David Gates - Jernigan

“You made that assumption,” I said.

To her credit, she didn’t even nod.

“Call him up,” I said. “Tell him we will be there. Kids too.”

“They won’t want to go,” she said.

“Well fuck that, they’re going,” I said. “Call him up.”

“It’s eleven o’clock at night , Peter.”

“So tell me something else,” I said. “How did this mysterious invitation get issued, exactly?” Now I was getting mean and crazy. “Two of you talk on the phone or what? What do you do, go see him when you’re supposedly at this alleged job of yours?”

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “he sent us a written invite. He believes in using the mail.”

“Just like you,” I said. I meant like m-a-l-e; it didn’t seem to register. “You believe in the same thing,” I said. Shit. “Skip it,” I said.

She wiggled out of her coat and sat back on it. So I guessed it must be warming up in here.

“We make love,” she said, “and then when I wake up you’re gone, and that’s all the contact we have for two days. And then I come home to this. You know, what’s it for , Peter?”

“The holidays,” I said, “can be a very difficult time.”

“What do the holidays have to do with anything?”

“If we can just get through the holidays,” I said. Maybe she thought I was suffering from memories of Judith. I was surprised I still had enough taste not to say so directly. At any rate, something made her decide to get up and pat me on the shoulder. That couldn’t have been easy.

“It’s getting late,” she said. “Are you going to stay up and watch your program?”

“Fool about my program,” I said.

“I think it relaxes you,” she said. Based on what, I couldn’t imagine. “Don’t stay up too late, okay? Maybe you could get back on a better schedule.”

I watched her walk toward the bedroom, getting smaller and smaller. I measured her with my right hand. After seven steps she fit between my thumb and middle finger as they made a C backwards.

3

He’d asked us for six, but Danny and Clarissa fiddle-fucked around until Martha yelled at them through their closed door, and we didn’t roll in until a quarter to seven. Which I told Martha probably didn’t matter because people counted on you to be a little late. (Mr. Reasonable.) That might be true of some people, Martha said, but Tim was “very direct.” So excuse me .

When he opened the door I remembered him: sharp nose and timber wolf grin.

“Tim, you remember Peter,” said Martha, getting both names in there; his for my benefit, mine for his. Was I right to admire such adeptness, or was this just an ordinary social thing?

“Peter, yes.” He stuck out a hand. Full of shit, of course. “You didn’t have the beard,” he said. Okay, so he wasn’t. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “Noel Noel and all that good stuff. Clarissa? How you doin’, sweetie? You look good.” Kiss on the cheek. “And this is Danny?” Handshake. “And as for you —” He spread his arms and Martha came to him. The hug went on until I shut the door behind us, more loudly than I’d expected. It got his face out of her God damn hair at least. “Come on in the living room where it’s warm,” he said. “They’re calling for snow tonight.”

“Right, we heard the news,” said Martha. “Wouldn’t it be great?” Which sure as shit wasn’t the line she’d been taking when we left the house. She’d gone on this rant about how the roads were going to be treacherous and the cops would be stopping drunk drivers.

“Nice,” I said, looking around, though I might as well have kept my mouth shut since he was following up with Martha about how great a snowstorm would be. The outside was this dreary flat-roofed cement-block bunker-style thing. But inside it was all fresh and severe: white walls, stained pine doorframes and baseboards. Stained but stained discreetly: Golden Oak, say, rather than English Walnut. Track lighting along a couple of the exposed rafters, just old two-by-sixes but stained to match the trim. Worn Oriental rug on the gleaming hardwood floor (gleaming too much: polyurethane), Navajo rug on one wall. Red-enamelled woodstove going, stained pine bookshelves with a Bang & Olufsen turntable, all very Svenska-benska. He took our coats into another room, and we stood looking: Danny at that turntable, Martha at the Navajo rug, Clarissa at a white wall apparently. I stared at the coffee table, inside the L of burgundy-colored sectional. Not a table, really, but a giant glass box — big aquarium probably — with chrome-plated metal edges and a thick glass top overlapping a few inches on each side. Inside, for rusticity I supposed, a bale of hay.

“Sit,” he called. Martha and I sat on one side of the right angle of sofa, Danny and Clarissa on the other. This Tim came and stood over us. I stole a glance at the front of his jeans, as if that was going to tell me anything.

“This wasn’t here,” said Martha, pointing at the Navajo rug.

“No?” he said. “Let me think, when did that come into my life?” Even he seemed to lose interest in the question. “Anyhow, who’s for some Christmas cheer?”

“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” I said.

“Sure,” said Martha. “Clarissa? Danny?” The two of them were already whispering together. “You guys are old enough, don’t you think, Peter?”

I just stared at her.

“Good,” said this Tim, showing those timber wolf teeth. “Now. I don’t know if Martha forewarned you, but I don’t buy commercial liquor. What I can offer you is stuff I distill myself, which I guarantee won’t blind you or anything.”

“No need to sell me,” I said. “I’m not mistaken, Martha had some of your stuff around when we first, how you say? Got together. The memory lingers.”

“Well,” she said. “I like that . The booze he remembers.” She gave a laugh to let this Tim know it was all in fun. Boy did I want to get the fuck out of there.

“Good,” he said. “People have been known to freak out a little. Now. I’ve whipped up some eggnog to put it in, or you’re welcome to drink it straight. Or with water. Or I think I’ve got some Diet Coke and maybe tonic.”

“Real eggnog?” said Martha. “From scratch?”

“Cross my heart,” he said.

“Well, I’ve got to try that,” she said. “I’ll probably weigh two tons.”

“Peter?”

“Straight up,” I said. “You know, not to knock your eggnog.”

“Good man,” he said. “One eggnog, one straight up. Clarissa?”

She just looked at him.

“Anything to drink?” he said.

She shook her head.

“This younger generation,” he said. “Danny? You’ll partake, I know.”

“Can I have a Diet Coke?”

“Nothing in it?” he said.

Danny shook his head.

“I get it,” he said. “These are your designated drivers. You sly doggies.” He wagged a finger and trotted off to the kitchen. What an asshole.

We all just sat.

Finally I spoke up. “We’re not being difficile , I hope.”

“Peter,” said Martha. “Don’t push drinks on them. Jesus.”

“It’s the tone,” I said. Out in the kitchen, a refrigerator door opened and shut. Then some electric thing went on for a few seconds. Martha jabbed a thumb over her shoulder and mouthed He can bear us .

“I could give a fuck,” I said out loud.

We all sat there some more.

Then old Timber Wolf Tim came back out with a tray. He set it down on the glass tabletop and handed drinks around. He raised his glass (eggnog) and we raised our glasses back, Danny too. Poor Clarissa just had to sit there.