Destiny - a novel - 3. Chapter 3: Thanksgiving Day

Chapter 3: Thanksgiving Day

I feel drawn downstairs by the smell of coffee. It's fresh-brewed and alluring aroma leads me through the living room, through the dining room and into the kitchen. A turkey – still in its plastic wrapper – is sitting on the counter, and Mrs. Shaw is alone. She has her back to me, doing something at the sink, so I clear my throat.

She looks around, hands dripping wet. "Ah, Lincoln! I didn’t know you were there."

"I just arrived."

She starts drying her hands. "Is everything all right with Jack?"

"Yes, fine. He's sleeping now, although most of the night he didn't. Can I have some coffee, please?"

"Of course, dear boy. Sit and I'll get you a cup."

I pull out a kitchen chair and let my tired bones slip into it.

Mrs. S. bustles about, not only pouring two cups of java at the table, but setting the pot down on an oven glove snatched from the door of the stove. The refill is in reach, if I want it.

I pick up the mug, letting some of the warmth transfer to my hands, while Jack's mom brings the sugar and creamer.

"Umm, this is good coffee," I affirm for her with a feeble grin.

Her tone is warm. "I'm glad, Lincoln. I have some of our local Cincinnati specialty coffeecake – the cheese pocket. Do you think you want a piece?"

I crane my neck slightly to peer over at the plate on the counter where Mrs. Shaw is gesturing. I guess I would like to see it first…

As if reading my groggy mind, she half rises from her seat – squeaking the chair legs a bit as she does so – and hauls the plate to the table.

I look down on a square piece of dough the size of a cake pan. It is golden toasty and undecorated, except for the four corners of the pastry that are gathered like a folded handkerchief on top.

"Is it good?" I ask timidly.

As I knew it would, my interest prompts her to go get a knife, two forks and small plates.

She finally settles again, cuts a slice and sets it in front of me. A Danish-like cheese filling is in the center and looks tempting. But, I'd rather concentrate on my caffeine for now. The heat transferring from the rim of my mug into my being is almost able to revive me some.

Mrs. Shaw cuts a thin slice of 'cheese pocket coffeecake' for herself, and picks at it with her fingertips.

I glance up and realize she's been staring at me. I know my eyes must be caked with drowsy slowness. Truth is, I feel blurry.

"Where is your family at today, Lincoln?"

"Today?" I repeat dumbly.

"Yes, Lincoln. For Thanksgiving."

"Oh, yes. Our family is small and based in Berkeley, California."

"Well, I'm glad you're with us this year."

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, Mrs. S. Where is your family from?"

"Right here, in Indian Hill. The kids' grandparents will be around later this evening, after dinner. They are so excited to welcome Jack back, and understandably so."

"So, you never wanted to leave this area?"

"Well, it's not quite that simple. Jack's dad and I settled down after we graduated college, and quickly wound up having Hamish. Sometimes love trumps all other plans."

I drink deep. "Yeah, that one I know about."

"Listen, Lincoln, I'd advise you to go take a nap on the sofa while it's still quiet. And when Jack wakes up later, it's best to help him dress and bring him downstairs. Routine is important. It takes the chemo patients' mind off of their suffering."

"Is there some special chemo food? Should I take something up for him?"

"When he's up for it, and can sit here at the table, I'll make him scrambled eggs with kale. That will be good to boost his iron level, but for now, maybe he can have some Gatorade standing by." A tear almost comes to her eye. "You know how he loves his 'crocodile juice.'"

"Oh, yes. And that's a good idea."

"I'll…" she draws out the consonant sound "…take it up to him – check on him – if you want to take a break for a while."

"Mrs. Shaw, I don’t – "

"This is the first time you have seen the effects of chemotherapy. Are you going to be able to stomach it?"

I'm surprised to feel a hot flush of near-anger wake me up. I don’t want to be mad. "I…"

"Wait. Let me explain myself. I know you are a young man, and you did not ask for this, yet here you are, plunged into the middle of a crisis you didn't even know existed until a few days ago. What's worse, even if you had known, there's just no way to prepare for this – to see a loved one in a state where they are sick as a dog. So, I intended to let you know that I admire you, Lincoln. I admire you a tremendous amount." Her hand inches across the table for mine, moving plate and fork aside with the slight rattle of metal on china. "Truth is, at eighteen, I wouldn't have been so strong, and if it gets to be too much – which it will – I need you to know that I'll be here to support you." I let her touch me; her warm hand encloses the top of mine. "When you need a break – which you will – I'll step in for a while and look after Jack until you can tap back in."

I suppose I have something like an amazed expression on my face, but at the same time, I realize she can't know exactly what it is I'm thinking.

She continues in softer, more reassuring tones: "We're not alone. You and I can help Jack better together than either of us can help him on our own. I'm glad you're here, Lincoln. I really am."

I glance down on Mrs. Shaw's motherly hold on me. I tell her bluntly, "I'm glad I'm here too."

She sighs with relief, then pats my hand a few times before pulling away. "You better go take that nap. You need your rest too."

"I will, but not on the sofa – I'll go sleep by his side – I don’t want him to wake up alone." I pick at my cake. It's gooey and yummy. "Will you rouse me later?"

"Yes, dear. I'll come in a couple of hours and get you up for scrambled eggs and kale. By then the house should be smelling of roast turkey, and you can watch the big game with Christie and Hamish."

"I guess it's all settled then." I push back on my chair, rise and go the doorway. Before I leave, I feel like I have to acknowledge something to her.

"You're a really great mom, Mrs. Shaw. Thank you."

I go before she can say anything else.

˚˚˚˚˚

The plate of food set before Jack goes mostly untouched. Pools of gravy and cranberry sauce make a murky red and brown background for the pale slice of turkey breast in the center.

We sit at the dining room table – with Hamish and Christie on the long side opposite me and Jack – and Mrs. Shaw presides from one end.

The other three eat, and I feel conflicted. On one hand, if my Jack does not feel like it, I should be prepared to join him in his fast. If on the other hand, I'm perceived as being rude to my host, then I should at least do something to show support for her too.

I pick up my fork and use the side of its tines to loosen off a tender piece of turkey. Soaked well in the gravy, it takes the trip to my mouth and I instantly smile. "It's really good, Mrs. Shaw. Thank you."

"Aw, thank you, Lincoln. I do love to make Thanksgiving dinner. It brings back so many memories."

With head signals and a grin I encourage Jack to try a piece, and he reluctantly hoists up his fork.

"How is it, Christie?" Mrs. S. asks conversationally.

"Good, Mom – as always."

"You all right?" Hamish asks his sister with soft concern.

"Yeah, fine, only…I was woken up in the middle of the night."

Jack and me exchange a quick snicker.

Christie goes on a little more clipped in tone. "Yes, funny thing about being asleep and hearing what you think is the familiar, only to discover something else is going on."

"What do you mean, dear?" her mom inquires.

"Sometimes Hamish has nightmares…"

That spilled bit of intelligence stains the older Shaw boy's face with instant red.

"…And I'm in the habit of rushing into his room to wake him up right away. But, what I heard last night was no dream." She casts a telling sneer of intrigue her mother's way, but the older Shaw woman ignores it for more pleasantries, which I guess is only right for a holiday dinner.

Jack's mom restores attention to me, only now there is a playful glow from behind her eyes. "You might not be able to tell it now, but Hamish and Christie used to be inseparable growing up." She laughs, and a quick glimpse confirms that this is the opening of a set of subjects the two siblings across from me would rather stay closed.

Mrs. Shaw continues, turning her sparkling good humor onto her dour pair of eldest. "I remember the Christmas Christie was eight, and Hamish got a wagon that year. All day long, the only passenger allowed was his sister, just 'round and 'round the house. I have the video tape somewhere – "

"MOM!" Hamish cries out. "Let's not threaten anyone with baby pictures, yet. You don’t want massive indigestion, do you..?"

I glance at Jack, and feel myself smile a bit. "Oh, I don’t know, I'd love to see some of Jack's baby pictures."

There is an audible tongue click of disgust from Hamish. I feel myself getting hot anger, but I suppress it.

Christie demands to know out of the blue: "Did you get my brother addicted to drugs?"

Jack speaks up for himself. "I'm not addicted to anything, Christie! Why would you say that, and why would you automatically blame Lincoln if I did have a problem…" he reassures his mother "…which I don't. Neither Linc or me take drugs, Mom."

"Ya see," I try to explain to the assembled without giving too much away. "The house me and Jack stayed at was a drug-free zone. Any boy found holding was asked to step out."

"The house," Hamish sneers, aping me in repetition. "And what exactly was the nature of this house you two were staying at?"

Both Jack and I glance nervously to his mom. I tell them, "It's just a place where we were looked after and safe."

Hamish sets his fork down noisily and defiantly props elbows on Mrs. Shaw's tablecloth. His hands come together right below his chin. "But Jack, you've never told us how you lived out there, without a job, without any hope."

It's clear in my mind at least that Hamish knows the score, and that he's acting this way in an attempt to humiliate Jack before his mom.

Mrs. Shaw tries to change the subject. "I hope, Lincoln, that you've left room for apple pie!"

I joke, watching annoyance build on Hamish's face. "Not pumpkin pie?"

Jack's mom laughs. "Oh! I have one of those too!"

"Mother," Hamish says with ruthless precision. "Jack sold his body when he was in L.A. Both he and this Lincoln person were boy whores for men with cash."

Mrs. S. very calmly rises from her seat, folds her napkin and stares Hamish down. "Both Lincoln and Jack had blood tests at the hospital in L.A. They are 'clean,' which I assume, young man, is why you are mentioning this at all."

Hamish scowls in confusion. "No, I – "

Mrs. S. cuts him off. "The only reason you would bring up such a private matter must be because you are concerned about your brother's health status. Correct?!"

Hamish goes limp and lowers his head. I see him stare at his fingers, fumbling with the napkin in his lap.

Mrs. Shaw inhales a large breath, and my passing look at Christie catches her cheeks radiating out a wave of flushed anger. I guess she doesn't like to see Hamish put in his place.

"Now," Jack's mother intones with forced collectedness. "Since I'm up, can I get anyone something from the kitchen? Jack? More juice?"

"Yes, please."

In her absence, Christie vents low tones straight into my face, "Who the fuck do you think you are – "

Hamish cuts her off. "Faggots. Just disappear, already."

Jack's hand immediately grips my forearm: it's as if his automatic reflexes were the ones receiving the signal from my brain to form a fist and lash out.

"Hamish," Jack says with dignity. "I know you hate me, and it's because of various reasons, but Lincoln never did a thing to you. So, shut up."

Their mother stumbles back into our tense silence to stand there as quietly as a mouse.

Suddenly Christie rises like a wind-up doll. Her fingers lift an outstretched arm with fingers pointing in my face; that angry flush is not only coloring her cheeks now, but also her neck and the piece of her chest that's visible above her V-neck cardigan.

"They had sex, Mother. Last night – it was disgusting – I saw the whole thing. Lincoln was fucking your young son – are you gonna do anything about it?!"

It's clear that Mrs. S. is thrown for a loop; her shock manifests itself as a slight shudder across her frame. But nevertheless, she simply walks behind her youngest son, sets the glass of neon-green 'Gator juice' by Jack's plate, and bends to kiss him on the top of his head. She slowly lifts her eyes to her daughter's. "Christie, dear – are you a virgin?"

Now it's Christie's turn to shudder in stunned shock. "I…I…"

"That's none of my business, is it, darling?"

Hamish pounds the table; the glass and silverware chatter with rage. He launches himself to a standing position, nearly tipping the table in Jack's lap. He rounds the end of it in a huff and stands by Mrs. Shaw.

"Jesus Christ, Mom! That's natural sex – so who cares?! We're talking about homo sex – right here, under your roof! A man who is eighteen-fucking-years-old doing the extra-nasty to your sick, still-a-teenage boy – "

Mrs. S. slaps him, hard. The sound of flesh on flesh reverberates from every corner of the room.

With his hand going to his cheek, his eyes gone wild, and his train of vitriol interrupted, Mrs. Shaw calmly states, "That's enough. Respect is not too much to ask for or to expect from one sibling to another. So, show some."

"Mom…" There is something approaching tears around the edges of Hamish's voice.

She goes on. "In many ways, Hamish, Jack is far more grown up than you. His mettle has been tested – is being tested, so damn it – grow up. If he wants one last possible moment of intimacy with the person he loves, you have no right to look down upon it or judge them. Golden Rule, son – think about it."

Apparently defeated, Hamish slinks back to his seat.

Mrs. Shaw glides back to her place at the head of the table. "Christie, dear. Will you please pass the cranberries to Lincoln? I believe he likes them." Her matter-of-fact glance at her daughter makes the younger Shaw woman sink into her chair and dutifully pass the bright-red compote bowl into my waiting hands.

"Thank you, darling," says Mrs. Shaw.

˚˚˚˚˚

I'm standing face to face with my boy in the Shaw's family room. My fingers go up to latch onto his tie.

I can hardly say I'm full from a meal like that. After watching Jack move food around on his plate listlessly for a while, I lost any semblance of an appetite.

I begin to tug at my boyfriend's fabric neck tab and loosen the heavy-duty Windsor knot his mom put in it. She's also jammed it close up to Jack's throat.

At a certain point during the awkward meal, it was clear that it had de-evolved into a vindictive affair, and Mrs. Shaw used the excuse of looking at her watch to announce that it was time for her kids to go get dressed. "Your grandparents will be here soon."

Jack smiles as I free his neck constriction and pull down the knot somewhat. Next step is to undo his collar button.

Mrs. S. looked almost sick to have to tell me that I should 'do emails' while the older Shaws visited with their grandchildren. I understood, and Jack – always the diplomat – decided to call Dawn and have her come over to keep me company.

Their grandparents must be conservative, for the Shaw boys both reappeared in blazers and ties, and even Christie slipped into a dress, a pumpkin-spice colored number with a lace collar. With her hair done up, she looked like some perfect 19^th century china doll. I guess old-school values honor the appearance of a 'happy family' over the truthful revealing of just what a seething roil this particular American Family is in just under the surface.

Dawn and I sat and chatted and flipped channels while they gathered in the living room for a confab. After about an hour, we heard their mom's voice announce, "Hamish and Christie will sit with us, but Jack, why don't you go and watch some TV. Ok?" I'm sure the older Shaw kids were none too delighted at the prospects of coffee and gossip with the old folks, but they were stuck.

I stood up, and felt happy and relieved to see my lovely boyfriend walking into the room with us. After a brief kiss, I turned him around, and delighted in removing Jack's blazer. I did it from a position behind my boy, and from a position in which my lips and soothing breaths could caress the side of his neck. They did not stay there, but worked their way up, and planted a kiss on his ear, which was delicately pivoted upwards to receive it.

Now, lost in his Bambi-browns, I undo his Windsor knot completely, and pull the tie free. I take his hand and we sit on the sofa, facing the TV.

Dawn looks delighted to see the scene we've just made for her, but becomes distracted by something on the boob tube. "Hey, look at that," she mumbles softly.

A local station is doing a live 'news' shot. The banner text reads: "Outside Jack Shaw's House." The female reporter is bundled up and droning on with one hand pressed up to her headpiece; a microphone is clutched in her mittened free hand. "The police have barricaded The Leukemia Kid's street, and no one is allowed in or out without permission on this frigid Thanksgiving night."

Stock footage rolls. Images flash of Jack walking with his mom, Dawn, and me towards his hospital and daily treatments. The woman's voice over continues: "All our prayers are with Jack Shaw and the entire Shaw family as he fights for his life…"

Jack stirs against my body in an uncomfortable way. This is getting to him. Just as I reach for the remote, the images change again. This time it's a video clip of me supporting Jack as we leave the hospital. He's clearly green at the gills, and it instantly breaks my heart to see him exploited on TV like that. The announcer slips into some cold, salacious tones, saying, "As to who exactly the young man often seen by Jack's side is, remains a matter for speculation..."

I change the channel.

Both Dawn and I are glancing at Jack, but my boy breaks the discomfort with a smile. "IKR,[1] they're wondering how I got so lucky." That earns my sweet boyfriend a kiss from me.

Dawn muses through her chuckle: "Too bad, Jack, you won't have a chance to take him around and flaunt him a little, locally I mean. Cincinnati has a lot to do and see, but you guys will be heading back to Cali soon."

Jack gets a bright idea. "You'll just have to take him on an outing for me, Dawn."

I toss in my two cents, "I don’t want to go, babe, not without you."

"Phew! – Out here, Linc, in snow country we have a little thing called 'cabin fever.' And the only cure is getting out and about."

As I'm about to form a dismissive reply, Jack talks over me and addresses Dawn: "Think of a good place to take him this weekend. I want him to be rested and fully charged."

His best friend snaps out a quick "Consider it done" before I have any chance to protest the decision of my weekend fate. Oh well, so be it; it apparently makes Jack happy, so it will make me happy too.

By way of distraction, I start playing with the remote. "I wonder if there's any good programming on." I go to the 500 series of channels.

Dawn is curious. "What would constitute good programming?"

"A movie, a holiday one for T. Day. Little Women, with Susan Sarandon, Winona Ryder, and Eric Stolz would be ideal."

Jack chimes in: "Eric Stolz used to be SO hot; I love redheads." In his enthusiasm, Jack squeezes my thigh with his open palm.

I suddenly feel selfish. "Do you want to stay up and watch a film, kid? We can go to bed anytime you want."

Jack's response is to stretch out on the sofa and place his head in my lap. He gazes up to me. "If you find a film, I can stay right here. You won't mind if I nod off, will you?"

I stroke his head. "Nope. In fact, it'd make me very content." I have a pang of concern; I gesture. "Dawn, can you..?"

She gets my notion, and grabs the slubby chenille throw from the arm of the sofa near her and unfurls it tenderly over Jack's torso and legs. He snuggles the edge in his hand and rotates on my lap to face forward. I continue to stroke his hair.

"Dawn knows how to work the 'on demand' feature. Let her see if she can find Little Women for you."

I hand it over and try not to smile at the girl like one of her 'dweebs' on Xmas morning.

While she pulls up ordering screens and starts a search, Jack talks about his mom. "She's gonna be up late tonight, packing most of today's meal in freezable portions for Hamish to have home cooking back at Virginia Tech."

I mumble, "He doesn't know what a great mom you guys have. And as for him getting back to college, he can't leave soon enough, if you're asking for my opinion."

Jack chuckles. "Sunday morning will have to do, sexy."

"There you go," Dawn announces proudly, and in another moment the opening sequence of the very movie I had in mind starts playing. I hug my boy's shoulders, allowing some happiness to steal into my body like the warmth from my boyfriend's touch. I may feel a bit guilty about my pleasure, but what really matters is that Jack is safe in my arms.

˚˚˚˚˚

I'm beginning to see some of Mrs. Shaw's traits in my boyfriend, not the least of which is patience under circumstances that require rock-solid perseverance. That dinner was awful – his sibs are awful – those two older Shaw kids sure have a lot to sort out and deal with, preferably with me and Jack far away in California. Now I'm somewhat glad for the oncologist's connections to Stanford University and its medical school.

But, that being what it is, we are still in Ohio for the time being, and my Jack sent me on a mission after we finished our movie to 'make nice'. So, as far as I'll be allowed to, I will do that – for his sake.

I rap on the door to Jack's old basement room, and let myself in. Hamish and Christie are alone; the boy is slumped loose-limbed, sitting backwards on his desk chair, and the girl is sitting with legs folded under her on his bed. She has ditched the pumpkin-spice dress and wears sweat clothes; Hamish is in faded jeans and a white tee-shirt.

"I'm just here," I announce quickly. "Because Jack asked me to retrieve his carry-on suitcase. Do you know where that would be?"

"Duh, dummy – in the closet," Hamish's voice sneers at me.

Christie chortles. "I bet you're familiar with what that means, right – in the closet."

The sibs laugh like dolts. I go and open the bi-fold doors to the storage area and peer through its murky depths for Jack's roller bag. Inside I am clenching down my emotions and know that my boyfriend may have sent me here in an attempt to play diplomat, but all I want to do is get Jack's stuff and exit without any further drama.

In the shadowy depths of the back recesses, I finally spy my boy's Swiss Army carry-on. But, just as I am stretching for it, I hear Hamish ask, "How does it feel to be a pedophile – an underage-boy diddler?"

I latch onto the bag, haul it out with me and turn to face them. Both Hamish and Christie are standing in the center of the room now, confronting me with hostile glares and postures.

I set the bag on top of my shoe, grin and tell them, "He gives as good as he takes, if that's what you're so curious about."

Shockwaves wash over Hamish's face.

"DIS – GUST – TING," Christie staccatos, chirping like a drunk magpie in a coffee can. "No, that's not what he meant at all!"

I stalk straight up to her. "TMI,[2] is that what you mean? Then, I agree with your mother: it's none of your business. So, keep your dirty mind to yourself, and on your own love life."

"You can't talk to my sister like that!" Hamish jeers, grabbing my left shoulder, hard, with a searing handgrip.

I spin around, kicking the bag over, and forming a fist. "Hands off, asshole. I don’t tolerate bullies."

There is a momentary flash of hurt that moves across Hamish's face. I guess he's not used to conceiving of himself as 'a bully' at all. Perhaps in his worldview – with himself firmly rooted in the center of everything else – he sees Hamish as 'heroic.' As brave, and the stalwart defender of his own virtue, and of his sister's too. But for an instant, he's forced to see himself for what he really is, and a bully shown a mirror is a frightening sight.

Hamish's right shoulder pulls back to punch me, but I coldcock him, my knuckles landing square on the bridge of his cheek, and he falls flat on his ass.

Christie screams and drops to her knees by his side.

I scoop up Jack's carry-on and stride to the door.

Hamish calls after me, "This ain't over, pedo. Not by a long shot!"