth.”

She harrumphed and stood.

“Well, I hope you and Jay can get this resolved.” She picked up her purse and gave me the once-over. “You seem like a nice boy. A good boy. A person could go very wrong throwing you away.”

Huh? Whatever. Grandma liked me. Big deal.

As I saw her out, she turned and put a hand on my chest. “You’re still invited to eat Christmas dinner with us. Anybody who likes my fruitcake can’t be all bad.” She laughed and patted me before she walked down the hall toward Jay’s.

Oh shit. Now she was going to report back to him. I sighed. At least now he’d understand it wasn’t him cutting the cord, but me.

T
HE
NEXT
day I brought half the loaf of fruitcake Grandma gave me to the office. The four guys I’d shared with before rallied everyone to try it. There was a lot of harassing and making fun of the big, burly shop guys who acted like we were about to put rats down their pants.

Janene not only liked it but appointed herself the keeper of the fruitcake. You had to go through her to get a piece. I would’ve thought it was all real funny if I wasn’t in a continued funk. Life wasn’t fair, and I just had to get over it.

That afternoon Brian stopped by the garage. When I saw him, I just about threw a wrench at his head. Fuck. Would these people not leave me alone?

I called Eddie over from his station.

“See the suit?”

Eddie nodded.

“Get rid of him. He’s not a customer and will never be a customer. Okay?”

Eddie nodded again.

I watched as he approached Brian and they started talking. Eddie had his arms crossed over his chest and was looking down on Brian like Brian was an interesting gerbil he had no intention of buying. Brian was doing his Brian dance. One foot, then the other. Hands in the air like he was at a club, dancing. Mouth moving so fast I’d have to be a better lip reader than I was. Finally Brian stopped talking, Eddie nodded once, and Brian turned and stomped off. Thank you, Eddie.

My good friend returned to the bay where I was working.

“You’re gonna have dinner with his brother tonight,” he said and walked away.

What? Shit. What the fuck? I walked up to him and put my hand on his arm.

“Not talking about it,” Eddie said without turning around. “Just eat. Maybe listen. Get your head outta your ass.”

Damn. My best friend turning against me? What the fuck?

I
WAS
a little afraid to go home that night. Who would be waiting to ambush me? Grandma? Crazy Brian? God’s gift to my dick, Jay?

I picked up a six-pack on the way to the loft. I had a feeling I’d be needing something after the attack I anticipated.

I got to the door and let myself inside without seeing anyone. I was just breathing a sigh of relief when I noticed the loft didn’t smell like work clothes or angry boots. It smelled like roast beef and roasted potatoes. I was wrapped up in home cooking.

“Hi, honey. You’re home,” Jay said to me. “Why don’t you wash up and we’ll have dinner?”

“How’d you get in here?” I growled.

He shrugged. “Told the super I’d accidentally left my keys here. He got an urgent phone call before he could show me out.”

Fuck. I wasn’t as safe as I thought I was.

“You’re not happy to see me?”

Actually I was ecstatic to see him. I was having flashbacks of the kisses and the sex, of the sense of closeness, the laughing. God, the laughing, even while we were fucking each other blind.

I walked over to the couch and sank onto it.

“I remember everything,” I said, even though that wasn’t his question. “Didn’t your grandma or your brother—especially your brother—explain it to you? Don’t you get it?”

“What don’t I get?”

I was tired, too exhausted to go over old ground again. Not only was I depressed about the Jay situation, but I still had Harry’s bike and ashes to inter. And on top of everything else, it was fucking Christmas, happiest time of the year. Right. I couldn’t even OD on fruitcake since I was saving it for the big day itself—in my world, the saddest day of the year.

Smelling the meat and potatoes, I looked up at him. He stared at me with what seemed to be a worried frown. I caught myself soaking up his beauty and caring. Then I hit the wall. My feet were glued in place. I felt buried alive.

“What don’t you get?” I whispered. I ran a hand over my face. “What don’t you get? You’re a handsome, intelligent man wearing Gucci shoes and designer clothes, with your hair trimmed by a stylist and a loving, caring family hovering around you, making sure you don’t get hurt by going out with the wrong guys.”