Read Remembering Christmas Online
Authors: Drew Ferguson
Remembering Christmas (3 page)
He thought about a last-minute cancellation, pleading a sudden attack of something vile and disgusting. He considered an elaborate alibi involving a gastrointestinal disaster since, after living with Alex for six years, enduring his nocturnal farts and his failure to flush the toilet, James was unconstrained by modesty and prudishness about bodily functions. But he also knew he'd brood if left to his own devices tonight. Sleep would be fitful if it came at all, and he would end up dosing himself with the Ambien he kept in reserve; come morning he'd be unable to drag himself out of bed for an early start for the ten-hour drive to Parkersburg. Besides, Alex Bedrossian was not Ernst Belcher. In Alex's book, punctuality wasn't a virtue, but the telltale sign of a pathetically open social calendar with no prior commitments forcing one to run behind schedule and arrive at the next destination fashionably late. James decided he had enough time for a soak in the tub instead of a quick shower and timed his arrival for sometime between seven forty-five and eight.
After drying off and gelling his hair, he grabbed a bottle of decent Merlot a guest had brought to dinner, slipping it into a Pottery Barn velvet gift stocking. He'd been too shaken by Ernst's announcement for last-minute shopping and, instead, had given the taxi driver the address of his home. He'd kicked off his shoes and gone straight to bed, not bothering to undress, hoping he would awake to discover the afternoon had only been a disturbing dream. Hours later, stuck in the snarling congestion at Columbus Circle, he was still struggling with the not entirely shocking news, mourning not just the sick old man, but also the wide-eyed boy he'd been when he'd arrived in New York, prone to spastic outbursts with each new experience, a young man for whom cynicism was still an affectation and not yet an affliction. Ernst was the last living witness to the opening era of his Manhattan life and, though the German was far from perfect, James had never considered him to be one of the many bad romantic decisions he'd made, a club with many current members and Alex Bedrossian as its president.
Not that he blamed Alex for the end of his relationship with Ernst. Even at his most naïve and inexperienced, James had never been a delusional romantic who believed in storybook romances and happily ever after. The vast age difference between him and Ernst and not a blinding infatuation with a dark and swarthy editorial assistant a few years his junior had been the reason James had finally worked up the courage to walk away and embark on a future without the reassuring training wheels of a controlling but indulgent mentor.
The taxi stopped in front of Alex and Leo's building and, after paying the fare, James impulsively yanked the velvet gift bag off the wine bottle and tossed it on the floor, knowing Leo would snicker that it was tacky. He stood on the sidewalk, hesitating before entering the building, reconsidering the wisdom of going upstairs when he heard a voice calling his name and knew the decision had been made for him.
“Oh, Jesus, James. Are you dreading this as much as I am?”
“More. You cannot believe the day I've had. I just want to go home and crawl into bed with a good book.”
“Is that the fashionable euphemism for a two-hundred buck an hour hustler these days?”
Good grief, James wondered. Was the whole world privy to his deepest, darkest erotic secrets?
“I wonder if they think we don't realize they can never find time for us on their dance card the entire season, then insist we all gather for this horrid Christmas reunion to celebrate our undying friendship.”
James had shared a house on the Island with Felix for sixteen years and was able to shut out his grating voice as easily as a man can turn off his nagging spouse.
“You know the only reason they ask us is to impress us with the ghastly new additions to their collection in the past year. I want to scream listening to Leo prattle on in that awful Forest Hills accent about the brushstrokes on whatever piece of shit he overpaid for.”
James knew Felix, a curator of nineteenth-century painting at the Met, craved Leo's need for his approval of his acquisitions, that withholding his confirmation of the aesthetic value of Leo's expensive investments was the only power he could exert over a boy from Queens who'd amassed unfathomable wealth as a partner at Lazard.
“He bought a Cy Twombly he's dying to show off. Now act surprised when he makes the big announcement, or I'll spill the beans about what I caught you doing in the dunes at six in the morning during the Ascension party last summer,” Felix threatened as the doorman signed them into the building.
The curator was clearly agitated as they stepped into the elevator, but, then again, Felix was always bitching about something. James was shocked by how old he looked in harsh lighting and close proximity; it was the ugly price Felix was paying for years of exposing his pale epidermis to carcinogenic ultraviolet rays on the sands of Fire Island and sealing himself in a tanning bed to maintain an unnatural hue throughout the off-season. James had never found Felix attractive, and now his weathered pixie features made him look like an evil imp.
“Is everything okay?” James asked, hoping to be reassured that all was well. He'd never liked Felix well enough to be concerned about his many self-inflicted problems.
“Just ducky,” Felix said sarcastically as they stepped off the elevator. “You may as well hear it from me first. Thomas isn't doing the share this year. And if we don't find someone to take his place, I won't be able to afford it. Maybe we should ask Leo to buy the house and let us stay there for free,” he said bitterly, and only half-sarcastically, as they knocked on the door.
James's spirits suddenly lifted. He'd been dreading making his announcement, and now Thomas had done him the great favor of breaking the ice, ensuring that, at worst, his news that he had closed on a summer house in Woodstock would be greeted with resignation instead of anger and resentment. Truth be told, the inevitable breakup of what had once been an envied party house had only been postponed since the day, five years ago, that Leo used his obscenely large annual bonus, enough to justify a Bolshevik revolution, to purchase a Pines house of his own, a place where he and Alex could host fundraisers for GMHC and the Victory Fund and Lambda Legal that would catapult them to an exalted position among the celestial constellation of queer society. James believed the real reason Leo insisted on these annual Christmas reunions, the camaraderie growing more strained and forced with each passing year, was to rub the noses of the housemates, who had once patronized him for his outer borough tastes and loud enthusiasms, in the rewards of his success.
“Time to glitter and be gay!” Felix hissed, smiling through gritted teeth as they heard the dead bolt flipping and the door opened to greet them.
Leo and Alex always hired the most decorative help when entertaining. Aspiring underwear models and chorus boys between shows and even the occasional Juilliard student supplementing his income were always available to willingly, if not particularly skillfully, open doors and take coats and offer canapés. Armando, a tidy package with broad shoulders, a tiny waist, and a blinding smile (probably veneers), was a standard model in the dial-a-waiter catalogue.
“Oh, my God, I
love
your sweater,” he gushed breathlessly as he greeted them at the door. “It's Marc Jacobs, isn't it?”
love
your sweater,” he gushed breathlessly as he greeted them at the door. “It's Marc Jacobs, isn't it?”
“Of course,” Felix beamed, proudly.
James was irritated by Felix's preening, knowing that goddamn sweater had cost him at least eight hundred dollars. He bit his tongue, resisting the urge to remind Felix he might be able to afford his share in the house if he wasn't always maxing out his platinum card on wildly overpriced designer menswear. Armando took James's scarf without comment, causing James to stiffen, slightly indignant, and led them into the front room where the guests were having drinks.
James nodded and followed, though he would have preferred to linger a bit near the front door, in his favorite part of the apartment. Of all the rooms in this beautiful, sprawling, prewar co-op, this was the most impressive. More than the front room with its plaster ceiling and crown moldings and large windows with a view of the park. More than the dining room, large enough for a table that comfortably seated ten, with a magnificent Murano chandelier. More than the spacious kitchen with Sub-Zero appliances and granite counters, plenty of space for the catering staff to work without brushing elbows. This room was a foyer! A foyer, a genuine fucking foyer. A few square feet whose only purpose was to observe comings and goings, the ultimate luxury in the tight, confined living spaces of Manhattan.
“Get in here, you queens. You've got some catching up to do!”
Despite all they had been through, the fights and reconciliations, the betrayals and renewed pledges of emotional if not physical fidelity, after enough melodrama for a Joan Crawford marathon, James's heart still skipped a beat whenever he heard Alex's loud voice, a carnival barker's booming instrument more suited for subway platform conversations than cocktail chatter.
“Greetings, Felix,” Alex drawled, his Southern upbringing requiring graciousness to even the most despised guests. “And, you,” he said, turning to hug James. “I was afraid you weren't coming, oh love of my life. Armando, make sure these thirsty boys find something to drink.”
“Just a club soda for me,” James insisted. “Or a Diet Coke, if you have it.”
“Don't be ridiculous, James. No one is leaving here sober tonight.”
“I had a very liquid lunch with Ernst today at The Box Tree.”
Alex scrunched his nose as if he'd been offered a particularly vile turd.
“Is that hideous place still in business? Do you have to be embalmed to get a reservation?”
“Just about,” James admitted, debating whether this was the time and place to break the unhappy news of Ernst's illness.
“Scotch and soda, for me. Double malt,” Felix ordered with exacting specificity, suspecting that the bartender had been instructed to save the top-shelf liquor for a more fashionable dinner party.
“I love your sweater, Felix. Is it Marc Jacobs?”
Felix smugly accepted the compliment, insisting it was just something he'd pulled out of his closet and thrown on, gloating over his small triumph. He might live in a tiny studio in Murray Hill, and none of his sweaters were paid for, but he could still pull off horizontal stripes with his David Bartonâtoned body, unlike the soft and lumpy Alex. Not that looking slightly ridiculous would deter Alex from buying and wearing an unflattering sweater or pair of skinny jeans. His utter self-confidence was endearing, to James at least, the reason he'd fallen in love with him.
“Come on in, everyone is dying to catch up with you.”
Even the most jaded New Yorkers paused when entering this room, taking a moment to admire the quality and grandeur of the furnishings. Leo had entrusted the lavish appointment of his and Alex's home to the most sought-after professionals, experts in the decorative arts, scholars trained to appreciate the subtle nuances of Duncan Phyfe and English Regency cabinetmakers.
“I want to show you something,” Alex said, in that sly, conspiratorial whisper James knew so well. Alex picked up his guest's hand and squeezed, a secret handshake acknowledging he shared a bond with James more significant than with anyone else in the room other than Leo.
“Leo had a fit about this, but I insisted. Look,” he said, leading him to the impressive Christmas tree.
Sure enough, prominently displayed in a place of honor on the enormous long-needle pine was a cheap ornament, purchased in a Hallmark's card shop by James for Alex on their first Christmas together. All these years later, James cringed at the sentiment, FOREVER, painted on the glass ball, a tacky eyesore among the exquisite British and German antique ornaments acquired by the decorators. And, regrettably, standing in front of the tree, feeling desperately alone though Alex was by his side, James began to cry.
For all his faults and his many shortcomings, Alex always rose to the occasion in a crisis. He whisked James off to the kitchen without attracting attention and set him down among the busy caterers who were too protective of future lucrative engagements in the household to complain about the obstructions in their midst.
“Drink this,” Alex said, handing him a shot of bourbon.
“I'm sorry. I can't believe I just did that.”
“What the hell is going on with you?” Alex asked, the words far harsher than his comforting voice.
“Ernst. He has pancreatic cancer.”
“Well, did you really think he was going to live forever? What is he? One hundred and six?”
“Don't be sarcastic.”
“I'm not, James. For the life of me, I don't understand why you still talk to that nasty old shit.”
“I don't know why I still talk to
you!
” he snorted, blowing his nose.
you!
” he snorted, blowing his nose.
“Because I am utterly irresistible, and you are still madly in love with me,” Alex teased, laying on the Blanche DuBois affectations for effect. “And, don't forget darlin', I love you too.”
James laughed as he accepted the drink, no words needed to acknowledge that Alex had spoken the absolute truth.
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