Read Remembering Christmas Online
Authors: Drew Ferguson
Remembering Christmas (4 page)
Short and round, cursed even in his leanest youth with budding love handles that had blossomed into the comfy body of a plush toy, Alex Bedrossian would have been described as husky or stocky by the many who were charmed by him and fat by the less charitable, one of them being Felix. He certainly cut a distinctive figure among the chiseled, carbohydrate-starved bodies of his social set. He kept his dark, wiry hair cropped close to his skull after it began thinning in his late thirties. His thick, expressive eyebrows complimented his feral black eyes. He was no beauty, not by a long shot, and some even considered him ugly. But he crackled with energy, burst with enthusiasm, and was gloriously unconstrained by the caution and tentative self-confidence that James wore like a hair shirt. James loved Alexâwho, according to the latest
Publishers Weekly,
had just successfully brokered a record-breaking advance from William Morrow for his brandname-author client's next two military espionage thrillersâfor being everything he wasn't.
Publishers Weekly,
had just successfully brokered a record-breaking advance from William Morrow for his brandname-author client's next two military espionage thrillersâfor being everything he wasn't.
“I like your hair, James,” Alex said, playfully mussing James's still thick mane as James finished his drink. “Are you letting it grow longer?”
“No, I just need a haircut,” James admitted, more pleased by the compliment than he should have been.
“Don't. Keep it longer. Silver daddies are all the rage these days. I can't believe you're . . . what? Forty-one? Forty-two?”
“I'm forty-six, and you know it. Which makes you . . .”
“Stop, stop! I can't bear it!” Alex shouted in mock horror, covering his ears with the palms of his hands. “You look much better with gray hair than Leo. He looks like his grandfather with that disgusting hair growing out of his nose. I keep begging him to have it colored, but he refuses. He says an outspoken faggot at Lazard can't afford to seem so trivial that he would care about the color of his hair.”
Of course, a faggot at Lazard earning the GNP of a tiny thirdworld nation was perfectly free to indulge his narcissism in more acceptable, traditionally masculine ways, such as hiring a private trainer to arrive at his co-op at five in the morning, six days a week, to ensure that his waist size never exceeded thirty-two inches. Not that his weight or muscle tone mattered, since Leo's donkey dong and income just below the threshold for the Forbes 400 assured him his choice of the most desirable sexual partners. But Leo still needed to believe his conquests wanted to sleep with him because he was hot and not because he was powerful and almost unimaginably wealthy.
“We need to get back in there before Leo starts to suspect I'm doing you on the kitchen table,” Alex laughed. “But I'm worried about you, James. I really am. What's wrong with you? I don't believe you're this down in the dumps because that evil old man is finally dying.”
“He is NOT evil. I wish you wouldn't talk like that.”
Alex, so used to charming people that even the ones he'd royally fucked asked him to dinner to thank him for his efforts, could only attribute his being the object of Ernst's undying scorn and derision to the old man's vile and corrupt nature. Ernst Belcher, a hoarder, avaricious to his core, had never forgiven Alex for stealing James from him. Never mind that James had grown beyond the age of Ernst's romantic interest and a younger, fairer, and more naïve understudy was already waiting in the wings: All that mattered was that a belonging of Ernst's had been taken from him.
“Have it your way,” Alex said, dismissing the subject. “Just don't expect me to believe that the news that old bastard is dying is what put you in such a funk.”
James refused to take the bait. Even Alex couldn't pry from him his nagging fear he was going to spend the rest of his life alone. Adolescents and widows might get sympathy for such a heartfelt confession of vulnerability, but a successful New York editor would be exposing himself to a chorus of ridicule and mockery for admitting he desperately missed falling asleep next to someone at night.
“Okay, be that way,” Alex said, affectionately, knowing from long experience it was best not to pressure James when he slipped into the occasional miasma of doom and gloom. “Come on! I've got a surprise. Archie Duncan is here, and I've told him all about you.”
“Who?”
“Don't go acting all snooty on me and pretending you don't know who Archie Duncan is.”
The only Archies James knew were Veronica's boyfriend and Cary Grant.
“He was on that television series for years, the one about the basketball coach who has to take over the drama club. It was a really big hit. You know the one I mean. I loved that show!”
James had never developed Alex's appreciation for double takes and laugh tracks.
“Anyway, he's in New York now. He starts rehearsals for a revival of
Gypsy
in a couple of weeks. He's playing Herbie. You'll like him.”
Gypsy
in a couple of weeks. He's playing Herbie. You'll like him.”
James's summer housemates were in the midst of auditioning for a one-night stand or maybe even something a bit more enduring, like an invitation to attend the opening night of
Gypsy
with the leading man. Felix, scowling by the fireplace, had obviously failed his tryout. Thomas, Philip, and Edward were still in the running, surrounding Archie Duncan in a half circle, laughing too loudly at every amusing syllable that tripped off his tongue.
Gypsy
with the leading man. Felix, scowling by the fireplace, had obviously failed his tryout. Thomas, Philip, and Edward were still in the running, surrounding Archie Duncan in a half circle, laughing too loudly at every amusing syllable that tripped off his tongue.
“I'm not really in the mood for this,” James announced to Alex and, instead, drifted over to pay his respects to Leo who was standing alone, admiring the tree.
James, the only one of the housemates with a legitimate reason to hate his host, was, in fact, the only one who genuinely liked him. His fellow refugees from unhappy adolescences in the Deep South or the Midwest openly sneered at the gritty native's slush-pile Queens accent and his roughshod table etiquette. Graduates of elite institutions of higher learningâthe Yale School of Architecture, Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, the Rhode Island School of Designâthey had come to New York with their polished pedigrees, claiming the city as their birthright, reserving a subtle contempt for the sons and daughters of the natives who had built the metropolis with their sweat and blood, preparing Gotham for their arrival. Leo's coarse manners, unremarkable in the son of a labor organizer and a kindergarten teacher, hadn't deterred the Wharton School of Business from conferring a Masters of Business Administration on him or Goldman from offering him an entry-level position or the Lazard brethren from inviting him to join the fraternity after the financial press praised him as the reigning genius of derivatives. His former housemates, who had only voted Leo a share when one of the original number dropped out to take a job in Los Angeles, bitterly resented his galvanic rise in the larger world outside their isolated little bubble. Needing some excuse other than envy to justify their antipathy, they claimed to have never forgiven him for crimes against James, refusing to believe that James had actually been relieved when Alex moved into Leo's bedroom in the Island house, never to return to the one he'd long shared with James, knowing Leo was far better equipped to handle Alex's frequent mood swings and perpetual philandering. The longevity and happiness of their partnership was the proof in the pudding.
“What's the matter, buddy? You look like you've lost your best friend,” Leo asked.
“Oh, please, don't you start too.”
“I won't. I promise you. Now you better get on over there and get in on the action before one of those ugly bitches spoils Alex's carefully laid plans for you.”
“I don't think I'm interested,” James protested.
Archie Duncan (né Dombroski) was handsome enough in that bland, television leading man sort of way, like George Clooney, with that same studied, unthreatening, puckish twinkle.
“I agree,” Leo conceded. “I don't know what all the fuss is about. He laid there like a dead fish when Alex and I had him after the Broadway Cares Christmas benefit last week.”
“You probably said the same thing about me.”
“Don't be rewriting history, baby. I was invited into
your
bed if I remember correctly. I don't think you were ever attracted to me at all.”
your
bed if I remember correctly. I don't think you were ever attracted to me at all.”
“More than you ever knew, Leo. More than you ever knew.”
“I expect you'll find yourself seated next to him at dinner, like it or not.”
As if on cue, Armando entered the front room and, with great flourish and intonations worthy of the Great Bernhardt, announced that dinner was served.
Archie Duncan proved to be a far more charming dinner companion than his resume would have led James to believe. A proudly working class kid from a Polish and Ukrainian neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia, he happily answered a fusillade of questions about what so-and-so and you-know-who was “really” like. Leo, sitting across the table from James, snickered and winked an eye, both of them enjoying the spectacle of a group of intellectually snobbish men, accomplished in the fields of architecture, neurology, museum conservatorship, and textile design, gushing over snippets of petty gossip about starlets and pretty boys.
“What about you, James? Isn't there some Hollywood legend whose deep, dark secrets you're dying to know?” Archie asked, soliciting James's opinion for the first time that evening.
James blushed, feeling slightly undeserving of the attentions of a man who had once had an audience of twenty-six million people a week.
“Uh, I don't know. I can't think of anyone.”
“James is obsessed with Montgomery Clift,” Edward, the neurologist, shouted from the opposite end of the table, competing for his moment in the spotlight.
“Before my time,” Archie said.
“Sissy Spacek. James's favorite movie is
Coal Miner's Daughter,”
Philip, the textile designer, sneered, an inside joke about James's home state that went completely over Archie Duncan's head.
Coal Miner's Daughter,”
Philip, the textile designer, sneered, an inside joke about James's home state that went completely over Archie Duncan's head.
“I'm from West Virginia, not Kentucky, and my favorite movie is
The Miracle Worker
,” James protested, wondering how he'd survived so many summers living in close quarters with these vipers.
The Miracle Worker
,” James protested, wondering how he'd survived so many summers living in close quarters with these vipers.
“The last time I saw Annie Bancroft was at the Golden Globes. She was complaining about her bunions,” Archie confided.
“Ugh,” James sighed, laughing. “You're destroying the illusion.”
The wineâa very, very fine vintageâwas starting to cast its spell on the evening. Voices grew louder, multiple conversations raging at once. James, still queasy after the long afternoon, was sipping his glass slowly and was nowhere near drunk, but the harsh edges were fading, and he found himself imagining himself lying in bed with Archie Duncan and how the handsome actor, another lonely soul starved for an emotional connection, would respond to his solicitous and affectionate touch, the antidote to Alex's and Leo's carnal cravings. Then again, maybe he was drunker than he thought, since he seemed to be slipping into sentimental quicksand.
“Okay, enough everybody,” Alex announced, tapping his crystal wineglass with a dessert spoon, demanding their undivided attention. “I don't want Archie to go running back to Hollywood saying that all we New York fairies could talk about was Mrs. Robinson's feet. Armando, make sure everyone's glasses are full because now we're going to play a game.”
“Oh, come on, Alex. Party games?
The Boys in the Band
was, what, forty years ago?” Thomas protested.
The Boys in the Band
was, what, forty years ago?” Thomas protested.
“The proper dramatic reference would be
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
” Alex sneered. “Here's how you play. Everyone has to tell the story of their worst Christmas ever. Leo, being Jewish, is disqualified, so he's going to be the judge. One rule. No tired old clichés about looking longingly at the Barbie dolls Santa left under the tree for your little sister. Now, who wants to start?”
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
” Alex sneered. “Here's how you play. Everyone has to tell the story of their worst Christmas ever. Leo, being Jewish, is disqualified, so he's going to be the judge. One rule. No tired old clichés about looking longingly at the Barbie dolls Santa left under the tree for your little sister. Now, who wants to start?”
The entire table was in revolt, preferring to gossip with a genuine Hollywood celebrity.
“Since I don't have any volunteers, I am electing Edward to go first. Proceed without further delay, please.”
The neurologist's pathetic tale of witnessing his father back the station wagon over his beloved cocker spaniel Tip on Christmas morning would have been heartbreaking if the doctor, once upon a time a shy country boy from Ohio, could have told a story without sounding like he was reading a pathologist's report.
Felix volunteered to go next, expecting waves of sympathy for the tragic story of losing a fifteen hundred-dollar watch in his mother's garbage disposal trying to unclog the turkey grease in the drain.
“You try finding a plumber in Plano, Texas, willing to do emergency house calls in the middle of Christmas afternoon!” he huffed, after receiving a round of lusty boos for his story.
Thomas's tale of woe involved being stranded in O'Hare for seventy hours, sleeping on the floor and bathing in the sinks, waiting for the blizzard to subside so he could make a connection to Omaha, a story that wasn't even interesting, let alone epic. Archie Duncan had spent one Christmas Eve in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai after an allergic reaction to peanut oil at Melissa Gilbert'sâyes, THAT Melissa Gilbert'sâTaste of Thailand holiday buffet. And Philip, whose catastrophes always involved a boyfriend, had arrived back in New York after a three-day visit to his parents' retirement community in Sarasota to discover his partner had changed the locks to the apartment while he was in Florida.
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