David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“Go right ahead.”

He went into the kitchen, where the counter was crowded with those casserole dishes from Paulette’s neighbors. He could hear the TV louder from in here-it was coming from down in the basement. The door to the basement stairs was open. A plastic laundry basket heaped with dirty clothes was parked there, which explained the ripe aroma. Mitch nudged the basket aside with his foot and started down the steep wooden stairs.

A lot of people who owned raised ranches made an effort to convert the basement into an extra room. They installed paneling and flooring. Dropped a ceiling to cover the electrical conduits and copper pipes that ran along the joists overhead. Not Paulette and Hank. Theirs was strictly a bare-bones, cement-floored basement. For decor there was a Kenmore washer-dryer and a clothesline with sheets and towels hanging from it. An electric space heater was doing what it could to fight the chill down there, and a towel had been shoved under the door to the garage to keep the draft out. But it was cold in the basement that Casey Zander called home. Also messy. There was a Ping-Pong table heaped with sports magazines and newspapers. A convertible sofa bed, which was open and unmade. Dirty clothes were heaped everywhere. A sprung easy chair was set before the TV in the corner.

Here Paulette’s pale, jiggly son sat in a flannel bathrobe watching last night’s NBA highlights on ESPN and eating a bowl of what appeared to be Cocoa Puffs. At least he had good taste in breakfast cereals. What he didn’t have was good taste in hair. His henna-tinted mop top made him look like a colorized member of The Three Stooges. He still had a bandage on his forehead from his unfortunate encounter yesterday with Kylie Champlain’s Honda Civic. There was a card table next to the TV that had a computer and printer on it. Stacked on the floor next to Casey’s chair were computer printouts of NFL game stats. Team stats, individual player stats. Mitch had never seen so many stats in his life. Many of the pages had been circled or flagged with Post-its.

“You sure are into stats,” Mitch observed. “Are you in a fantasy football league?”

“Fantasy football leagues are for assholes,” Casey replied coldly.

“I’m in a fantasy football league.”

“Gee, there’s a surprise.” He glanced up at Mitch, his surly gaze narrowing. “What do you want?”

“I brought Rut by to visit your mom.”

“No, I mean what do you want from me ?”

“To tell you that I was sorry about Hank.”

“Okay, you told me,” he said, turning back to the TV.

“Also sorry about what happened yesterday on the causeway.”

Casey didn’t respond. Just sat there eating his cereal and watching the succession of slam dunks that passed for highlights.

“This is the part where you say you’re sorry, too, and then we shake hands.”

Casey heaved a sigh of annoyance. “Why don’t you go back upstairs and leave me alone?”

“Your mom’s pretty deep into the Chablis this morning. Is she okay?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“You two are tight, aren’t you?”

“She’s my mom. It’s not like we hang together.”

“Did you hang with Hank?”

He let out a derisive snort. “Hank played the tuba. ”

“Meaning what, he flunked your coolness test?”

“We lived in the same house-period.”

“You also worked together, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t work together. I’m only there on Saturdays or if somebody’s sick or on vacation.”

“Are you hoping to become a full-time carrier?”

“I’m hoping you’ll go back upstairs and leave me the hell alone.”

“Suit yourself. Nice talking to you. Actually, I lied. No, it wasn’t.” Mitch started back toward the stairs.

“Wait a sec,” Casey said, allowing a tiny trace of hopefulness to creep into his voice. “Did Josie give you a message for me?”

“No, she didn’t. But I haven’t spoken to her today.”

“Yeah, you have.”

“So now you’re calling me a liar?”

“I’m betting a million bucks she asked you to tell me something. And that’s why you came down here.”

“Don’t ever bet with real money, Casey. You suck as a gambler.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.” He peered at Mitch with those nonpenetrating eyes of his. “Are you two getting it on?”

“Josie and I are nothing more than friends. I told you that yesterday.”

“I didn’t believe you yesterday. Still don’t.”

“That’s fine. I won’t bother to set you straight. There’s no point, since you’ve already got life all figured out. Hell, you’re sitting here in your mom’s basement watching TV in your jammies and you’re, what, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“When I was twenty-eight I was freelancing for two different magazines, teaching a class at NYU and finishing up my first movie encyclopedia.”

“Goodie for you, asshole.”

“I’m not bragging. I’m just saying that there was so much I wanted to do every single hour of every single day. Isn’t there anything you’d like to do?”

“Yeah, there is. I’d like to sit here without you hassling me. Jesus, you’re as bad as Hank. He was always on me about how I should be applying myself. Like I’d take advice from that clown.”

“You take advice from Josie, don’t you? What does she tell you to do?”

Casey reached for a pack of Marlboros and found it empty. Crumpled it and tossed it aside. “She doesn’t tell me to do anything. She encourages me.”

“To do what?”

He shrugged. “Be more assertive.”

“Is that why you gave her a black eye?”

“That was an accident. And I can’t believe she told you about it.”

“She didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“You did,” Mitch replied. “Just now.”

For a second, Casey looked as if he wanted to tear Mitch’s head off. But he’d already tried that yesterday and ended up with his face frozen to the causeway. So instead he stuck out his chin and said, “I guess you think you’re pretty smart. Trust me, you don’t know shit.”

“I know that you’re in love with Josie.”

“I don’t want to talk about Josie!”

“Then why did you ask me about her?”

Casey said nothing to that. Just sat there in petulant silence.

Mitch glanced back down at the pile of NFL stats next to his chair. “Are you into the Patriots or the Giants?” Since Dorset was situated halfway between Boston and New York, its residents’ team loyalties were divided right down the middle.

“Patriots,” Casey grunted. “The Giants play down to the level of their competition. Hardly ever cover the spread.”

“It sounds like you’re in an office betting pool. Am I right?”

Casey had had enough. He got up out of the sagging chair and took off his robe. He wore an ancient Metallica T-shirt and long johns under it. He dug a Patriots hoodie and a pair of sweatpants out of a rumpled pile of clothing on the floor and put them on. Then he made his way upstairs to the TV room, where Paulette and Rut sat talking quietly. Mitch followed him.

“I’m going out for a while, Mom.”

Paulette frowned at him. “Where to?”

“Got some errands to run. I’m out of smokes, for one thing.”

“Okay, son. Would you mind getting me two packs of Merits?”

“Are you going to give me some money?”

Paulette fetched her wallet from the kitchen table and removed a twenty-dollar bill from it. “Just do me one small favor, will you?”

He rolled his eyes. “What is it?”

“Don’t spend the whole afternoon at the Rustic. I need you here, okay?”