It's pretty much common knowledge that there's a spectrum of feeling and opinion about Christmas. Towards one end are people who are completely indifferent, and beyond that there are the people who hate it outright...you know, because it's commercial, it's a disgusting excess of everything, and let's not forget it's a crock of shit because everyone talks about the spirit and the love and the blah blah blah but then as soon as the 25th of December is done, they go right back to being self-centred, destructive jerks. Oh, and there's no such thing as miracles.

At the other end...there's me. It's a no-brainer, I suppose, what with all the food and the shopping and the hokey music. Right up my alley, huh? But that doesn't cover all the reasons that I love Christmas, not by a long shot.

It's like this: You turn a corner in December and suddenly you hear people using what are really unpopular words. I'm talking about love, peace, sharing and compassion; these words that normally cause people to scowl and make gagging noises are in vogue for a few weeks. And hey, I'm okay with short-term excess. I like that it's acceptable at Christmas to make strange dishes that never get cooked or eaten the rest of the year, things like chestnut soup, trees made out of oranges, houses made out of candy, jelly rolls made to look like trees...or that bizarre item called Christmas pudding in deference to its British roots, nevermind that for the rest of the year "pudding" will refer to some goo that comes in a plastic cup with a peel- back lid. And then on top of all this you get to absolutely festoon your home with lights, shop to the point of bankruptcy and wear clothing covered in gold and silver sparkles. The whole thing's so totally over the top. It's like people turn gay for a few weeks.

Confession time. These last few years I have begun to edge a bit towards the Grinch end of the Christmas spectrum. I always had someone --- friends, usually — to share the day with, but there was nothing that could soften that moment when I woke up alone in my small apartment on Christmas morning. Because it was just me and I didn't have a lot of space, I usually didn't bother with a full-sized tree; I have one of those apartment-sized table-top trees, and while there would be several parcels underneath it they were mostly gifts that I was giving rather than receiving. I'm not greedy but this did remind me of something about myself that I didn't like to think about. So I would step out into the kitchen, make myself some coffee, spin some Christmas tunes from Dean Martin or Tony Bennet, and contemplate the morning. I was one of those Whos from Whoville, bravely singing even though Christmas had been stolen.

It's true that the magic of Christmas mostly dies when you go from kid to grownup. But it gets absolutely stomped on for all time when you go from being straight to gay and you're Sasha Johansson...son of Walter and Doris, born and raised in Butler Lake, Wisconsin. Population 6,719, last time I checked.

Not that I was ever really straight. No, the only way that word applied to me was in my parents' heads. And one day shortly after I turned nineteen I just smashed that little illusion and now they don't have a son anymore.

C'ιst la vie, right?

Where was I? Oh, yeah...how I've tried hard to be good to Christmas even though Christmas hasn't been good to me for a while now. Last year sucked spectacularly, in fact. I was on the downside of a brief dating period with this guy named Carl, not quite ready to admit that it was time to say goodbye. I spent Christmas Day with him and his family — God, there's twenty-four hours of my life that I'll never get back — and by the end, I knew I had to "return" him, as it were. I did the deed, most appropriately, on Boxing Day, and after a week of moping over the lack of decent, datable guys in Cincinnati, I decided to drop in at Roy's on New Year's Eve.

You see in movies or read in books about a person getting a wake-up call and changing completely but I never really believed in it until that night. It wasn't just a wake-up call for me either; it was more like my eyes were yanked open and pinned with wire hooks, ΰ la Clockwork Orange. I had long suspected that Roy wasn't a nice person, but it was so obvious that night that I felt evil just for admitting to an acquaintance with him, never mind having been his friend.

For a start, when I got to Roy's apartment I was most distressed to discover that Casey was there. He was supposed to be in Herrington; he had not been home for over a year, including last Christmas, and I had accompanied him to the train station this time to make sure he spent the holidays with his own family. But here he was, back in Roy's apartment.

That was depressing enough, but there was something even worse going on: My kitten had crashed. I'm not talking about a nice, relaxing state of unconsciousness; I'm talking he had just run headlong into something bad and hard and it wrecked him. He was a catastrophe. I don't know what Roy had been doing or saying to him, but he basically spent the entire night hiding in Roy's bedroom. He wouldn't come out no matter what I did, and believe me, I tried.

All the while, there was a party happening around him; it was Roy's and my mutual friends, people who were part of Roy's secret, gay life. As you might guess, this was not a lot of people, but Roy had invited the few, and they brought their gay friends, and they brought their gay friends...you get the picture. The whole thing got kind of precious and rowdy at the same time. Back then — I would even say right up until that day — something like this was my idea of a great time. And yet I spent most of the night in Roy's bedroom trying to coax Casey out. Of course Roy didn't give a flying fuck. When I tried to enlist him to help — because Casey would do anything he asked back then — he just shrugged and didn't have much to say. He got very drunk that night too, I remember, and at some point he started going on and on about how he'd been through the most horrible time having to get engaged to Janice and then almost dropping dead from a heart attack when Casey showed up at his parents' house.

Eventually, although not that night, I learned that Casey had come out to his own parents and that it hadn't gone well. Poor kitten...but there's never been much doubt that his parents still love him. Gay or not, they still want him around.

I think I need to explain about my family and Christmas.

It was always a huge deal at our house. There was the usual stuff...the decorating and the baking and the dinner, and there was always a mountain of gifts. That's because I have two sisters and a brother, and we all liked to give each other more than one gift — not to mention the complicated system of reciprocity among our aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. On Christmas morning it would take us two hours or more to get through them all and we would be up to our armpits in wrapping paper.

Of course, booze was a huge part of the holiday, too. Now, I have nothing against enjoying a fine wine or a splash of Bailey's in my coffee on Christmas morning but, compared to my father and his family, I'm nearly a teetotaler. When I was a teenager, though, Christmas Day didn't feel festive to me unless someone cut themselves open with a carving knife, or my dad and one or more uncles ended up swinging fists at each other, slipping and staggering and missing badly out on the snow-blanketed front lawn. It's not that my dad's an alcoholic, mind you, not as I understand the definition. I guess you would say alcohol is just a part of his culture; it could be the culture of the white male working class, or it just could be the culture of the Johanssons...or it just could be him. My oldest memories confirm it; most nights a week he would have a few beers, and sometimes more than a few. It was — and probably still is — his only real entertainment, going to a bar and shooting the breeze with some guys from the garage. It was unfortunate that Christmas gave him and my uncles an excuse to open the floodgates and drink to excess, but hey...'tis the time of year for everyone to get plastered, right?

Anyway, even if every year there would be some kind of unpleasantness, the rest of us just went about our business of stuffing our faces and playing with our toys. Families fight, I understand that. God, do I ever understand that — but there are some things that just can't be forgiven, as it happens. My Uncle Ted regularly stole small-to-medium sums of money from my father — they were partners in the auto-repair business — and my father always managed to brush off those little indiscretions after a shouting match, some fisticuffs and maybe a month or so of the silent treatment. What I have done can never be brushed off or forgiven.

Well, I guess it's too late to make a long story short. Just in case it isn't obvious already, I am no longer welcome in my father's home, for Christmas or for any other circumstance.

Perhaps it's understandable that I was heading towards solitary Grinchiness for a while but now, thank God, I'm on my way back to Whoville. I'm actually looking forward to Christmas this year because, for the first time in eight years, I have a real family and I will be spending it with them. I am going to stay with the Connors over Christmas, as is Zeke — so we will all have Christmas together. I suspect that Christmas has always been of reasonable importance to Casey and his parents but this one is huge. Even two weeks away and from halfway across the country, I can sense Allison revving up to make this Christmas, their first all together in three years, as perfect as possible. I even think Casey is looking forward to it — as much as he is able to look forward to anything these days.

Whenever I think about Roy, I get so mad I could spit bullets. I now have in my possession some very ugly images of what went on between him and Casey in that hotel room back in August but I don't know what to do with them and neither does Zeke. We've talked about this briefly, when we were absolutely certain that Casey wouldn't hear us, but the pathetic truth is that we don't know what to do and so we're falling back on doing nothing for the time being. We don't know exactly how far it went, or what Janice's real level of participation was. Oh, I don't excuse Janice for anything, far from it, but for my money Roy is the one most responsible for what happened. As far as I'm concerned, his villainy far outweighs hers — a point that Casey seems determined to overlook, for some reason. I've watched him put all of his rage and fear on Winona, or any other convenient female, and I know there's a lot more going on in his head than the little bit that he let slip to us on the night of Zeke's birthday party. I keep replaying it in my head and near as I can figure Roy pressured Casey into doing something sexual with Janice but the part where she "rejected" him? I just don't get that.

Well, there's a lot about it that I just don't get. Casey wasn't exactly clear when he told us about it, and I don't dare press him about it. For starters, he doesn't seem to remember that he said anything. Or he does remember and he's decided to pretend that he doesn't. Either way, I feel that he's on the edge of a very scary, very dangerous cliff and right now I'm all about just trying to help him keep his balance so we can enjoy our Christmas. Just a minor miracle, that's all I'm asking.

Don't tell me there aren't miracles. I'm not particularly religious, but I know that sometimes things happen that seem to defy reason. For example, it's pretty miraculous that I haven't acted on my impulse to do Roy some serious harm. I have extremely vivid fantasies about calling him up to give him a piece of my mind...or even better, visiting him and giving him a piece of my fists. I don't think it would be so impractical to take a brief detour when we land in Cincinnati, go to his house and beat the crap out of him. I've never started a fight in my life, but for him I would make an exception. Anyone who thinks I'm not capable of it should try being the swishy teenaged son of a mechanic in small-town Wisconsin.

I'm not stupid, by the way. I know who I'm really mad at. I'll never forgive myself for just standing by the way I did before. I let someone be destroyed right in front of my eyes — or perhaps I'm exaggerating? Sure, I do that, and of course Casey isn't destroyed just yet. What I'm trying to say is I feel terribly responsible. I watched Roy get completely obsessed with Casey, to the point that Casey stopped being a person to him. I think Casey became like a symbol of everything Roy wanted and couldn't have — hell, I dunno, I'm not the abstract thinker that Zeke is, but guess what? I've watched even Zeke with that masterful brain of his getting gradually just as obsessed as Roy. I've watched him lose all perspective. Don't ask me why. My kitten is damn cute, make no mistake, but I really don't know what it is that he does to these guys. I would almost consider having sex with him to find out except that thought is only slightly less abhorrent to me than the idea of having sex with my brother. All I know is, Casey has a way of making people go nuts. I mean, fuck, I'm not in love with him but I do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about him.

Or so I've been told.

It is the Saturday before Casey and I are to leave for Herrington, and Jerry is taking me out for brunch. I am going with a sinking heart.

We have seen each other at work, of course. Every day he asks how I am and how Casey and Zeke are, which is all we have time for because Sojourn is even busier than usual; on any night throughout the year the kitchen exists in a state of barely controlled mayhem but right now, with it being the holiday season, it's absolute chaos. We're lucky — cooks, waiters, bus people, all of us — if we can get five minutes to catch our breath. And during every one of those occasional five minute interludes, Jerry has managed to pull me aside and ask me if he and I can get together...once, twice, three times I refused, not because I don't want to see him but because I feel the need to be at home as much as possible.

Finally after the fourth such request I gave in, on the condition that we limit our outing to two hours. Zeke said it: In any given day, there is already a lot of time when I am not around. What makes it even worse now is that he's in the apartment all day studying, except when he has an exam to write or needs to go up to the roof to pollute his lungs. I thought I heard him mention something about spending his days at the library...but I'm guessing that Casey begged him not to do that. So even though Casey is sleeping with me in my bed, he and Zeke are still in constant and close proximity. The past five days have been relatively uneventful, but I've observed so many complicated, soulful stares passing back and forth between those two that I can take nothing for granted.

The mood around our apartment is best described as "surreal" — but "deceptively peaceful" works just as well. When Casey awoke from his stupour the morning after Zeke's party, I was bracing myself for total meltdown...but it didn't happen. I don't know if it was the drugs or just shock, but for an entire day he was withdrawn, sad, even bewildered — and compliant, too...He ate when he was told to, he did and went where he was told. That was Monday and so he had an appointment with Yves; he went into her office without so much as a tremor or twitch and came back out with the same flat, dulled expression. In fact, he was so much like he was in the early hospital days, I was terrified that I'd done a number on him by feeding him that chemical cocktail the night before. And yet his mind was obviously still working. He remembered things, he responded to direct questions, he was clear about where he was to sleep and what he was not to be allowed. He didn't make a single attempt to wear down Zeke's resolve. He went to bed, and, as far as I know, he slept.

Then he woke me up in the wee hours of the morning with the mother of all panic attacks. I'm not exaggerating here. I was very close to having a fit of my own, even though I knew what this was and that it couldn't kill him. I gave him another one of the precious Xanax, but it must have been too late for it because it didn't seem to work. It got to the point that he was gasping and turning blue and I was losing my mind, afraid to give him another because of all the other drugs in his system.

Just when I was ready to call 911, Zeke came to my rescue. At some point the commotion must have gotten loud enough to wake him; he rushed in with all due urgency and then, in an amazing display of that poise that I so admire, sat down on the bed and calmly put his arms around Casey. He remained calm even as Casey tried to burrow under his skin and I paced back and forth with my finger hovering over the number "nine". When Casey recovered enough to gasp out that he couldn't breathe, Zeke contradicted him with cool, Vulcan logic: "Yes, you can breathe, Case, you're breathing way too much actually." Then he suggested that I find him a paper bag. Great idea, I don't know why I didn't think of that, too bad there were no paper bags in the house. Anyway, it seemed that Zeke had managed, all on his own, to calm Casey enough to give the Xanax a chance. Forty-five minutes later Casey was unconscious; Zeke and I crashed immediately after, the three of us once again sharing my bed.

The next morning Casey was in another mode altogether. It was like he suddenly woke up and thought about what he had done, and he said something to Zeke that makes me ache every time I think about it: "Now tell me I'm not so scary." He was simply horrified at himself, and still is.

For my own part, I can honestly say that I'm not appalled or horrified. Dismayed that he felt driven to that particular act and worried that it will happen again? Absolutely. I'm know I'm not objective, of course, but I also know that my kitten is a kind, sweet, generous person who's just a bit self-centred and mixed-up right now. He can't bear the idea that he hit someone hard enough to make them bleed. All right, yes, he hated her and I didn't like her very much myself — but he knows she didn't deserve that. She didn't do a single thing to provoke it and he's fortunate that she was willing to cut her losses and just walk away.

It would be wonderful if I could trust that something like that won't happen again, that he won't just snap all of a sudden and jump on someone else. I'm not going to judge him the way that he's judging himself, but I will say this: Some of the things he's done lately scare the hell out of me. I still can't believe that he went so far as to make a pass at a complete stranger who just happened to invite him into his car. And believe it or not, my conscience is fine with not telling Zeke about that...as long as it's an isolated incident. The way I see it, that whole episode could have ended very badly; that it didn't is kind of a miracle in its own right, and I hope that he scared himself enough never to try a stunt like that again.

As for him attacking Winona — I keep telling myself that he was under duress. Duress that was totally in his own head and nowhere else, but still duress. I suppose that sooner or later I will insist that he talk about what happened. That's my job, right, making people talk? But for now, I don't want to push him too much. There's a quietness that comes over him at times, a stillness that scares me. I have a strong sense that he's ready to come apart.

And it's not that I don't have faith in him. I do, but it's faith in the real Casey — not the boy who rages and acts considerably less than sane at times. The real Casey has begged repeatedly for forgiveness from both of us for everything that happened. The real Casey takes his Paxil and his Klonopin and goes to his appointments. He has been writing constantly, doing his "homework" for Yves, taking extra long walks — and the plan is that in January we will look into a more structured exercise program. He hasn't asked for a Xanax, although I do seem to catch him frequently looking at me like a Texas rancher eying up a particularly juicy tenderloin.

Yeah, he's desperate to change...and he's just desperate. If you consider the fact that he is currently living with some of his worst fears and is still functioning, I guess he's doing brilliantly. However, he also happens to be a complete mess from morning until night, one moment clingy and helpless and the next just unbelievably difficult. He has no trouble falling asleep these days, but he's wakened me several times sobbing or hyperventilating in his sleep, often both; I'll hold him and pet him until he settles down and I don't believe he has any memory of what he was dreaming. When he's awake he has frequent outbursts of anger and if anyone but me or Zeke comes within five feet of him, he starts getting a bit of a demented look, not too different from the crazy face he wore when he went after Winona. He's not really fit for social interaction of any kind, apart from with those of us who know and understand and can handle it.

What really breaks my heart is the fact that he's in this tailspin even at the same time that he's trying harder than ever. He exists in a state of contradiction; every day he's doing so many things to help himself and yet, all the while, he believes that he is doomed. He acts like he understands the reasons for the one-month prohibition against sex with Zeke, and still he goes south on me on a regular basis; he'll start talking all sorts of nonsense about how Zeke must think this and feel that, how Zeke is punishing him and can't possibly want to be with him after what he did. I'll tell him to just ask Zeke because it seems like the thing to do — but it is painful to watch him seek out Zeke over and over for reassurance while being denied the things that, to him, are actually reassuring.

It's painful in a whole other way to see Zeke trying to give Casey some comfort while constantly checking back with me to see if whatever touching he's doing is okay. Sometimes when I'm watching them, Zeke will get angry with me and start acting rebellious, like he's going to just do whatever he thinks is appropriate. He always stops just short of sexual intimacy but all the while he'll be giving me glares... as if I would try to stop him from stroking or hugging Casey, or giving him an actual kiss. As if I could possibly think there's anything wrong with that.

So this is what I've been reduced to: I am have become an accomplished pest, a person who runs interference and monitors continually for any sign of hanky- panky. It's stupid, because there are still many hours where it's just the two of them and I must simply trust in Zeke's intentions. Which I do. I even trust his will, but the problem with Zeke's will is, it's much too big for its own britches. It took complete mental and physical exhaustion, and then some, for Zeke to admit that his will was beaten — and hey, all it took was a cigarette and a few hours sleep and that will was mighty again, ready to resume being its own worst enemy. As for my kitten...I'm afraid that he can't be trusted to use that one tiny little word that he seems to have so much problem with. Only in the context of sex, of course; the rest of the time he's been fairly mouthy.

Now where am I?

Oh, yes. I'm having brunch with Jerry. He has taken me to Le Paris, a place we've been to a few times. It's a cafι very much in an old Parisian style, where one can get wonderful things like steak tartare, salmon mousse, cheese soufflιe and crθme brulιe any day of the week. They also do wonderful brunches on Saturdays and Sundays, which is why we are here now. This is the first time I've seen Jerry outside work since that terrible night, nearly a week ago now. As far as I'm concerned Casey has to be my priority at all times, so I have decided that I am not going to apologize for asking Jerry to leave that night. He just didn't belong there.

Jerry doesn't say much until we have our juice and coffee. "How's it going?" he begins, and I know he's not just making conversation. He really does care.

"It's okay," I say. "Things are okay."

"Really?"

"Well...no. But we haven't had anymore, um...situations like last time."

"I'm glad to hear it." Jerry drinks some coffee, then says, "Should I ask what Casey was talking about? I mean, with that thing about aliens?"

I don't know why I am surprised. After all, Casey spilled the beans to more than one person within the span of a few days — and it's not really a secret, anyone could look it up so there's no point in denying it. On the other hand, the last thing Casey needs is more interest in the alien story, from anyone. We're still waiting — and dreading — to see what Dr. Yves is going to do with it.

I shrug, trying to be casual. "Probably not."

"I can't believe he lashed out like that. He doesn't...I mean, he isn't usually...like that, is he?"

"No," I grit. "He's not."

"Oh...I mean...good."

I don't know what I should say given that Jerry probably thinks Casey is just a little bit insane. There's not much to be done about it; I trust Jerry not to do or say anything to hurt Casey — intentionally, at least. The problem is, not hurting Casey is a thorny business. It can happen despite your best efforts.

In any case, Jerry is much too distracted by what he is about to say to discuss Casey's hallucinations any further. He blurts out, "Sasha, do you think we should keep seeing each other?"

I guess I knew this was coming. Even at the beginning of our relationship when he asked me to join him for breakfast or dinner or a movie, I said no as often as I said yes. And whenever we do something together, I tend to talk non-stop about Casey and Zeke and their problems. In the past several weeks it's gotten worse; if I am being dumped, I can't blame him and I can't promise that things will be any different, not in the short term.

As my objective at all times in relationships is to behave with integrity, I answer him honestly. "I don't know," I say.

He probably hoped that I would protest immediately and desperately that we had to stay together; when I don't, he looks wretched.

"I'm sorry," I add. "But you know what I'm dealing with right now. It isn't fair to you, I know that...I know you think I'm too wrapped up in Casey's life and I'm sorry, babe, I really am, but this is something I need to do until he's better."

Jerry tilts his head up towards the ceiling and takes a deep breath. Then, lowering his gaze, he replies, "I know if it were my brother or sister, or God forbid, my mom...I would want to take care of them, but Sasha — "

"Zeke and Casey are my family...and it will get better."

He folds his hands and rests them on top of the table. "You're probably going to rip my head off for saying this..."

"Then don't say it," I hiss.

His voice drops to a near whisper. "I care about Casey too, Sasha, and up until a couple of weeks ago I would have agreed with you completely but now I'm not so sure."

"That's a funny way of showing how you care."

"What, so I'm supposed to just believe that everything's going to be okay? I mean...at first I thought he was just depressed or something like that but I'm afraid he really needs serious help."

"He has serious help. He has a lot of serious help, thank you very much. What do you think, that Zeke and I have been trying to cure him with hugs and chocolate?" Oh, I am furious. Jerry doesn't know Casey. He doesn't know his strength, his intelligence and determination. If I were Casey, I would probably have retreated to an asylum a long time ago.

I am just about to explain to Jerry that he is an ignorant boob when he speaks again. "I'm sorry," he sighs. "I know I'm out of line."

"Yes. You are."

"I didn't want to talk about Casey...because he's not the real issue."

"Oh yeah? What is, then?"

Jerry cracks a smile but it is brittle and falls apart quickly on him. "You don't love me. I love you but you don't love me.

In a word...shit. Just...shit. His painful honesty gets me not-angry in a hurry. I feel obligated to try to say something to help his self-esteem. "I do love you," sounds pretty good.

"But you're not in love with me."

And for some reason, I am outraged all over again. I open my mouth with absolutely no idea of what I'm going to say, but he cuts me off.

"I'm not making demands. It's probably not even fair of me to expect more. You said it yourself. Zeke and Casey are your family, I'm not...and that's okay, they need you, and...maybe I'd rather believe you don't have anything to give to me right now, than you just don't feel that way about me."

He stops talking and I know that I am now expected to say something meaningful. After an awkward silence, I ask, "What...what do you want to do?" And in the next moment I can't believe I have said something so completely passive and cowardly. He has asked me outright if we should continue to see each other and I put the question back in his lap. Just splendid.

So it's up to Jerry to be decisive now, and he is. He lays it out for me: "I think I'd rather end this now and just be hurt as opposed to wait and be much more hurt later."

I am overcome with an urge to plead for another chance, to say that we should think about this for a while before making a final decision. Instead, I am noble. I stammer, "I guess...that's fair to you." Then the impulse to apologize is overwhelming and I surrender to it. "I'm sorry."

Jerry shrugged. "No hard feelings, right? We gave it a whirl."

After this, our meal is a painful exercise. At the end we simply hug and part ways, promising to exchange at some point the Christmas gifts we have already bought each other. This won't be a problem, since we will still see each other almost every day.

I go home, determined to act casual. When I get there I discover that Casey has not had a thing to eat yet today; I have to bite down on the urge to yell both at him and Zeke, but on the other hand, snapping into the mode of care giver gives me something else to focus on other than the fact that I have broken up with my boyfriend. I can put all my energies into figuring out what Casey is willing to eat and making him eat it...rather than thinking about the fact that I never seem able to stay in a romantic relationship for more than a few months.

Later, I go to work and when I see Jerry it has a kind of comfort to it, the comfort of two friendly co-workers who did not part on bad terms...or maybe like we never broke up all except that I know that I am never having sex with him again.

I do my shift and head home.

Zeke is burning the midnight oil again. I go to his door, pushing it open with a tiny creak. He is alone, sitting propped up on his bed with books and notes strewn around him and he appears exhausted. And unhappy. He has been a pretty desperate character himself this week. He has been growling at me a lot, which is okay, but he's also growling at Casey and that is absolutely unacceptable.

"Everything okay?" I whisper.

"Fine," Zeke says, predictably, then winces and adds, "Except I tried to book a flight to Herrington for the nineteenth but I couldn't get one until the twenty-first."

"I told you should have done it earlier."

"You could skip the 'I told you so', Sasha."

"No, I can't. It's necessary to my self esteem." Our nightly exchange of wit now concluded, I ask, "What did he think about it?"

Zeke's face lengthens and flattens. I now recognize this as Zeke feeling exceptionally sad. "I don't know. He went in your room and shut the door. I think he's crashed."

"Hmm...and did you do the Los Angeles piece too?"

"Yeah. It's all worked out, we have a connecting flight from Cincinnati on the twenty-eighth."

I want to ask Zeke if he and Casey really and truly discussed this, or if it was just a given that Casey would accompany him. Because I have an opinion about it that is only just starting to solidify. It's a real humdinger of a problem, this L.A. trip. Initially I was convinced that there was no other real option but for Casey to go. Now...I'm having other thoughts about it. The last thing that Casey needs right now is to be alone with Zeke among strangers in a strange city, and especially when I'm not around to run interference. Plus, there will undoubtedly be times when Zeke has to leave Casey on his own, and that scares the crap out of me.

"What?" Zeke says, when I have been quiet for too long.

"Well...I'm a bit worried about him going to L.A."

Instead of getting angry right away, Zeke just looks weary. "It's a done deal, Sasha. The ticket is booked.

"We could change it if need be — "

His voice hardens. "He's coming with me and that's it."

"Think of what's best for him, Zeke — "

"I am!" he almost shouts. I make a frantic gesture with my hands and he lowers his volume to a hiss. "You know what it'll do to him if he gets left behind."

"Yeah," I admit, wishing futilely that there was an actual solution to this problem. I may believe that Casey staying home with me is the lesser of the two evils, but I don't actually know what the right decision is. It seems that Casey has already made a decision, though, and I must respect that.

Of course, if the opportunity to help him change his mind should arise, I will use it.

I am rather weary myself, a lot more than I can normally except after completing a shift. I urge Zeke to put away his books and sleep, then head to bed myself. Zeke was correct — Casey is sleeping soundly, for now anyway. It seems that the Klonopin is really helping him get rested if nothing else. I accompanied him to his follow-up appointment with Dr. Chakri on Wednesday and personally witnessed him admit to feeling a bit "less anxious" but I can't say that I've seen any miraculous results as yet...unless the Klonopin is the only thing keeping him from having a total meltdown over his general situation, in which case I love it and I think it is a drug for the ages.

When I get into bed Casey rolls over and murmurs something to me, just making sure that I am me and not some monster from outer space...or a monster from planet earth whose name is Roy, perhaps? I whisper my usual words of reassurance and within a few minutes he is still and quiet again.

When I am sure that he is sleeping, I have a nice, healthy cry.

The Seattle Airport is a busy place, busier than I would have expected since it's still only the 15th of December. Casey and I are sitting at our gate, waiting amidst many other travellers...men and women in business attire, families, obvious student types who have been lucky enough to get a better exam schedule than Zeke. Casey has chosen a seat away from the high density areas of the lounge but — well, like I say, it's busy and he's trying to keep an eye on every person within twenty feet of him. His entire body is vibrating.

"Kitten," I plead.

He immediately tries to stop the jittering — and Jerry says he isn't improving? There was a time when he wouldn't have responded because he would have already gone catatonic to escape from this scenario. And he sure as hell wouldn't have turned to me and snapped, as he does now, "What?"

His eyes are red. I'll forgive him for being testy. He is, after all, staring right in the face of an entire week without Zeke. I know that he saw Dr. Yves yesterday; he has reported to me that she wants him to consider this a positive learning experience. Whether or it will be or not I don't know, but I do know that Casey and Zeke could use a break from each other. Casey needs to focus for a while on not being a sex object. And Zeke — Zeke just needs some alone time.

No one has said it, but if it turns out that Casey is not going to Los Angeles they could use a practice run at being apart for a while. The three of us are still talking like Casey is going, but I am, in my heart of hearts, extremely doubtful. He needs stability and routine, not to mention having Dr. Yves and Dr. Chakri nearby. Even if every day in Los Angeles were one of Casey's good days, it would still be an incredibly difficult trip. And since Casey's good times are currently being measured in minutes or, at best, hours, it really would be the best thing for both him and Zeke if he didn't go.

Of course, getting them to agree with me on that point is another thing altogether. Even though he presented it as his idea, Zeke was really reluctant to put his stamp on this one-week trial separation until I volunteered to go to Herrington with Casey. I had to go to my boss, Oliver, and beg him for two weeks off — without pay, of course. I was terrified that he was going to invite me to resign, so I opened the floodgates and told him that a friend was very ill and needed me and to my relief Oliver said he understood, even though I'd be missing some of the busiest times of the year. He told me not to worry, he'd had a request from a local community college to place some culinary arts students with him so he could take them on for a month as his good deed for the year — but not to worry, I will be missed and my spot is secure. I am aware that I am very lucky to still have a job. The restaurant business is, as a rule, not a nice place to work. You have to fight your way up through the ranks of the line cooks and if you survive long enough to become a chef — assuming that you actually would want such a soul-destroying job — you end up a tough, scaly creature, covered in the scars of your trade and with a heart of leather to match. Somehow Oliver has risen to the top of his profession and kept his humanity and I'm profoundly grateful for it.

I have to say, I think that even the most shrivelled, soulless being would have been moved by the goodbye between Casey and Zeke this morning. God, I love these two. I'll never need to resort to watching old movies to get a fix of cheese; I have them. It's probably common knowledge that I am a suck and a romantic, but watching them part this morning was...divinely poignant. They have managed to keep their distance from each other, more or less, for two weeks but when it was time for Casey and I to catch a cab to the airport — well, they just fell off the wagon and into a dramatic, highly charged kiss. You'd have thought they were saying goodbye for the rest of their lives rather than just a week.

I didn't have the heart to break it up. As far as I'm concerned either they are meant for each other — if not meant to destroy each other. They are both incredibly gorgeous outside and totally geeky inside, although in slightly different ways. Both look like regular young men just entering full adulthood, but they are completely abnormal. Both are a couple of socially peculiar eggheads; sometimes they make me feel like an ignorant rube with those big, precocious brains they have. I know I'm no idiot but I'm just a cook, for Christ's sake.

"You okay?" I ask Casey now as we wait for a plane to take Casey a thousand miles away from safety.

He makes a noise that I have come to identify as a bitter laugh; then he lifts a hand and puts it against his mouth to hold it back. That hand is trembling too. "It's not too late," he whispers through his fingers. "We could go home and wait until Zeke's exams are done...just a few days...Mom and Dad won't mind."

"I think they would mind very much, kitten. For one thing, they probably couldn't get the tickets refunded at this point." I know this will have some impact because Casey knows how his father is about money and fears earning his fiscal disapproval. "And they miss you. They're totally excited to have you home early."

His knee has started bouncing again. I can see him thinking furiously, then he fumbles in his coat pocket and removes a folded up piece of paper. He opens it, reads through it and sighs. I can't help but glance over. It is a numbered list, titled Evidence that Zeke Is Not Going To Leave Me.

Casey sees me looking and holds the paper against his chest. "Yves and me, we did this t-together...yesterday. She s-said I should read it when I...I need to."

"Is this what you and Yves have been talking about?" I ask, seeing my opportunity. This is something that Zeke and I have been fretting about. We're afraid that Casey's new mood of disclosure will inspire him to spill the beans about his unprovoked attack on Winona. As much as I am a fan of disclosure, in this instance I agree with Zeke. I want Casey to trust his shrink and work with her but at the same time I'm terrified too. The way he's been behaving, I'll have a hard time arguing with her if she decides that Casey is tortured and dangerous as opposed to just tortured.

I think that perhaps Casey's been asked this question one too many times; he gives me a glare. "She doesn't know what to do with the — the alien thing but she thought we should focus on practical things to get me through the holidays."

"Oh...well, that's good. Anything I can help with?"

The glare softens. "Just...keep doing what you're doing."

"Which is?"

"You know --- taking care of me."

"I could do better," I say, and I know the truth of it all too well.

"No," he contradicts. "No, Sasha."

"Oh, come on, I haven't been up to snuff."

"You're awesome," he murmurs.

This little statement gets to me big time. I swallow several times and glue my eyes on some mundane signage on the wall, abandoning myself to the wonderful world of numbered gates and terminals. After a few seconds I feel under control, enough that I can turn back and jerk my head towards Casey's paper. "May I look?"

"Why?"

"I'm nosy."

He actually cracks a tiny smile. "No, really?" He hesitates, than offers the paper to me. I scan it without a word. There are fourteen points. When Casey applies himself to an assignment, he always aims for an A-plus.

1. He told me he wouldn't leave me. Repeatedly.

2. He hasn't left me even though I told Yves about the aliens.

3. He still wants to have sex with me all the time.

4. He is very protective and he can't protect me if he's not around.

5. He hates to fail at anything.

6. He's put up with a lot of shit from me.

7. He changed his sexual orientation for me.

8. He's coming to Herrington to stay with me and my parents for Christmas. (I've seen the plane ticket). He doesn't even like Herrington. He doesn't like my parents.

9. He has told me he loves me.

10. He thinks I'm funny. He likes to be with me.

11. He impersonated Jimmy Stewart for me.

12. He's willing to hold my hand in public. He never used to do that with anyone.

13. He acts very jealous about me.

14. He's not friends with Winona anymore.

"He impersonated Jimmy Stewart?" I say. "When did he do that?"

"Um..." Casey gets a little flushed. "Just this...one time..."

"What did he do? Like, what line from what movie?"

Casey squirms. "Something from the Philadelphia Story."

I suppose it's something very private — but I want to know, dammit! It sounds pretty fucking romantic and I want the details. However, the rules of general social politeness require that I relent. "This is pretty convincing stuff," I remark, gesturing with the paper I am holding. I see that Casey is still wracked with tremors. "Isn't it helpful?"

"No...none of it proves anything."

I open my mouth to argue but at the same moment I realize that he's right. Knowing that your lover won't leave you is a question of faith, pure and simple, and my kitten doesn't have faith in anything except all the negative ideas that he believes about himself.

"Wh-what do you th-think Zeke — Zeke's doing?" he chatters.

"Buried in his books, I'm sure."

"H-he might go to the library."

"I doubt it, kitten, but so what if he did?"

So much for the list. Casey bites his lip; I can see where he's going and it's not a good place. "He might s-see her...or she might phone him..."

Uh-oh. During the past two weeks whenever the subject of her came up, it was usually a sign that Scary Casey was about to make an appearance. And just for the record, Scary Casey doesn't scare me, not in the sense that I worry for my safety or anything. I do worry about his safety, about what he might do to himself. I can't stop thinking about what he did the last time he thought Zeke had betrayed him — driven by all that anger that he usually keeps tamped down in a tiny little box inside, he ended up running around on the streets looking for a stranger to use him. Perhaps if Zeke knew about that incident, he would realize just how mixed- up Casey is when it comes to sex, and he wouldn't feel the need to challenge me quite so much.

"What exactly do you think would happen?" I'm trying to be hyper-rational now, not that it ever works on Casey when he's like this. I know I come off pretty calm — but you can be sure that inside I am shaking, dreading that this will be the day that I fail to talk him down from his ledge.

"She'll...come over...she knows — where we live."

I can't help myself; I put an arm around him and hug him close, and don't give a damn what people think. The way I see it, touching him helps far more than any words of mine possibly could. Zeke's the one with the mega-vocabularly, after all, and even while I'll happily talk up one side of an issue and down the other, I know that there are times when it's really quite pointless. Like now. Right now, I just use my hands and my body to soothe him until he is steady enough to listen to some words.

"She's not going to come," I say then, "because Zeke isn't friends with her anymore, remember?"

"Yeah," he says, completely unconvinced.

I don't add that she probably wouldn't risk coming to our apartment since the last time she'd shown her face there he'd put a fist in it.

"Sasha...I don't want to go."

He sounds like he is being punished and I can't stand it. This voice is something he's been saving and hiding somewhere so he can pull it out and stab me through the heart right when it really counts. I must remind myself that I am not easily manipulated. I am all about the tough love.

"Well, then, you call up your parents and tell them you're not coming," I reply. I am not mean, just matter-of fact. I've developed this tone that I use at such moments. I like to think that it strikes the right balance between no-nonsense and gentle concern.

Fuck. I think his lip is actually sticking out. It's quivering too.

"Okay," I backpedal. Tough love sounds all well and good when you see it on the TV movie of the week, but it's another story when you're staring into the face of the person whom you're trying not to enable. "Why don't you call Zeke and see what he's up to?"

This makes the lip retract, at least. I notice that he carefully scans the lounge, checking on whoever might be within tentacle's reach before he pulls out his cell phone. I wonder if Yves has suggested any other strategies for dealing with these episodes. Or maybe calling Zeke is just such a strategy. I really wish I knew what Casey is saying to her...He must have told her that he and Zeke are on a strict no-sex diet, surely...but I'll just bet he hasn't told her about the incident with Janice and I wish that I could just march into Yves' office and tell her...oh, and Dr. Yves, he really shouldn't go to Los Angeles, it's a mistake, I know it is...

God, I need to stop. We're about to get on a plane and go to Ohio for the holidays. That is more than enough for us to handle at this moment. Everything else can wait, at least until I have finished eavesdropping on the conversation with Zeke.

"Hi..it's Casey...yeah...yeah...in the lounge...yeah, he's here...right next to me..."

That would be Zeke making sure I haven't abandoned my post. That boy will someday be the director of a multinational corporation, or maybe he'll just be a general. He has the mind and the personality for it...that is, if he doesn't have a heart attack first.

"Zeke...I wish I wasn't going...I know...me too..uh-huh...uh-huh..." Casey's voice drops to a whisper. "There's this lady, she doesn't look right...just not right...I can't explain it but she..."

A long pause.

"Okay," Casey says to whatever Zeke is going on about. "S-see you in a few days." He hangs up with a long sigh and settles in to keep a careful watch for any signs of danger. What those signs would look like, I'm not entirely certain.

For the record, I don't believe in aliens. I don't not believe in them either, but that's neither here nor there to Casey. If he asks, which he has, I have to be honest and say that I really have a hard time accepting that the war of the worlds was fought in Herrington, Ohio, without any knowledge or participation from everywhere else. But I've always thought it was possible — unlike Roy, who sat me down soon after he met Casey and told me that this somewhat peculiar boy was not merely peculiar but actually crazy.

"He's harmless, though," Roy added, way back when, and I still believe that. Even after everything that's happened, I don't think Casey's all that dangerous to others. The thing with Winona was a terrible situation that ended badly; Zeke and I are determined to prevent it from happening again. Still, as much as I do worry about Casey's outbursts, my greatest fears these days are about what happens when there is no outburst, when he directs that violence inwards. Because that's what he usually does.

I have brought the four remaining Xanax in their lonely, spacious container. I was thinking that they might be needed on the plane but Casey seems okay with planes as long as he has the window seat and me on his other side. I guess he figures he's going to buy it in an alien invasion long before he can go down in a fiery crash. Or perhaps he doesn't care because Zeke has been lost and it's all over.

When we get to Cincinnati in the early afternoon, the whole excursion becomes a new sort of challenge; rather than having Casey take the train as in previous years, his father has driven up from Herrington to get him, perhaps thinking to spare him those hours on the train, in close quarters with strangers. It is a nice thought but personally I would so much rather take the train. Apparently Allison couldn't get the time off today, so we three will be trapped together in Frank's big boat of a car for two hundred miles. In no hurry to start that ordeal, I insist on a decent lunch first, in a deli that we find near the airport.

Also for the record, I do not enjoy groveling endlessly with Casey to get him to eat. I don't make a practice of counting how many bites he actually takes, although I happen to know that today he takes twenty-two --- thirteen of his sandwich and nine of his soup. Basically, he is eating the entire lunch and I have to give him credit for his good behaviour lately. Perhaps that has something to do with the fact that I have given up trying to be creative with what he eats. I now feed him sandwiches for the most part...tuna fish, peanut butter...cheese. He doesn't seem to mind oatmeal, thank heaven, and I have invented a nice marinated vegetable salad that he eats by the bowlful.

Frank Connor watches us do our meal routine without comment but I know that he's thinking all sorts of unbalanced and prejudicial things. I am not comfortable with this man, although Casey has given him the high compliment of being happy to see him. I know the man loves his son, but — oh, well, I too, have my issues. All too soon there is nothing left to do but get in the car and go. Dreading that Casey is in one of his mute moods and that we will therefore spend the entire trip in an excruciating silence, I send a silent plea to him to participate in whatever conversation might arise.

As soon as we are on the highway, Frank brings up a question he has evidently been dying to ask. "So, Casey...what do you think about school next semester?"

I withdraw my plea. My kitten does not need this right now...but he valiantly answers, "Um...actually, I have s-something to tell you, Dad."

"What's that?" Frank says, like he's expecting the worst.

"I — I ..." Casey trails off.

Frank waits, then prompts, "Yes, what?"

"I do...I think I'd like to t-take a...a course, in January."

Frank is obviously disappointed. "Just one course?"

"My...Dr. Yves thought it would be a good idea to start part-time."

"Oh..." The silence speaks eloquently of a tug of war going on between Frank's impatience to see his son resume his life and his genuine desire not to pressure him. "I can see...you wouldn't want to rush anything."

"And, Dad..."

"Yeah?"

"I've...um...I've decided to change my major."

Just hearing those words has me cheering silently. Not so much because Casey is asserting something, although that is wonderful, but because he is actually talking about the future. I know I shouldn't make too much of this because it doesn't mean we're in the clear...but it's gotta be a positive sign.

"Change your major," Frank echoes, like his brain is having trouble ingesting those words.

"Y-yeah," Casey falters.

Go, I urge, Go on, tell him.

"But change it to what?"

"...film."

"Film?" Frank says, making three syllables of one little word. I'll bet he didn't even know that film was an area for study. "As in watching movies?"

"N-no, Dad, not like...you s-study film as an...an art form."

Ah, the dreaded word — art. Need I mention that I was, in my teen years, quite artsy? I wouldn't say "artistic" because I don't think I had much ability, but I sure as hell had a sense of style. I took all the art courses in high school — in addition to shop, which was not optional for me — and repeatedly endured my father's scorn of anything having to do with the aesthetic. Even ten years later, just hearing Casey use the word "art" in his father's presence gets me vicariously tense.

"But what can you do with it? What kind of job will it get you?"

This is a fair if predictable question. I wonder how much time Casey and Yves spent rehearsing this conversation, because the next bit sounds like it was rehearsed. "I don't know...b-but...but physics won't get me a job, Dad, because.. I...I'm sorry but I just don't want to be a scientist."

Frank's next argument surprises me: "But you're so good at it, Casey."

The next pause stretches a considerable length, and I suspect that Casey is tongue-tied. I decide it's time for me to be my busy-body self. I put in, "You should see how serious he is about it, Frank. He watches everything, even silent films. He reads books about them." That is a slight fib. I know that Casey used to — what he's read lately, I don't know. "And he has a wonderful eye. You should see some of the black and whites he took a little while ago."

"Hmm," was all that Frank had to say.

"Dad?" Casey said softly. "You want me to...to be happy, right? I mean...not do something just because it pays...even if I don't like it?"

"I thought you liked science."

"I did...I d-do..."

He is losing ground. I almost have to clap my hands over my mouth to keep from interfering any further. This is his battle, after all; I can't fight it for him.

Frank sighs, "I don't know...we'll see what your mother has to say."

Then, just as I had feared, silence falls. I don't suppose it will help if I inform Frank that Casey will do this with or without him because Zeke is prepared to completely foot the bill. I wrack my brain for things to say and come up with nothing. Normally I can rattle nonsense for hours if I need to, but I feel terribly self-conscious right now. I fall back on pretending to be extremely interested in the view out my window, as though it is so compelling that I don't even notice the absence of conversation.

Only one hundred and eighty miles to go.

When we finally arrive at the Connors' I have a headache and a sore back. I am thinking, with longing, of a nap. However, the very first issue to be settled is where Casey and I are to sleep. We have more or less decided that I should share with him if possible. However, Frank announces the moment we get in the door that Casey's old room is all ready for him. I know for a fact that there is no room for me in this equation; Frank is obviously concerned that we all practice celibacy under his roof. Now, I am perfectly content to let Frank believe that we are respecting his prohibition against Zeke and Casey sharing a bed — but I don't think any of us wants the parents to realize that not only are they not sleeping together while they are here, they actually aren't sleeping together. I, for one, do not see myself explaining the reasons for this to Frank and Allison.

Casey glances anxiously at me and stammers out something to his father about how he and I are bunking in together. The expression on Frank's face is something I will cherish for the rest of my days. If only I could let him suffer a bit longer...but I can't, because this whole business is making Casey edgy.

"It's just to help Casey sleep," I add. Hmm. That didn't come out right. "I mean...he sleeps better if someone else is there."

Frank looks disbelieving, and I can't blame him. He turns to Casey for confirmation; Casey immediately puts The Eyes to work. "I...I get bad dreams sometimes, Dad."

Very shortly, Casey and I have been designated the extra room, which has a double bed. The rest of the time this must be the laundry sorting room. There is an ironing board and an enormous mound of clothes that may or may not be clean; Frank scurries to put the board and the iron away and removes the clothing in two huge arm loads while I find a place for my suitcase that is out of the way. Returning, Frank stands awkwardly in the doorway. I look up and see that he is frowning; I follow his gaze to his son.

Casey has just left his own suitcase on the floor and slumped down on the bed. To say that he doesn't look good would be a compliment.

The thing is, I was waiting for Casey to flip out when we left the apartment. I expected him to flip out at the airport, on the airplane, in the coffee shop where we ate lunch. The car was more or less neutral ground but I held off relaxing my vigilance until we got to the Connors' house, assuming that once we were here everything would be fine and I could allow myself to appreciate how worn down I actually feel. So I'm not quite prepared for the way Casey looks now. My kitten certain has worn many shades of pale since I first met him, but this one beats them all.

I blurt, "Oh, God, what?"

Casey shakes his head, strained eyes pleading for me to understand. Somehow, I grasp that he doesn't want to tell me in front of his father.

I request, as politely as I know how, "Frank, I'm sorry...excuse us for a second, please?"

"Er...okay," he says, not liking it of course. He steps back and closes the door softly.

I go to Casey and sit down beside him. I take his hand and ask, "What is it?"

He shakes his head again.

"Come on, tell me...please, kitten."

"I..."

"Yes?"

"Can I have a Xanax?"

"Kitten... I don't know."

"Please, Sasha."

He is begging me, and I hate it. "Why now, kitten? You've already gone so far and done so much today — and now you're home."

"I — I don't know — don't know where I am."

Now, this kind of stuff scares the shit out of me, in case anyone was wondering. I think I'm good at hiding it, though. "What do you mean you don't know where you are?" I ask. Again with the firm but gentle voice. "This is where you grew up, right...there shouldn't be anyplace more familiar."

"It doesn't feel right...this isn't my room...Zeke's not here..." He is near tears again, vibrating again, breathing fast and shallow again. There seems to be no end to it. "...and — and — he's so far — I don't know what he's doing — if he's — "

"Kitten. Zeke is at home studying...there's nothing to be scared of...you know, I'll bet this is happening mostly because you're tired, what with the stress of travelling and everything. I'm tired, too."

In return for this expression of solicitude, I get a testy look. He retracts his hand and mutters, "I'm not a child."

"I know that," I answer, seeking the wellspring of patience inside me, the source that I draw on so that these moments just roll off my back. "And I know that you know that it's safe here. You're strong, Casey, much stronger than you want to believe."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth."

"That's...like something Dr. Yves...would say."

"I consider that a high compliment."

"She's always...going on about how I...I know who I c-can trust and who's safe...that I act like I know..."

"Oh...you mean, kind of like how you didn't want to hurt your dad just now?"

Casey eyes go wet and glassy. "Sasha..."

"I have a point, don't I? If you really didn't know where you were, if this house was really a strange place and he was a stranger...Would you have considered your father's feelings?"

Casey is quiet for a moment and I think he is about to tell me to shut up and butt out. But he doesn't. He breathes in that scary, unwholesome way for a bit, then he says angrily, "You want to know what I'm really thinking?"

From his tone, I suspect it's something I don't want to hear but I say bravely, "Yes, tell me."

"That — that you and Zeke have it all fixed — you want to leave me here."

My mouth drops open. "What?"

"I know you're always talking about me when I'm asleep. You have it all planned...he doesn't want me anymore, why would he after what I did, and since you're both tired and fed up, I might as well stay here — "

I put a hand firmly but gently over his mouth. "All right, that's enough of that."

He jerks back from me. "You asked."

"Yeah, I asked...and you're talking nonsense."

He hugs himself, shivering and glaring at the same time. "Why do you have to be like her?"

"Casey...you've lost me, okay?"

"Don't try to make me reasonable, that's what she always does. And — and Zeke. Don't you — be like that too — be like that when I have this in me and I'm drowning in it, don't just stand off on the side and tell me to get busy swimming!"

His fists and his face are clenched with anger, and something worse, something that is willing to do whatever it must to rescue itself. Scary Casey is making an appearance and I am conscious that I am much more interested in controlling him than comforting him now. Maybe it isn't the best strategy, but I respond to his anger with a raised voice. "So what should I do, Casey? Just hold you while you go under?"

I do not often yell. He flinches, the anger on his face breaking apart and dissolving quicky, making way for sorrow.

"Then what do you want me to do?" I ask, more gently.

His shoulders are slumped. "Dunno."

He sounds defeated, and that scares me more than anything else I've heard thus far. He gets that way now and then — a few minutes, hours, and I don't know what to do. He isn't even trembling right now. He is just...still. So very still, and I know it isn't a good thing. At least when he's scared there's a part of him still fighting.

We hear the door opening and closing downstairs. There is a murmur of two very familiar, parental voices. Then Allison calls up the stairs, "Honey? Casey?"

I smooth my hand over Casey's back. "You belong with me and Zeke and Seattle, kitten. That's not going to change, okay? This is just going home for the holidays...it's quite common. I promise that Zeke will be here in a few days...and in the meantime you're in the place where you grew up. It's safe, your parents are happy you're here...it's Christmas. Everything according to plan."

And I am now begging him. Because I want this, I want the Christmas package, the happy feelings and the food and the presents and I need him to be, if not well, at least able to maintain some sort of equilibrium. The long and short of it is I want a miracle — just a temporary one will do. I am not reckless enough to hope for any sudden transformations.

"O-okay," he whispers, obviously trying to give me what I want.

"You can sleep in your old room I'm sure, if it helps," I suggest, although I hate the idea.

His hand grabs at mine and clutches so hard it hurts. "No."

"Casey?!" Allison calls again.

He's getting more tense by the second but there's not much to be done about that. I squeeze his shoulder and suggest, "I know you don't want to worry your parents..."

I am basically asking him to put on a show for his folks and I'm sure he knows it's for me too; I am somewhat ashamed at my dishonesty. I feel him nod even before he pulls back. For an instant as I look into those eyes, I see a person who could teach me the real meaning of weary. Then he stands up and moves to the door. He turns to me and gives me something that is, if not a smile, the expression that could precede a smile. "Come on," he says.

As I follow him down, I wonder if he might possibly be the greatest actor that ever lived.

So I have requested a miracle, and as the days begin to pass, more or less without serious incident, I know that I have received something. Whatever it is hasn't been dropped on me from above, though. It is the result of judicious optimism, careful maintenance and plain old luck. Maybe that's just what a miracle is...but I don't really care. Wherever this comes from, I will take it.

I suspect that it has a lot to do with Casey being at "home". No other place could possibly be as known, as familiar. Plus in a very weird way, I think that because Herrington is where the aliens supposedly arrived and were vanquished, Herrington is somehow less of a threat. I know how silly and illogical that sounds, but it's the impression that I have.

Of course, Casey is still not entirely comfortable with his parents, but he is able to relate to them as people he knows well, people with whom he has a long history. He remembers that these are, first and foremost, people who love him. And they have been doing a much better job of showing just how much they care. Not only did Frank drive all the way to Cincinnati to pick us up, he has given Casey a disbursement of cash so he can buy some Christmas presents. And Allison seems determined to cook every one of Casey's favourites for him before he has to go back to Seattle. The first night it was meatloaf. The second night it was a home-made pizza from a kit, something Casey remembers all the way back to infancy. He eats of these things with appetite and enthusiasm; my cook's ego is dwindling by the second.

So far, Zeke has phoned each night as promised, and each night I have had to force myself to go to another part of the house and not listen in. It is entirely likely that these calls are the actual thing holding Casey together — that and the fact that during the day when he starts getting that ragged look in his eye, like he wants to start running around the house screaming and tearing his skin off, I immediately drag him out for a really long walk. I want him to be physically exhausted at the end of the day so that he has no option but to collapse and sleep. It seems to be working.

I was right, by the way; Christmas is a big deal at the Connors' house. There are lights inside and out, plastic snowmen on the lawn, a festive wreath on the front door...There are all sorts of family collectibles that come out every year for the season, including a ceramic village set that Allison has been collecting since she was a child. The whole house was like this when we arrived, save for the tree, which was still untrimmed. Last night, Casey and his mother festooned that poor overwhelmed spruce while his father shouted instructions from the side: "No, put it there, Allison, there's a great big hole there...that light needs to go up, Case!...Stick it there...no, there!" They are even lucky enough to have a small fireplace in the living room, although it no longer functions as such. So they hung stockings on the mantle, too — with care, you might say, and they included a couple for me and Zeke that Allison dug up from somewhere. There was apple cider on the stove as they went about these activities; if nothing else, it made the house smell wonderful. I went in to fetch some for myself at one point and when I returned to the living room I walked into some sort of mother-father-son tableau. I stood back, not wanting to listen in — no, really. I didn't want to hear it. In fact, for a few seconds the bitterness that overcame me was absolutely unspeakable. Disgusted by myself, I waited until it was appropriate and strode forward, exhibiting all my usual good cheer. Casey welcomed me with a smile, the first real smile I'd seen in a few weeks.

The only thing that was missing was the snow; as of last night there was only a little bit of hard-packed white on the ground. This morning, though, a winter wonderland arrived — better late than never, I say. The white stuff has fallen all day and on into the night...large, soft flakes wafting heavily out of a glowing yellow sky. And right now, even though it is dark and Casey's parents don't know what to make of it, I insist that Casey and I go for our second walk of the day. Because I must be out in the snow. I have had few such opportunities since leaving Wisconsin; it snows, after a fashion, in Cincinnati, but in cities snow is rarely anything but a big dirty mess.

There is a silence in the air, even a hallowed quality if I may dare to apply such a concept. The temperature is quite pleasant, too. I look at my kitten as he trudges beside me, occasionally staring up into the sky, and the thought crosses my mind that he's almost looking healthy again. The sleeping and the eating agree with him. At the moment, he is exhibiting a rare, simple calm; the fact that there are almost no people about at the moment probably has a lot to do with it.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I say.

"Hmm?"

"The snow."

"Oh...yeah."

"Festive, too."

"We always have snow. One year we didn't and it just wasn't the same."

"I know. It just isn't Christmas without it."

We are passing by an elementary school with a small playground; I wonder if it is the school that Casey attended when he was a child. He wanders over in the direction of the swing-set, which is outlined in white along with the slide and other structures. Stopping there, he leans up against the iron frame and puts his hands in his pockets. Then, completely unexpectedly, he says, "I'm sorry, Sasha."

"Sorry? What for?"

"It must be a bit gross...us doing our Norman Rockwell thing. My mom's always been so..."

"No," I interrupt. "It's not gross. I'm very happy to be here for all of it."

"Do you ever visit home?"

"Seattle is my home now."

Casey looks sad on my behalf. And it so happens that I'm really sorry for myself, which is an appalling state of affairs. I haven't ever let myself get mired in self-pity; it just isn't something that I do and I won't allow it to go on for more than a half a minute.

I declare, "Don't you be sorry for me, kitten. I don't regret being honest with my folks and if they ever want me in their life again, they'll have to have me, all of me or none of me."

Casey stamps the snow under his feet, making a pattern. "My mom and dad — they're okay with me taking film now. I mean, they're not totally happy but they're not going to try to stop me or refuse to help me."

"That's awesome, kitten."

"And they told me they were sorry about what happened last year...the way I left."

"That's really good," I say, and I mean it.

Casey looks earnestly at me. "I'm glad you're here, Sasha."

"So am I, kitten."

"I mean...glad you don't have to be alone."

I'm not used to him being so observant of my moods, or if he is, he usually doesn't let me know it. I have been blind-sided and I must battle back tears. "Me too," I whisper.

Moving again, he brushes snow off a swing and sits on it. Looking back at the sky, he lets himself rock gently. "I could stay out here forever," he says as large petals of snow settle on his forehead and cheeks.

I see him sitting there, hour after hour until he disappears, swallowed in that white, wooly silence. Something about this does not put me at ease. "Let's head back," I suggest. "We'll have some hot cocoa."

We're back at the house soon; Casey goes in first, stamping snow off his boots in the front hall. His mother checks to see that it's him, sticking her head out of the dining room; I believe that she is making a holiday cookbook, cutting clippings out of magazines with the recipes she wants to use for Christmas dinner and gluing them all into a notebook for easy, one-stop availability. It's stuff like this that endears the woman to me.

"Delilah called," she informs Casey.

"Oh," he acknowledges her.

"Are you going to call her back?"

"Yeah," Casey confirms, rolling his eyes where only I can see. He goes into the kitchen to make the call. I follow him in and brazenly stand nearby listening...much as his mother is doing. "Hi, Delilah — it's Casey...okay, I guess....no...I haven't started actually."

Please let that not be a reference to his Christmas shopping.

"Yeah...I guess we could do that...when? Okay...how about one-ish..."

Casey listens to Delilah for a while.

"I dunno...I'm not really up to that, Del...sorry...but Stokely wanted the five of us to get together at some point though...yeah, all five of us...okay, I'll see you tomorrow." He hangs up, looking over at me. "She asked me to her party tomorrow," he says sombrely. "I just — I don't think I can."

"It's okay, kitten. Parties are always optional. Did I hear you say you haven't done any shopping yet?"

He nods.

I think that I had better not have an opinion about that. I have had my shopping done for two weeks; in fact, I started on November 1st, expecting that I was going to be busy and wouldn't have a lot of time for anything but a little browsing here and there... and okay, I have an opinion. It grieves me that Casey did no shopping in Seattle, where the truly interesting and unique gifts could be found. Still, I suppose he had a few other things on his mind.

We make cocoa --- unfortunately, it's just the instant mix instead of the real thing — and nest in the living room. From other parts of the house we can hear his father's television rattling and his mother manipulating scotch tape and scissors. We have left the lamps off so the room is illuminated by that glow of pinkish red, silver and green. Allison has different tastes than I do; where I would have gone for all white lights and silver and gold accents on the tree, she likes to have the poor thing coated in every colour under the rainbow, and bells and garland and tinsel. All the same, being here like this gives me a feeling of deep content. Casey leans his head against me and we sit without talking for quite a while.

I am the first to break the silence. "Is nice to be at home, isn't it, kitten?"

"Yeah."

"You feel okay?"

"I wish Zeke were here."

"I know...and he will in a few days." I let a few seconds pass before asking in a low voice, "Do you think that this new drug is helping at all?"

What I really need to know is if this portrayal of a person in stasis is just that — an act, or is it really that he has found some balance here over the past few days? I am thinking that maybe he is in a constant state of fear that I'm somehow not seeing because the drugs are working just enough that he can hide it...until he loses control at the worst possible moment and in the most spectacular manner, of course.

The way we are sitting, I can't see Casey's eyes. "I don't know," he muses slowly.

Not a heck of a lot of information, that. "How can you not know?"

He shivers slightly. "I...still have the same thoughts that I usually have. I think about Zeke and I can't believe that I'm here and I'm just...doing ordinary things. I'm so scared but somehow...it's like something's holding me down, controlling my body."

I don't know if this is a way to live, but it is a way to survive and maybe that's the best we can do right now. I don't want to say this to Casey, however. I limit my comment to, "It is helping, then."

"But I'm still scared all the time," he whispers. "And — I think if I got really scared and started to panic...I don't think it could keep me down. Like if Zeke — if he s-said he didn't want to — to be with me anymore."

"Which is not going to happen, by the way."

"It's what happens to most people."

I am profoundly surprised. "Kitten, I thought you were a romantic."

"Stan and Stokely broke up... You and Jerry broke up."

And again with the blindsiding.

I have to break out of our comfortable lean so I can take a look; I see him not really looking at me. There is definitely some guilt. His capacity for self-blame is endless, of course. "Yes, we did," I admit, then add, "How did you know?"

"You just haven't mentioned him at all...and you didn't go to see him...or go out with him...before we left."

Put that way, I suppose it's obvious. "Yeah, I guess I should have mentioned it."

"Are you...okay?"

"I'm very okay, kitten. It was quite friendly, not at all nasty. Mutual agreement, really. He knew I didn't feel the same way about him as he did about me, is all. I'm sad about it, but I understand. I don't want him to be hurt."

"I'm sorry."

"You aren't thinking this has something to do with you?"

The way I put that, Casey will come off profoundly self-centred if he answers in the affirmative. He shifts a bit, and doesn't answer.

I continue, "He's a very nice guy...kind and attractive and I care very much for him — but I don't love him the way he'd like me to."

"Because he's not old enough for you," Casey says, a little sly, his eyes finally flickering in my direction.

"Hey, what are you hinting at? That I only like older men? Because it's not true."

"All the ones I've seen you with...except Jerry...were older."

Hmm...I hadn't really noticed that. It has to be a coincidence, not a pattern because I would never be such a cliche. I mean...I suppose there are things about older men that I prefer a lot of the time..like maturity, stability, and experience. Show me a twenty-seven-year-old guy with all those qualities and I'll date him in a heartbeat.

"Anyway," I say, picking up the original thread of conversation. "I think that you and Zeke are a lot different than me and Jerry."

He doesn't seem to have anything to say to that. I return to sipping my cocoa, waiting for Zeke's nightly call to shatter the quiet and prove me right. But it grows late, and then even later, and the call doesn't come. I am very surprised, and amazed that Casey isn't going nuts — until I realize he has fallen asleep. And people say there's no such thing as miracles.

I let him sleep long enough that he won't really remember or think consciously about anything when I do jostle him onto his feet and to bed.

When he wakes up the next morning it's another story, and I'm cursing Zeke to myself. Just yesterday Casey was doing a very good job on the high wire; up close he would be sweating and shaking with the strain, but from a distance, quite graceful. Now he's completely off-balance, about to hit the ground hard. I do my usual routine to distract him; I am comforting, calm, upbeat. I spin a story about how Zeke had just finished his last exam and was probably exhausted; how he fell asleep and didn't wake up until really late so he thought it best not to call. Casey doesn't believe it, and I don't really buy it either. This is Zeke we're talking about. He doesn't forget things, he doesn't get too distracted...He is on the ball. There are those rare hiccoughs such as when he was sick a couple of weeks ago; he must have been really worn down to lose track of what Casey was up to the way he did. Personally, I think he still noticed things but he didn't inquire because he was too fed up and tired and miserable to care. Which is to say that he only misses things when he wants to, and Casey knows it too.

As of today, Allison has begun her own Christmas vacation, not that there's going to be much restful about them. She has a huge to-do list, and this morning she has roped us into helping her with her baking and pre-cooking for Christmas dinner. That is, I help while Casey haunts the kitchen, staring anxiously at the phone and nibbling on his fingers. Allison tries to engage him in the conversation repeatedly, bringing up his new subject of study and his impending trip to Los Angeles. To my eyes, he is trying to avoid thinking at all about the next leg of his journey and that is not a good sign.

Next, Allison tries a discussion about the family members who will be arriving in a couple of days. There is an aunt and a grandmother who will be staying here over Christmas; this is going to be a very full house, that's for sure. The aunt is Allison's sister, Clarissa, who lives in Santa Fe with their mother, having taken responsibility for looking after her. Casey has no other grandparents. There is another aunt who is Frank's sister, plus an uncle, and cousins aged ten, eight and three. I am told that they have come to stay with the Connors in past years but this year they felt the need to start their own family tradition at home. I want to ask about the rest of Frank's family but am not brave enough. I will ask Casey later, when the fate of his entire universe doesn't hang in the balance and he is once again fit for an ordinary conversation.

By the time that Allison and I have stamped out six dozen shortbreads, Casey is nearly climbing the walls and I can't take it anymore. "Oh, kitten, just call him," I say, conscious of the deja vu. He immediately jumps on that suggestion; I don't know why he felt he had to wait for my permission.

He tries both home and Zeke's cell phone and gets no answer. Maybe Zeke is having a smoke up on the roof or doing an errand but that doesn't explain why he wouldn't answer his cell. Casey waits and tries again, and again there is no answer. He stands holding the phone against his chest for a long time, not saying anything. I do believe that our answering machine is recording his heartbeat. Finally, he hangs up.

Not for the millionth time, I wonder what goes through his head when he thinks about Zeke. Does his own dependence bother him so much that he refuses to acknowledge it out loud, or is he so completely drugged by the anticipation of falling into Zeke and never being found that he doesn't really think consciously about what he's doing or how he's acting? It astounds me that he might not realize how his own personality is already blaring from him a lot of the time, making implosion rather impossible. When I look at him, I see an original...a prickly, stubborn, cuddly, vulnerable creature. That personality is not going to let itself be smothered no matter how much he might try to beat it down.

Shortly, Delilah shows up to take Casey with her to the mall. I remember Delilah of course, from our very brief meeting just before we three left town. She strikes me as a high-maintenance girl with a sad little soul, and I wonder at Stokely's vociferous hatred of her. Ah, well...we all do things we regret in high school. I cringe to remember some of my own performances.

I can see that the last thing Casey wants to do is leave this house. Even at the best of times he doesn't like shopping malls, and now he's expected to go to a mall a few days before Christmas — and now, when he would much rather stay near the phone. I don't particularly want him to go anywhere myself, not without me. I know that I have gone on and on about how I don't think he's dangerously unhinged but that doesn't mean I don't prefer being in a position to keep a constant eye on him. Especially when he's going to be brushing up against people and people are going to be brushing up against him...not to mention looking at him.

In defiance of these less than supportive thoughts, I decide that it is my duty to encourage Casey to go spend some time with his friend while I remain back at the Connor ranch. It takes some persuasion on my part to get him out the door, and I imagine that I am only successful because he has made a promise to Delilah, and because he hasn't yet given up on living as long as December 25th when some people are going to be expecting some gifts from him.

When he is finally gone, I try to call Zeke myself. I don't know why I feel the need for it. I am shocked when he actually answers.

"Fucking hello already!" is his salutation.

"What kind of greeting is that?" I return.

"Sasha...I'm not in the mood."

"We missed your call last night."

"I was getting drunk."

"Why?"

"Where's Casey?" he demands, and I blink at the sudden change of subject.

"He went shopping with Delilah."

"By himself?"

"No, with Delilah. Why are you so cranky?"

"Was he anxious?"

Again, the lightning fast change-up. Does he think I don't know avoidance when I hear it? "I think he's okay," I reply.

"Good. Look, I'm hung over, Sasha."

"All right, but why were you drinking?"

"Do I need a reason? Tell Casey I'm sorry I didn't call and I'll call him later."

He hangs up without waiting for me to give confirmation.

Allison has been standing at the kitchen counter listening and neglecting the pile of shortbread dough in front of her. "Everything okay?" she asks.

I want to laugh — not at her, just at the way people ask things like that when there is no way to answer them honestly. They don't want to hear...Well, a few things are okay, some are kind of okay and kind of not okay at the same time, while others are so incredibly not okay that they eclipse everything else but we're doing our best to push past it on the theory that if we fake it at some point what we pretend will eventually become the truth. They just want to hear that everything is indeed okay, and I don't blame them. I want the same thing.

"Everything's fine," I reply. "Do you want some tea? I'm going to make some."

For the next few hours I sip tea and focus on not providing Allison with too much unsolicited baking advice. She knows what she's doing, although she does have a tendency to overwork her doughs and batters. Midway through the afternoon she switches from baking long enough to brown a pot roast and put it in the oven with some potatoes and carrots. This is another family favourite, apparently.

Near three o'clock, Delilah and Casey return — and nope, things are not okay. Casey is ghastly; I'm talking white like Martha Stewart's ass. "We ran into Stan's mother," Delilah explains to me in the front hall. "She's severely uptight."

"Oh?" I say, looking to Casey. He stands there miserably, still wearing his coat, scarf, boots, gloves, making no move towards removing any of them. "What did she say?"

"She's a real treat." Delilah smirks and goes on, "She doesn't have a life so she uses all her energy for praying and passing judgment. She used to give me advice all the time on how to dress. 'That skirt's a little short, don't you think, dear? You don't want the boys to jump to conclusions.'"

"What...did...she...say?" I may not know but I can guess, and already I am outraged on Casey's behalf.

"Well, she starts off by asking Casey where Zeke is, all smarmy like, right? Casey's trying to be polite and then she starts saying things like 'Stan tells me there's three of you' by which she means 'your kind'...'There's three of you living together and Zeke's really the odd man out.' I said what do you mean and she basically makes it sound like there's just an ongoing orgy in your apartment and she's so surprised that a nice boy like Zeke would suddenly change his whole life that way."

"Shit," I mutter. "Fucking bullshit."

"I left the bags at the store," Casey says.

Delilah pats his arm, looking like someone who isn't used to making gestures of physical affection. "They said they'd hang on to them for you." She sees me looking and drops her hand with a shrug. "I phoned them already."

"Casey," I say, "You shouldn't have let her get to you...people like that are just pathetic, not scary."

Delilah laughs. "Oh, he put her right in her place! He looked right at her and suddenly he's just flaming and he says, 'You'd be surprised how people can change, Mrs. Rosado. Like Stan for example...since I moved to Seattle he's changed so much you wouldn't believe it.'" She laughs again, then looks surreptitiously at me to see if I am offended.

I am not offended in the least. I grin at Casey, who is still bleached of all colour. "Good one," I congratulate him.

"Yeah," Delilah crows. "She turned purple! I think she wanted to rush straight home and call Stan to make sure he still has his immortal soul."

Caseys mourns, "But then after that I..."

Delilah's smile fades. "I guess it was a panic thing..."

Just the mention of the word panic seems to be having a negative effect; Casey is hyperventilating a little. "Sorry," he wheezes.

"Hey, it's okay," Delilah says but she is obviously less than comfortable. "Why don't I go back to the store right now and get those things for you and drop them off?"

Casey nods, and as Delilah makes a quick exit I move forward and tug on Casey's scarf. "You gonna take these off and stay a while, kitten?" Without resistance he begins removing his gear but he's having a difficult time of it the way he is shaking and I have to help before he strangles himself. Gently batting his hands out of the way, I unknot the scarf. "What's this about, kitten?"

"Maybe sh-she's right, maybe..."

"About the three of us being fuck-buddies? C'mon now."

"But — but he's alone and — he — he didn't call last night."

"Well, you know what? I decided to try phoning him again after you went out today and he answered. He didn't call last night because he was getting wasted like an idiot...He misses you, kitten, and he said he'd call you later."

"Oh." Whatever I'm selling, Casey's eyes say he's not buying. "But — I've — I've been so much trouble lately, maybe — maybe he doesn't — "

"I think it's time to read that list our yours again," I suggest gently. "And did Dr. Yves not give you any other exercises to try when this happens?"

"Yeah, but..."

"But...?"

He lifts his chin. "But I don't want to do them right now."

Good for him for being straight up about what he wants, or in this case, doesn't want...Too bad I can't accept it. I insist, "Then I'll bet now is the perfect time."

Casey looks pained — no, he's just in pain. He's hurting and there's not much I can do to stop it. I knew that sooner or later the simmer of insecurity must achieve a rolling boil, and really, it could just as easily have happened without the catalyst of Zeke's failure to call. Casey hasn't been in the absence of Zeke for more than eight consecutive hours in the last four months — the only surprising thing was that he's gone this far without having some kind of episode. I just...need to know that I am really helping him. I am aware that pouring love, affection and caring into him is not going to get it done; I've been doing that and no way am I going to stop but I've gotten to the point where I feel I need to give him something practical — a task, a plan, something. I need to do something to see him stop hurting.

"Go on, kitten. You've been doing so well with this stuff, don't stop now."

He sighs, and then nods, trudging up the stairs to the room we have been sharing. I hear the door shut.

Around five-thirty, Frank returns from work; at this point, dinner has been ready and waiting for half an hour. We haven't heard so much as a peep from Casey since he went to his room. I have been torturing myself, alternating between thinking that I made a mistake in leaving him alone up there for this long and telling myself that he doesn't need me constantly looking over his shoulder. Like Zeke, he needs some alone time — doesn't he?

"Is that roast beef I smell?" Frank asks as he wanders into the kitchen. He gives his wife a casual peck on the cheek.

Allison nods. Her anxiety isn't too obvious, but he catches on.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just...we should call Casey."

"Where is he?"

"In his room."

"How long has he been in there?"

I say, hoping that I'm speaking the truth, "He's just been writing in his journal. It's something that he has to do for his doctor." Of course, he might just as easily have been catatonic for the last hour but I won't mention that.

Well, Frank must really want his pot roast. He gets a determined look on his face and marches up the stairs to the second floor. I hear his fist on the door and his voice booming. It is not unkind from the sound of it, just very forceful, and a little while later Casey is escorted down like a hostage, his father bringing up the rear. Whatever hallucinations are at play in Casey's head, he still has the wherewithal to sit and eat and even acknowledge his mother, so I think it can't be all that bad. I can almost laugh at my agonizing just before.

In the middle of the meal the phone rings and Casey is up like a shot. It always surprises me how fast he can move when he wants to.

"Hello...? Zeke...?"

This time, there are three of us eavesdropping.

"I tried to call you today...wh-why didn't you call last night...oh... oh... sorry... okay...not very much...was freaking out all day...because, you know...I just...miss you...I know...I'm trying...I will — Zeke, will you call tomorrow? I know I'm just being crazy but I start thinking all these things and I can't stop — okay...okay...talk to you...tomorrow."

When Casey returns to the table he looks the tiniest bit brighter than he was. "He got wasted last night to celebrate his last exam and passed out," Casey explains. "He was hung over today."

I nod, giving him an encouraging smile. He's back up on his high wire and me along with him, smiling and waving my arms. We should be able to keep it up for the next twenty-four hours, until Zeke's next call.

Not quite forty-eight hours later, Casey and I have a train to meet. At three forty in the afternoon we are sitting on one of those old-fashioned wooden benches that can still be found in older train stations; there is a double row of them, back to back along the length of this small waiting area. Casey's is fixated on the platform, clearly visible through the window, where passengers are de-training at this very moment. He's gnawing on one terribly abused thumbnail; the poor thing looks like raw meat. I make the mistake of trying to rescue it and for my trouble I get a violent flinch- tug and a ferocious sideways stare.

I am wearing my best face but beneath it I'm doing some pretty severe worrying. Despite my best common sense, I have begun to make plans for what I will do if Zeke doesn't get off that train. There is no reason to think he won't — and yet I can't forget his hurt and outrage when he had his mini-breakdown on the roof three weeks ago. Even though I trust Zeke and I believe with all my heart that he loves Casey, I also know that he is not the type of person to cling to a situation that is bad for him. He is practical, unromantic really — and that's a compliment. What I mean is, he feels deeply but it never comes cheap. It's like he wants to ensure that any flights of feeling that come from him are one hundred percent authentic — so he overcompensates and holds back until his feelings are powerful enough to destroy ordinary men.

All at once, everything is okay because I see Zeke getting off the train — well, of course he is, and I feel a little foolish for my Casey-esque fretting. Maybe I need to heed my own advice once in a while.

Zeke is lugging a suitcase and an enormous hockey bag. I'm talking about the kind that can hold an entire set of hockey gear plus a stick; I figure there must be presents in there. As he enters the station itself, I can see even from a distance that he still appears very tired, maybe hungover, and the little part of my brain that issues the judgments wonders, unkindly, if he's been on some kind of bender — but then I witness the smile that breaks on his face when he sees Casey. Poor baby, always trying to be the stoic one. It's no wonder he was feeling down; he was missing Casey badly even before we left the apartment and Seattle.

I stand and watch as Casey just bolts across the station and launches himself at Zeke, who barely has time to drop his bags before Casey wraps his whole body around him — I mean everything, like he's a koala bear hanging onto a tree. I think sometimes that it must be nice to be short. You can get away with things like that.

Not that I am surprised, but Zeke is equally passionate. He kisses Casey hard and long and messy, not caring that there are a number of his fellow Herrington- ites around, watching them. If Zeke ever wanted to officially come out to his home town, he's just done it without even noticing or caring. And if I were to say something to him about it, he would probably go, "What? I know who and what I am so I don't need make any planned statements, I'll just do what I do...let them react to me if they like." He really takes my breath away at times, with his ability to coldly reason through a problem and convince himself that the logic is the reality. Some would call this denial. I prefer to see it as a strength that occasionally becomes a liability.

Of course, they are not supposed to be doing this but short of marching over and separating them, there is nothing I can do. I wouldn't want to cause them both some sort of permanent lip strain.

Finally they have to separate to take in some air, and they come to me wearing sly little faces, having conveniently recalled their vows of chastity only after they have very satisfyingly sinned. I welcome Zeke with a hug and say nothing. I hate being in this position. I hate it and I resent it. I'm not a prude, and it just so happens that I'm the romantic here, dammit. It's not fair that I should have to be the wet blanket in their lives.

We have been permitted the use of Allison's car today for the purpose of picking up Zeke; it is a cute little Jeep four runner that Frank bought her just this year to commemorate their twenty-fifth anniversary. Casey and Zeke both get into the back seat, leaving me to feel more than a little bit like their chauffeur. Oh, well...at least while I am driving I can keep an eye on them in the rear view mirror. I observe that Casey is plastered to Zeke, and he looks amazingly content.

Then, as I ease out of the parking lot, something happens that I would never have expected in a million years: Casey starts to talk. Now, I am well aware that over the months he's gradually become more verbal, and he's made a few pretty long speeches to me lately although he was always spurred on by guilt or anxiety. It just hits me at this moment, maybe because we're in his home town and the last time we were here, he was practically a mute. This is a long, winding, just-because-I-miss-you- and-I'm-so-relieved-you're-here-I've-gotta-tell-you-everything narrative. He starts with how he told his father about his change of plans for school and goes on to his mother's attempts to change his mind...the gradual reconciliation, how it's all settled now and then he goes off about the encounter with Stan's mother. He wraps up with a little vignette about shopping with Delilah and wonders if we are all going to go to hang out at Stokely's and watch Christmas movies one night very soon because she's in town now and she's been asking.

I am absolutely, utterly spellbound. He still stammers occasionally but this is my kitten talking a blue streak and I think, Who are you? Have we met before, because you seem vaguely familiar to me except the guy I'm thinking of never opens his mouth more than one syllable at a time.

Zeke just listens, nodding or grunting or making a comment on occasion. There is no question that he's very happy to see Casey and that makes me happy too. I suppose if they were, in the end, not a couple anymore I would accept it, but the fact is that I have a lot invested in seeing them end up together.

Well, that just sounds pathetic and suddenly I am missing Jerry. Or is it Jerry I miss? Perhaps it is just the comfort of having a warm body around.

No, I miss Jerry.

People underestimate Jerry — no, they don't under estimate, they mis-estimate. They buy the jovial my old pal act and figure he's just some waiter, a guy who occasionally comes off a bit snobby because he enjoys good wine and good food and he wants others to enjoy it with him. The Jerry he doesn't show is sweet, sensitive, a little on the perfectionist side but eager to please — and he will never reveal that guy unless it's safe for him to come out. He's also amazingly generous and thoughtful, and damn hot, I might add. He's chiselled, but not thick- necked and bulky. Just really, really aesthetically pleasing. And you wouldn't know it from that bland, all American face, but the guy is amazingly creative when it comes to sex. But again, he doesn't flaunt it.

I admire all that, and I admire his way of deciding that some parts of him are for loved ones only. I am not like that — big surprise, huh? I'm one-Sasha-fits-all, I don't modify myself for anyone. The whole world has to accept all of me, all the time, all at once. Jerry has pointed out that such absolute acceptance can be absolutely a lot of work. He has taught me that masks can be pretty friggin' restful at times.

When we get back to the Connors, I no longer have the luxury of thinking about Jerry. I have a mission to carry out: To strike dead any attempts that Casey and Zeke might make to enjoy each other's bodies, beyond what they've already gotten away with; while I've been ruminating, they've been in each other's pockets from the train station onward. Now we're at home, the parents are not yet home from work and Zeke has gotten settled in Casey's old room with its one, small bed. Suddenly there isn't much to do, and I can see that they have some ideas about how they could kill some time. Neither one of them seems to have remembered what was resolved upon.

I am just working up the brass to interfere in some really unsubtle way, to suggest that we all go downstairs and examine the tree for malfunctioning light bulbs or something equally ridiculous, when finally I see the slow, unhappy memory dawning in Casey. He is the first one to step back, and he looks at me with a whole bouquet of emotions on his face...shame, for sure, and a little resentment but I would swear that there is some species of relief as well.

I'm so proud of him at times, I can't stand it.

There is a thing that happens sometimes when the normal routine of your life gets shaken up; it is like time stops and your regular life is put on pause. I've had this feeling before and I'm having it now. With Zeke here it is the three of us together as usual, but completely out of our usual context. It feels like being in a special time and place where the usual rules don't apply. We are supposed to just concentrate on celebrating something — a birth, a death, a wedding, a holiday. I know that this is just an illusion, but I want it to be reality. I want to just relax and eat and be merry now.

It doesn't seem right to be worrying about things, especially when there is nothing overtly wrong. Perhaps because of their time apart, Casey and Zeke seem emotionally closer than ever, and Zeke has suddenly come over all touchy-feely. Not that he isn't usually quite demonstrative with Casey, but this is almost extreme. He wants Casey near him constantly; he touches, he caresses, he strokes, and he even gives gratuitous hugs — while Casey just soaks it all up as fast as Zeke can give it. My eyes can't seem to learn to see this as a problem. My alarm bells sound only when I see the burning stares that Zeke has been sending along with the affection — but there is nothing I can say other than "Zeke, stop looking at him!" Which I am not going to say because I would really like for the Connors to believe me sane.

By the way, I never thought I would find myself with Frank Connor as an ally. Actually, watching Frank try to adjust to the notion of his son's boyfriend staying with them for Christmas — now that's entertainment. He is polite, he doesn't make trouble but every time he looks at Zeke I can hear the prohibition: You are not to touch my son under my roof or I'll cut your dick off and send you home early. I find that I rather empathize with that sentiment, as silly as it is. It's kind of sweet, really. So what if this man basically ignored and neglected Casey through his entire adolescence — if Casey can forgive him, so will I.

If I sound a little too altruistic to be believed, it is because I'm in an altruistic mood. Those words I mentioned before — you know the ones, the cheesy ones that have become unexpectedly popular — well, I'm all about them right now. It is the 23rd of December, after all. Christmas is ready to happen, and I'm ready to be at peace with the world.

Needless to say, I'm feeling the Christmas vibe big time this evening. Casey and his parents have gone to fetch their relatives, leaving me and Zeke alone at the house. Earlier, I had some anxiety over the sleeping arrangements; apparently, the aunt and grandmother usually stay in the room that Casey and I are sharing. It has been determined, however, that this time the aunt is to have the sofabed in Frank's "den" and Zeke has willingly given up Casey's little room for the grandmother. He will sleep in the living room for the duration.

Currently, though, we are lounging downstairs in the rec room, waiting for the Connors to return, and Zeke is on the phone with Delilah. Stokely has let it be known that she wants her friends to hang out with her on Christmas Eve, but it seems that both Delilah and Stan have previous engagements. I wonder that Stokely doesn't have family obligations also, but she has assured us that she has nothing better to do during that time; her family spends the entirety of Christmas Day together, which is "more than enough" according to her. They will be out on Christmas Eve and she wants to have her own party.

"Well, I'm sure you can drop in for a while, can't you...? Yes, I know, but you can't really want to spend your entire evening with Celia, right...? Yes, Del, she specifically does want you to be there...she phoned and invited you, didn't she? And Casey and I want you there too...okay, just for a while, then. Good, we'll see you then...huh...? Oh, yeah, I heard about it...yeah, it does kind of give me a thrill. I wish I had been there...he's much better, yeah. So I'll see you tomorrow night." Zeke hangs up, wearing a little grin. He tells me, "Delilah says that Stan told her his mom asked him a whole pile of questions like she thought he's turning gay. Apparently she's praying for him."

I wave a languid hand. "Oh, but it's actually a virus, you know. The gay mafia developed it in the 1950's and let it loose on the population. Highly contagious, no antidote...part of our great conspiracy to take over the world." I try for an evil laugh but it doesn't come out quite right.

Zeke makes a face. "Anyway...I think I convinced her. So Stokely can finally take a pill. I don't know why she's so worked up."

"It's Christmas and she wants to have the old gang together again."

"We're not the old gang. We never were the old gang."

"Well...it's Christmas, Zeke, just go with it."

Naturally, Zeke doesn't really know how to go with it. He never just goes with anything, and he seems bewildered by all of this energy over a simple day on the calendar, just another one out of three-hundred and sixty-five.

"I don't get what the big fuss is about," he complains, fretfully wielding the remote, flipping channels so quickly that I don't have time to decide whether I would like to watch something or not. "Christmas is just a big, commercial orgy."

"Yeah," I reply. "And your point would be?"

I love the look Zeke gets when he thinks I'm being obtuse. He's wearing it right now as he declares, "This whole thing is a big scam — and don't give me some speech about the true spirit of Christmas because I don't want to hear it."

I point my gaze at the TV screen, which is about twenty years old; the larger, newer TV is actually in Frank's TV room, the one that he likes to pretend is a den. I don't know whether I am amused or annoyed by that. "Okay, Mr. Grinch," I reply blandly.

This appears to piss Zeke off even more. He's been on a short fuse this month, and I think it's rather fascinating that, between Zeke and Casey, it is Zeke who seems to be struggling more with his chastity. Of course he wants to make like he's nothing but logic and chemicals but he gives himself away with all the touching that he's been doing. And then there's the staring — but in this respect Casey has incriminated himself no less than Zeke. In fact, my function seems to boil down to watching them with gritted teeth as they moon over each other and wallow in their great, youthful passion. God, they're such teenagers at times.

But right now my function is to make it okay for Zeke to enjoy Christmas. He doesn't really know what to make of all this and he's just begun to realize what he's let himself in for, spending Christmas with the Connors. There has been no talk of him going to his mother's house, thank God. I think Frank muttered something about it several days ago, long before Zeke arrived, and Allison shut him down in a hurry. I don't know the whole story about Zeke's parents but I know it isn't very pleasant. And I know that Allison loathes Zeke's mother. It isn't obvious because she was raised at a time when young ladies weren't supposed to hate anyone, but I can tell. She has no intention of letting Zeke go anywhere.

I say, "You know, Casey missed Christmas the last two years."

Zeke frowns. "What do you mean...missed? I saw him here in Herrington last Christmas."

"The first year he stayed in Cincinnati at Roy's request but Roy ditched him, and last year Casey did come home for a few days but he left before Christmas Eve." I will not tell Zeke the whole of what I know about that terrible episode of Casey's life; that is for Casey to tell. "I think it really bothered him. They take Christmas pretty seriously in his family."

So I have Zeke in my power now. On the pretext that he's just doing it for Casey's sake, he will force himself to have a good time.

There is sudden noise and activity on the floor above us, announcing the Connors' return from the train station; Zeke and I hustle upstairs to greet the relatives. We find a knot of people crowding the front hallway. Casey's grandmother — her name is Carolyn but I am going to call her Mrs. Berringer, because that's how I was brought up — is in the midst of making some very long complaint about something that happened on the train, and I notice that a deep furrow has formed in Frank's forehead. He is bringing up the rear, dragging several large suitcases and barely able to get in the door because the entrance to the house is so congested at the moment.

"Mom," says the other newcomer, a small, slender woman in hippie-artsy clothing. "Please let it go now."

This must be Casey's Aunt Clarissa. She has a way of speaking that's almost too — too much for ordinary conversation; she sounds like she's been trained as a hypnotist. She has long, red hair — not her natural colour, I would guess — and wears orangy lipstick that is all the more shocking set against her perfect, almost gothically pale skin. She carries herself like a woman who knows she is very attractive, and I wouldn't be surprised if she's left a long train of broken male hearts behind her.

Catching sight of Zeke, she says, "Hello, you must be Zeke," and holds out her hand.

He takes it, somewhat bemused by the chaos. "Yeah."

"Oooh, he's a hottie, Case," she adds, and winks in Casey's direction. He's been hanging back a little, also hauling a suitcase.

"And I'm Sasha," I introduce myself. "Zeke and Casey's friend."

"I was just going to say you must be Sasha. I'm Clarissa."

"Um," Casey pipes up. "Where does this go?" He looks to his aunt for guidance as to whom the suitcase belongs to.

"Oh, Frank!" Mrs. Berringer exclaims. "Don't let him carry that!"

Understandably, Casey looks a little embarrassed.

"He's fine, Mom," Allison says.

"But if he's sick, he shouldn't ---"

"I'm only sick in the head, Gram," Casey interrupts.

After a long, nervous silence, Clarissa laughs and says, "That one's mine, Case." It is the kind of laugh that is completely free and generous, with no hint of mockery. Casey smiles back and this tells me that it's okay for me to add my own grin to the moment.

"We're going to put you in my den, Clarissa," Frank says, obviously needing a change of subject. "There's the sofabed there."

"Great."

"Oh," says Mrs. Berringer. "Where am I sleeping?

"You can have Casey's old room."

Now I have some renewed worry that I have displaced them, that they are unhappy — after all, from the perspective of the blood relatives I could be just some orphaned interloper with nowhere else to go for Christmas. But no one says any more on the subject. There is a certain amount of shuffling and organizing and then Mrs. Berringer announces that she is hungry. It is only six o'clock, but I soon learn that she's used to eating no later than five.

"I thought we'd order in some Chinese food," Allison says.

Her mother purses her lips but replies, "That sounds fine, dear."

"Oh..." Clarissa intervenes. "But Mom...you shouldn't have any MSG, remember?"

"Right..." Mrs. Berringer turns to Allison. "I can't have MSG."

Allison begins to look like her head might just pop off. It's interesting to observe these family dynamics, but I think it is time for me to make myself useful. "Let me whip something up," I volunteer and Allison looks grateful.

"You?" Mrs. Berringer says, her notions of the traditional division of labour firmly in place.

"Oh, you're a chef, aren't you?" Clarissa says. "I remember now."

"Allison, have you been talking about me?" I tease, making Allison blush.

Soon the family is clustered around the kitchen table while Zeke stands off to the side, listening. I assemble the ingredients for a quick supper while the relatives interrogate Casey, asking him about life in Seattle and his school plans. He is doing his best to answer; fortunately he has already rehearsed the "I'm changing to film" conversation a few times and can handle it. In fact, Mrs. Berringer more or less asks him all the same questions that Frank asked. Clarissa bucks the trend by being immediately supportive and even excited about Casey's new studies.

I realize a few things. For one, his aunt adores him, so she must be okay even if she does seem a little flaky. For another, it occurs to me that not only is Casey an only child, he's the first grandson and first child of the generation. Poor kitten. There's a lot to be said for having siblings and cousins to divvy up the expectations.

Inside half an hour I have served up linguine with sundried tomatoes, capers, olives, and feta, items that I purchased earlier in the week during a grocery outing with Allison. It is a bold and not entirely accessible offering, but it is met with general approval. Casey, I notice, picks out all the olives and the capers but eats the rest handily enough. Zeke wolfs his down as usual, and to my surprise Frank is barely less enthusiastic than Zeke. He even says, "Thank you, Sasha."

After supper we do nothing more momentous than descend to the rec room to watch TV. There is a line up of Christmas shows that no one is really paying attention to, but I recognize a couple of my old favourites — A Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Clarissa and Allison talk about things that sisters talk about while Mrs. Berringer struggles not to nod off. Casey is curled close to Zeke on one of the couches, and I see Frank checking up on them once in a while. There aren't quite enough places to sit but I am happy to sit on the floor with my back to the other couch. In fact, I feel so happy right now that I could cry.

The next morning I find myself alone for a time, eating breakfast and contemplating the fact that it is Christmas Eve day. It is nearly ten but Casey and Zeke are still asleep, a fact that was noted with some disapproval earlier by Casey's grandmother; she has informed me that she is always up by seven in the morning. After bringing me up to speed, she compelled Frank and Allison to drop her off at the home of an old friend of hers; they are doing last-minute errands together but are to pick her up when they are finished.

I have taken my bowl of cereal to the kitchen table; I am staring out the window there when I hear a sound and turn to see Clarissa, wearing long, form-fitting pants and a rather skimpy t-shirt. I will say, objectively, that they look very good on her.

"Hi, Sasha," she says. "Everyone's sleeping late, huh?"

"Actually, Frank and Allison are both out."

"Doing what?"

"Frank's not done buying his gifts and Allison forgot to get a few things for dinner tomorrow."

"Ah." Clarissa goes to the fridge and opens it. She stares at the wall of food for a few seconds and says, "What could possibly be missing in here?"

"I think I heard her muttering about cream for coffee."

"Oh, Allison." Clarissa shakes her head. "She gets so worked up about this stuff. She just needs to take a moment and breathe."

I don't know why I feel the need to defend Allison, but I do — maybe because it's perfectly obvious who's always been the favoured sister, the more popular, glamorous, the most bragged about by their mother. "This Christmas means a lot to her. I think she just wants everything to be perfect."

Clarissa joins me at the table. She has only a mandarin orange, which she peels and eats rapidly as she talks. "But she's always been that way. The important thing is family being together, right?"

"That's true..." A sound from the direction of the living room makes me turn. I see Zeke standing there; our voices could have carried and woken him, or maybe he'd just had enough sleep for one morning. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," Zeke mumbles. He yawns and stretches, then says, "Where's Casey?"

"Sleeping, I think."

"Oh...well, I'm going to use the shower."

"Okay."

As Zeke goes up the stairs, Clarissa says to me, "You know, I think it's totally cool that you're a chef. I've always thought it would be a neat job."

"Well...I'm more a cook right now." I am distracted, a bit anxious about Zeke and Casey being alone upstairs — as absurd as that sounds. I have to struggle to focus on the conversation. "I work for an amazing chef, though."

"And someday you'll have a kitchen of your own to run?"

"I hope so..." I'm trying to talk and listen for sounds of movement upstairs at the same time. "...but I still have a lot to learn and I'm happy where I am."

"That's cool." Clarissa smiles briefly. "So how's my nephew?"

This forces me to concentrate on her. I don't know what she knows, but I decide to answer as though she's reasonably well-informed. "A lot better than he was in the summer."

"I'm so relieved to hear it. I haven't seen him in three years and I was kind of worried we were losing him. You know how sometimes people drift apart from their family once they've grown up." She chews and swallows orange sections, then pulls her feet up on the chair, crossing her legs there and it suddenly strikes me that she looks a lot like Casey. Her eyes aren't as startling as his — I think in that respect Casey has received the gift of absolute genetic serendipity — but they have similar features, the mouth and chin especially. She is also built small, like him. "He's changed so much since the last time I saw him," she sighs.

"Yes," I say briefly. "He's changed."

She looks knowingly at me. "We don't have to talk about him. I just want to know that he's going to be okay. There's a lot of negative energy around him — "

I am glad to hear new footsteps on the stairs, because I really don't want to get into any discussion of energies, chakras or auras. There are people who study alternative healing methods as a discipline, and I respect them, but there are many people who adopt the lingo without understanding or really caring about the science of it and they just come off — oh, what's the word I'm looking for? Affected. They just want to sound cool and it bugs me big time. To be fair, I'm not sure if Clarissa is one of them or not. I just don't want to go there.

We both look over just as Casey comes into the room, blinking sleepily. I've noticed he has a bit of a hard time waking up since he started taking Klonopin. I welcome him, "Hi, kitten. Do you want some breakfast? I'll make you something."

Casey shakes his head. "Just cereal...thanks." He fumbles around with bowls and boxes and cartons, then joins us at the table. That is when he takes in his aunt's get up. "Are you going to do some yoga, Aunt Clarissa?"

She smiles. "You bet. Can't miss a day, you know — did you want to join me?"

Casey glances at me. "I dunno," he says shyly.

She teases, "You only like to do it when your dad's around."

He smiles at her and I think, I'll bet this woman was the first crush he ever had. "Kinda," he answers.

"Why not do it, kitten?" I put in. I may have a thing about people spouting New Age bullshit, but I am quite aware that yoga is an excellent form of exercise. "I hear it's very relaxing...maybe it's just the thing for you."

Casey frowns slightly. Maybe I have been a tad too revealing of his personal stuff but I rather suspect that his aunt already knows a lot of it anyway.

"I'll do it too," I offer. "If there's room."

"We can make room," Clarissa says. "We'll just push all the furniture back in the living room. I only have one mat but the rug will do."

Not five minutes later when Zeke returns downstairs, it is to the shocking sight of the living room in shambles and the three of us in Downward Facing Dog position — on our hands and feet, hinged at the waist — while the sound of flowing and rushing water fills the background. Casey is a bit more flexible than I expected, but I have heard his joints cracking and snapping. Although Clarissa is a good teacher, I am having a tough time myself. This is harder than it looks and I have long arms and legs — but of course when Clarissa does it, it looks easy. She is obviously a long-time practitioner. She can fold her body completely in half or twist it up like a pretzel.

"What the hell?" Zeke says. Casey falls forward and stands on his knees, facing him.

"Shh..." Clarissa hums.

"Yoga," I say.

"I hope so," Zeke returns.

"You can join us if you like," Clarissa offers.

"Uh...no, thanks." Zeke disappears, for which I am glad because I don't think Casey would be able to do this with him watching.

We continue for another twenty minutes. I am sweating hard by the end but I feel incredible — energized and relaxed in places that I didn't even know I was tense. Clarissa puts an arm around Casey's shoulders and ruffles his hair. "There," she says. "Does that help any?"

"Actually...yeah," he says.

"Just remember you don't need to push yourself. Just do the best you can. The benefits are incredible if you keep it up."

He slips in closer to her and hugs her and I am suddenly so jealous I want to pack her bags for her and push her out the door. But this is ridiculous, Casey will benefit from the yoga, and he will also benefit from every little bit of affection we can give, individually and collectively. It's absolutely absurd of me and I decide that I will not have this feeling again.

A little while later, Allison and Frank return and do some puttering in their bedroom; the pile under the tree grows some more and the stockings begin to plump up. Casey and I have our walk in mid-afternoon and then all of us, even Zeke, get busy grooming the house — and lastly, we get down to grooming ourselves.

I love the lull that suddenly falls on the afternoon of the 24th of December. Earlier in the day people are rushing around in a state of near-meltdown, picking up all the things that they somehow managed to forget despite their determination not to be shopping on this day. Then suddenly around three o'clock the malls and the grocery stores empty out and the street traffic becomes almost nil. A quietness descends, broken only when people begin to venture out to distribute gifts and visit. As they move from house to house, their blood alcohol count increases in tandem with the good cheer, creeping ever closer to illegality...oh, but I am not going there. I am at peace with the world, until Boxing Day at least.

My gifts for everyone are now under the tree. Casey has spent a couple of hours closeted in our room, struggling with wrapping paper, and there has been a further accretion of tacky, glittery shapes under the tree. Allison, Frank, Clarissa and Mrs. Berringer have places to go tonight, while Zeke and Casey and I are waiting for it to be time to go to Stokely's. We make a pretense at eating some supper, knowing that very soon we will be stuffing our faces and losing all connection to a sense of hunger. It will be days before we remember what it feels like.

Around seven-thirty, we head over to Stokely's, bearing gifts. I know Casey has something for Stokely, and I'm pretty sure Zeke got something for both her and Stan. Weeks ago when I was doing my shopping I agonized about Stokely for a bit, not sure what she would be doing about me, and wishing that the whole business of making a list and checking it twice didn't have to be so diabolically complicated. In the end I got her a small box of high quality chocolates, which I have brought with me tonight. I will present it to her after Stan and Delilah are gone.

Stokely welcomes us to her family home, smiling exuberantly. She is wearing a festive, red sweater with a pattern embroidered in bugle beads and sequins. It has a retro kind of appeal, I guess. She hugs each of us, then directs us downstairs to the rec room. There I discover an entertainment centre that puts Zeke's to shame, not to mention a fully stocked bar that contains eggnog and rum and crθme de menthe; plus Stokely has prepared a selection of snacks and hors d'oeuvres and sweets for us. Stan and Delilah are already in attendance, sitting together on one of the couches; Delilah gets up and gives Casey and Zeke each a kiss, while Stan passes out handshakes. I am encouraged to see that Casey seems to be in a fairly laid back and sociable mood tonight; however, I am not going dwell on it for fear of jinxing it.

"Uh, Stan...I hope I didn't get you in trouble," Casey says.

Stan blinks. "Trouble — ? Oh, you mean with my mom." He snickers then. "Don't worry about it. Usually I'm the good son and my brother Brian is the bad one. This year it's the other way around so he's happier than he's ever been."

Casey makes a pained face. "I shouldn't have said it."

Stan waves a hand. "Sure you should, Case. She's been terrorizing my friends since kindergarten. It's kind of a new experience being the black sheep of the family. I like it."

Casey looks aside, and now his high-functioning mood appears to be in some jeopardy. "I'm s-so...so sorry," he whispers, and I know this has nothing to do with what he said to Stan's mother. Although they have seen each other a couple of times since Zeke's birthday party, I guess they never really talked about what happened.

Hesitating at first, Stan puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Case. Really. C'mon, let's get festive...okay?"

I am holding my breath as Casey nods; for now, the danger has passed.

Predictably, there are movies on hand and we are expected to choose one to watch. A Christmas Story. Miracle on 34th Street. It's a Wonderful Life. Lethal Weapon and Die Hard. "They're Christmas movies", Stokely insists of the latter two. Casey mentions Edward Scissorhands but gets nowhere with that; I saw that movie once and sobbed so loudly in the theatre that people asked me to leave.

Since Stan and Delilah can only stay for a while there is only time to watch one movie — so we vote. Zeke chooses Lethal Weapon and warns, "And you better not pick Die Hard, Stan." I guess he doesn't want to split their particular voting bloc.

When it comes to me, there's no question: I love It's a Wonderful Life. It's a surprising movie, I think, because it starts out a little sappy but at some point in the story you realize that you're watching something very serious and moving. I never get tired of it. I especially love the scene where George and Mary are trying to share the phone and converse with a friend while they are so agonizingly aware of each other that they can barely speak. Then George breaks and grabs her and says, "Now you listen to me. I don't want any plastics and I don't want any ground floors. And I don't want to get married ever to anyone! You understand that? I want to do what I want to do." And then he kisses her with total, absolute desperation and you aren't surprised that in the next scene she's wearing a wedding dress. I just love that.

Stokely proposes A Christmas Story. Casey looks torn, then votes with me. So it's now kind of down to Delilah and she smiles a bit nastily at Zeke and tips the balance in mine and Casey's favour. Zeke groans loudly.

"It's a classic," I protest.

"Is there something wrong with watching something in colour?"

"There is a colourized version," Casey says. "But it sucks."

I agree, "There's something not right about it."

We sit down to watch the movie. I don't think Zeke is as disappointed as all that, and especially not after Jimmy Stewart comes on the screen. At that point Zeke remarks, "Hey, I know this guy," and grins at Casey. Casey smiles back — and it has to be about that impersonation thing Casey mentioned in his big list. It just kills me all over again not to know what they're smiling about.

Oh, well. Some things are not meant for public consumption, I guess.

Very much enjoying my rum and eggnog, I am once more drawn in to George Bailey's life. Meanwhile, Stokely is having some drinks also but Stan and Zeke are both driving, and Delilah loftily declares that she doesn't drink alcohol. She sips a diet soda. I must say, I noticed earlier that she and Stokely are being excruciatingly polite to each other. Perhaps there is hope for them to be friends, although it seems unlikely. Not only has Delilah dated Stan in the past — in fact, she has dated every male in this room except me — but I am told that she used to be very nasty to Stokely on a daily basis.

Casey is not imbibing alcohol, of course, but he has his drug of choice — proximity to Zeke. When the lights go down they are merely sitting next to each other; by the time that Jimmy Stewart blows up at his Uncle Billy, they are practically in each other's laps and I am having a really tough time feeling peace and love for all mankind. Resentment is rising in me again, because they know frigging well that I'm not going to say anything in front of their friends and because I shouldn't be put in the position of having to get upset about something that should be harmless. It is harmless — except that it isn't and I'm pissed off because Zeke in particular should have enough respect for me not to flaunt his lack of restraint.

Once the final notes of "Auld Lang Syne" have sounded in the room, Stan and Delilah are getting up to go. Delilah kisses Casey and Zeke again before going and tells them not to be "too naughty." It can't have escaped her, or anyone in the room, how they are glued at hip, thigh, and everything else. Stan waves in a minimalist fashion to the three of us males, and a potent glance passes between himself and Stokely. She goes upstairs with him and Delilah to show them out.

I cannot seem to prevent myself from using this opportunity to let them know of my disapproval. I direct a very pointed gaze at each of them, first at Zeke and then at Casey. Casey reacts just as I would hope, going pink and staring at the floor, but Zeke returns my look with one of open defiance.

Stokely comes back down the stairs, rescuing me from the obligation to have words with my two friends on Christmas Eve. "Well, that went okay," she sighs.

"It was fine," Zeke says with an impatient frown.

"Yeah, except for how she was eying up Stan all night. And did you hear what she said about my sweater?"

"What did she say?"

"She said it was nice."

Zeke looks blankly at her.

"Like...what the fuck does she mean by that?" Stokely growls.

"Maybe she thinks it's a nice sweater?" Zeke ventures.

"You know she doesn't."

"Stokes, c'mon. She showed up, didn't she? She's trying...and it is a nice sweater."

"What do you mean by nice?"

Zeke begins to laugh, helplessly.

Casey pipes up. "So what if she doesn't like your sweater, Stokes? She doesn't have your...well, your style." Stokely is flummoxed by this, and Zeke and I are dangling without a sense of where he's going. Casey falters a little, then continues, "I...I think the sweater's cool, it's kinda like...you know, vintage." He glances at me for support.

"Yeah," I chime, finally cluing in. "Obviously Delilah's very stylish in a trendy way but she doesn't really have her own sort of look. I think she just wears what the magazines say to wear."

"But you have a look that's totally Stokely," Zeke adds.

Stokely lifts her hands, a grin taking shape on her face. "Okay, guys, you can stop trying to make me feel better now...please." She moves in toward Casey, unexpectedly. I can see him controlling his flinch as she hugs him, his body going rigid. His hands clench but other than that he doesn't move. "Thanks," she tells him, then moves away just as quickly. "Enough of my crap...let's watch another movie, huh?"

"Only if it's Lethal Weapon," Zeke says, folding his arms.

So the four of us watch Lethal Weapon. I don't really mind — Mel's not hard to watch. However, at some point during those two hours, I realize that I am getting hammered on rum and eggnog, which is a nasty, cloying situation. I switch to rum and diet coke. That's when I notice that Zeke has been doing something to the skin on Casey's neck with the tips of his fingers. He has his arm tight around Casey and is gazing fixedly at him, pinning him down with his eyes.

For the next forty-five minutes I get far too much enjoyment from of Mel's murderous violence and screams of rage. When the movie is over, I declare, "I think it's time to go home." My voice is shaking just perceptibly.

It is a short drive back to the Connor residence; on the way there, no one speaks. I have the distinct impression that a full-scale revolt is underway, but I have already passed from my earlier state of pleasant intoxication to leaden exhaustion, and I don't feel up to a confrontation. I slump in the back seat, trying to rub away my headache.

In what feels like mere minutes I find myself inside the house, having just removed my coat and boots. Casey and Zeke are there with me, all three of us standing at the foot of the stairs. It is almost midnight, early for Christmas Eve; no one else is home yet. I am dizzy, desperate for bed, and fully expecting Casey to banish me to the couch and take Zeke upstairs in my stead. Or they are both about to disappear into the basement, or the bathroom, and if they think that I'm going to stop them, they are wrong. If they want to fuck each other up for all time, I am ready to just let them do it.

Casey begins to speak, and I brace myself; I look past him, at his high school graduation picture that is hanging just behind on the wall.

"I — I th-think I'm — going to — to bed."

My gaze jerks away from the photographic to the real life Casey. As I watch, he shares a long look with Zeke, possibly the four-hundred and seventy-fifth yet today and easily the most intense. I have no idea what it all means, other than that Casey has chosen to care about my opinion.

Zeke knows it, too; he is scowling openly. "I guess I'll just step outside for a smoke," he says, and makes a point of shrivelling Casey with his glare. He turns his back before Casey can say another word. I would very much like to smack him. He is the one who proposed abstinence, he is the one who took the lead there. I can't figure out what's going through his head — and, at this particular moment in time, I'm not really interested.

"Good idea," I say. "I'm beat — wasted, actually. Let's hit the hay, kitten. Sooner we get to sleep, the sooner Santa will get here."

Casey follows me up the stairs, his feet dragging noticeably. Even in my current stupour I can see that slow stillness in him once again; he foregoes brushing his teeth and gets in bed, closing his eyes with a sad little sigh. After performing my ablutions, I get in too. He comes to me right away, snuggling up against my chest. I stroke his hair, knowing that I won't be able to stay awake for more than a minute. "Zeke just misses you, kitten," I mumble, my eyes closing.

I am just barely aware of Casey nodding before I am down for the count.

Some time later, I swim up from a rum-hazed sleep. My mouth is dry as dust, and repulsive with a combination of booze, garlic, onion and pepperoni. After some minutes of lying in complete darkness trying to decide if I should actually get up and brush my teeth so I can stop offending myself and fall back to sleep, it occurs to me that something isn't right.

Casey is gone.

I almost jump up and shout the alarm — but then I don't do anything except roll over on my back and put a hand over my eyes. I have realized that I know exactly where Casey is. I guess I'm not surprised.

Since I'm now officially hungover and no longer drunk, I seems that I can think. I now realize that there is only one thing about this situation that is surprising — and it's me. I don't know why I'm taking everything to do with Casey and Zeke and sex so personally. Earlier this night, I was furious and hurt and resentful; I was so upset that I didn't care who knew it, and for a while Casey actually feared my disapproval more than Zeke's.

Well, I am having an interesting moment. I think some would say it's the dark night of the soul. I'll just say it's my second annual wake-up call.

And here comes the revelation, although it probably won't be much of a revelation to anyone except me: I lied when I said that I was okay about losing Jerry. I am not okay. I am absolutely, totally not okay, and I might just, in some tiny, mean little place inside me, put some of the blame for it on Casey. Not consciously, of course, but every time I see him and Zeke together, every time I see them being in love, there is a little black spot on my heart that starts throbbing. It's crying out that I deserve a boyfriend who loves me whom I can love in return, and for that matter I deserve a couple of loving parents who are willing to take care of me and who want to make a nice home for me to come back to at Christmas, even if I am gay, so why do I have none of these things, why am I giving every last bit of myself to a person who already has all of it —

Fuck and double fuck. Apparently, I am full of crap. I like to act noble and self-sacrificing but inside I am a venomous stew of ill will. I am an imposter.

"My poor kitten," I whisper. He tried to apologize for all this stuff that isn't really his fault and I brushed him off — then I went ahead and blamed him anyway. "I'm so sorry."

Sorry isn't enough, though, and regret isn't the same as making amends. Maybe I have just achieved something like self-understanding, but there is always the question of what to do with it. Well, for a start, I can stop blaming others for things that really are my responsibility. There is some hope for me, I suppose, since I already know this in my conscious mind; it is just a matter of dealing with the little dark Sasha lurking in the back corner of my brain. Hopefully the simple act of throwing some light on him is making him wither and die, but I'll have to keep a sharp lookout for him. You'd think that something so ugly would be easy to spot, but I guess I've already proven that this isn't necessarily so.

So, I say to myself. What to do about the fact that Casey and Zeke are downstairs together at this very moment, taking into account that I run the risk of being a resentful prig all over again? Ahem. It is now time for Sasha to have it out with Sasha.

They wouldn't actually do anything when Zeke is sleeping on the couch in Casey's parents' living room — oh, but then, maybe they would. They may be that eager, the hormonal little brats.

But...it's Christmas and they're in love.

Okay, but love doesn't fix everything. Sorry, but it doesn't. If it did, we wouldn't need these rules. It's been getting to the point that Casey is getting hurt and if they don't take a break, it will probably get worse. Casey needs time to sort out a few things. Dr. Yves must know this. She obviously approves and she's the professional.

Hmm. Let's try for a little perspective, shall we? Casey has been trying so hard and hurting so much. Would it be so bad to let him have a few hours of safety and happiness, even if it's wrong for him to place so much emphasis on that one act?

And it's Christmas, and they're in love.

On the other hand, what if they aren't in love at all. What if they're just co--dependent? I know that Zeke is definitely obsessed, and Casey...well, Casey is more or less a sex addict. There's nothing romantic about that.

Yet I can't believe that it's all bad and wrong. I've seen the love. I have. It's being put to the test in the worst way and it may not survive but for now it is there.

And then again, what if they really are having sex in Casey's parents' living room, and they really shouldn't be — how far am I to take my role here? Am I really going to be the sex sheriff? Because that is so not what I want to be. Do I see myself sneaking down there like some perverted Grinch to yank them apart no matter how embarrassing it is?

No, I do not. Like I told Zeke, there are limits.

And I finally feel at peace. It only took an hour or so of tossing about and wrestling with the nastier parts of myself — but I can now sleep.

I wake early, long before anyone else is stirring. The first thing I do is visit the bathroom for a piss and a toothbrushing and gargling. Very much restored by these measures, I head downstairs with my bag of stocking stuffers. And I will admit that despite last night's epiphany, I am somewhat apprehensive as to what I will find there. Because there is still something to worry about; I am not going to make the mistake of backing off altogether as I did once already.

The scene is right out of a magazine: A tall tree with lights glowing, tinsel sparkling, a pile of gifts, a row of lumpy stockings. And sure enough, Zeke and Casey are cuddled up together on the couch. They are both fully dressed, not that that means a thing, arms and legs tangled, a blanket covering them.

I creep over to the stockings and somehow manage to jam my tidbits in despite the fact that the stockings are already more or less full. Then I sit down and watch over Casey and Zeke as they sleep.

The darkness has passed, to be sure, but a part of me asks if this is really a life. Another part of me answers — yeah, it's a life, but it certainly isn't wonderful. The thing is, I've long since given up hoping for something truly extraordinary. When I was a little boy and believed in magic — that was another story. Nowadays, I believe that there are certain kinds of wonderful that I am entitled to expect, much more pragmatic, practical kinds of wonderful that could include a family of my own making and a boyfriend whom I don't really have the time or the energy to love. And let us not forget the kind of wonderful that is in knowing one has been absolutely indispensable in getting friends through hard times.

Oh, for Christ's sake, I don't know why I'm feeling all this angst, and on this day of all days. Here, this is more like me: This situation is temporary, I'm sure that a year from now Casey is going to be another person altogether and then I will just be a very good friend. I'm no fool, I have no expectations of perfection. I'm not like Zeke that way. But I can hope for something good. Something...sustainable.

I am not making a sound but somehow I have disturbed them. Zeke opens his eyes; Casey has his face turned away and his cheek flat against Zeke's chest so I can't see when he wakes, I only see him stir, not long after Zeke begins to move. Zeke lies there blinking slowly, remembering his surroundings, then turns his head far enough to see me. I immediately see that he feels no shame whatsoever about being caught with his hands in the cookie jar, as it were.

"Hey, Sasha," he says, and clears his throat. "What time is it?"

"Ahhh...around eight."

"Why are you up so fucking early?"

"It's Christmas!" I indulge in a little bounce. "There are presents to open, you know?"

Zeke stares at the ceiling. "Sasha...you're acting like a kid."

"So?" I reply.

At this point, Casey squirms, trying to find a way to get upright, and Zeke is forced to sit up or push him off the couch. They reorganize themselves while I wait and watch; when Casey's eyes find me I say, "Good morning, kitten."

He mumbles, "S-Sasha...you're...um, g'morning." And he looks caught, which to me is not a good sign but then, I have to remember that he will tend to feel guilty even when there's nothing to feel guilty about.

"Kitten, would you would make some coffee?" I request. "Since it's Christmas, I think we can even let you have a cup."

Casey has to know that this is a pretext to get him to leave the room for a second but he complies, going into the kitchen. I hunch down, getting a few inches closer to Zeke, and whisper, "Don't jerk me around and don't debate with me. Did anything happen that I should worry about?"

He gazes back at me, completely unruffled, and says, "No, Sasha."

"Okay. Merry Christmas."

"Um...yeah, Merry Christmas."

Perhaps he doesn't believe that I am willing to let it go at that, but I am. I will believe him.

In short order, Casey is back, shuffling in like he's waiting to be chastised. I give him my most cheerful smile. "Okay, kitten."

"O-okay...?" he echoes.

I figure I might as well be explicit. I say, " I'm not angry."

It takes him a few seconds to realize that I am really not going to give him shit. When it does sink in, he smiles back at me in that splendidly charming way that he will from time to time, and then settles in beside Zeke, closing his eyes to catch his last few zees. In the background, the coffee has started to burble.

Right about the time that the smell starts wafting up the stairs, Casey's parents appear. They both look hungover to me but they make no complaint about the early hour. There is a chorus of good mornings and Merry Christmasses. Frank collapses into the love seat with a groan. "Ugh...Casey, how do you feel about getting a coffee for your father?"

"Oh, me too," Allison pleads, sitting down beside her husband.

Casey pops up to get it. Zeke rolls onto his feet with, "I'll help," beating me to it.

They are in the kitchen for a while, during which Aunt Clarissa and Mrs. Berringer make their appearance, and there is another chorus of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. Some rearrangement of seating is necessary to make a comfortable space for Mrs. Berringer.

By now I am actually about ten years old and I can't wait to find out everything — who got what for whom, how they react. This is not a material thing. I see the selection of gifts, Christmas or otherwise, as an exercise in how well we know each other. Everything I give to Casey, or Zeke, or Allison, is a message from me to them. And the same from them to me, even if they don't know it.

Casey and Zeke return from the kitchen, bearing several mugs of coffee; the pot must be empty already, and Zeke announces that they have already started a second batch. I receive my mug of joe, and commit a minute or two to enjoy watching Casey take two or three long sips from his own. His eyes close in pleasure.

"Is it good?" Zeke asks, smiling at him.

"Oh, yeah," he sighs.

I inquire, "So what's the system?"

"System?" Zeke echoes.

"Does everyone take turns opening or is just a free-for-all?"

Amused, Clarissa replies, "First we all open our stocking stuffers together and then for the rest we take turns. We go from youngest to oldest."

Zeke punches Casey on the arm, very lightly. "Your idea, I'll bet."

Clarissa returns, "Actually it was. He was seven at the time, but he's been benefitting from it ever since."

"Not really," Casey defends himself. "Brittany and Noah were usually here...and um...Michael, he would be the youngest now."

I know that he's just playing along but from her expression, Clarissa isn't sure that he's not truly upset. She hastens to reassure him, "I know...I'm just kidding."

"Well!" I exclaim. "Let's get to it!"

I get up and remove each stocking from its place, distributing them. The excavation of my stocking takes some sweat; things are jammed in so tightly, most of them small, oblong items wrapped in a mosaic of bits of paper and ten layers of tape to hold it together. After some picking and peeling, I uncover one orange, one fancy truffle, a baggie of Christmas-tinted M&M's, a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels, a small sachet of gourmet coffee, another baggie of homemade shortbread cookies tied with red and green ribbon, and a package of mint gum, which I will undoubtedly need. To everyone else's stocking I have added tiny jars of red pepper jelly, Thai spice rub and orange-ginger chutney, all made by yours truly.

"Let the eating begin," I sigh to myself. I glance over to see what Casey is getting — because if he has received alcohol and coffee, I may have to confiscate them. I'm pleased to see that whoever is the Booze Santa, they have skipped Casey. Instead, he has an assortment of teas, some that I have never heard of. I think the latter must be from Clarissa.

"Wow...Thai spice rub..." Allison remarks, turning the jar around in her hands. "That's really different. Is that from you, Sasha?"

I nod.

"Did you make it?"

Very demure, I nod again. If fact, I made them with Jerry at his apartment, almost two months ago now. For some moments I am lost remembering how we had a very good time over it, eventually devolving from a very orderly operation to a game of tag around his kitchen, which then further degraded to another kind of game.

And now I am back at the Connor residence and it is Christmas morning and I have no Jerry. I forcing myself to be the upbeat, stoic Sasha that everyone has come to expect, and make note of the renewed expressions of interest and enthusiasm for my little jars of savoury goodness. I think it must have been assumed that I bought them or something, even though they are labelled in my own handwriting.

"What do you use it for?" Allison asks, looking stressed as she peers at the contents of her jar.

Frank snorts. "You rub it on things, obviously. Like meat."

I think I am astonished.

I put my own stocking goodies aside and approach the mountain under the tree. Careful to avoid triggering an avalanche, I dig up and distribute three or four gifts for everyone. Because I'm every bit as childish as Zeke accuses, I make sure that for himself and Casey, one of those gifts is from me. While I am doing this, I discover a very large, heavy and nondescript rectangular gift from Casey and Zeke, to me. It will be the first gift that I open; I hold it on my lap while I wait for it to be my turn.

There were several gifts from Frank and Allison to Casey, but the one I brought to him is the one that looks the most fun. It is the right shape and weight for DVD's; it turns out to be a collection of Orson Welles' films. I wonder if they rushed out and bought this after Casey came home and had his talk with them, or if they had already gotten it. They had to know he liked movies before, but I can't imagine they would have thought to buy this. Casey is speechless at first, but he manages to thank his parents in a breathless, shaky voice. I see his eyes are a bit glimmery and I have to think stern thoughts to keep from going that way myself.

Next it is Zeke's turn. He too is opening a present from Frank and Allison and I am absolutely on the edge of my seat with wondering what they have come up with. Inside the small, flat box are a pair of fine, leather gloves and a scarf, both of which are understated, very much in Zeke's style — and a pair of flannel pajamas.

"Thank you," he says, looking funny.

"Are they okay?" Allison asks.

"They're — great. Thank you."

My turn. I tear into the package from Casey and Zeke.

It's a conglomeration. There is a large saucepan, a replacement for the one that got ruined a while ago, and a second one, even larger than the first. They are both chef's grade Langostina, heavy, jewel-shiny and absolutely beautiful to my eyes. A wrapped CD-shape turns out to be a collection of jazz standards, in complete and shameless violation of copyright. It is a home-made CD but someone has gone to some effort to design a cover and make it look professional.

"This is wonderful!" I cry.

"Casey did that," Zeke says. "I take no credit."

"But how did you — know which — ?"

"Research," Casey says, as though it were obvious.

And there's more — a silver envelope containing a certificate for a full day's pampering at Ummelina International Day Spa in downtown Seattle. I am starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. "Oh, my god...thank you — " I start.

"Wait, there's more," Casey says.

I realize that there is something else clipped to the certificate from Ummelina's. Revealed, it turns out to be another certificate, the text printed in a romantic, scrolling font, all designed to look very official: Redeemable for one multi- course candlelight dinner for two at 1680 Findlay Street. Meal prepared, served and cleaned up after by Chefs Casey Connor and Zeke Tyler. But the message from them to me is: We know and appreciate everything that you do, Sasha. Thank you for making our apartment a home. Thank you for putting up with everything. We love you.

Well, I am a self-confessed cheeseball. I have no option but to cry — but I intend to make it short and not too sappy. Of course, Casey rather spoils my plan by jumping up to hug me; as a result, I nearly lose it completely. I focus on Zeke who is just rolling his eyes and this helps me to contain myself.

It turns out that Clarissa is the eldest child in the family, so Casey's parents are next. They open their gifts from Casey. He has gotten his mother a very attractive silk scarf and new addition to her ceramic Christmas village. For his father, there are two tickets to a Seattle Seahawks game. I guess Casey fibbed a little when he said he didn't start shopping until a few days ago; this stuff took advance planning and consideration. Once again he has surprised the hell out of me.

Frank seems quite moved by his gift, by the way. He does the man thing, coughing and going red and saying, "Thanks, pal. Thanks. We're going to go...you and me, right?"

Casey nods. "So...you like it?"

"Of course I like it."

"Good," Casey says. He bites his lip then says in a rush, "Because I used your credit card."

He is obviously trying to be irreverent and funny — obvious to me, that is. There is a pause, a sustained breath while everyone waits for Frank's reaction. Then he laughs, and Casey looks almost shaky with relief.

I have known for some time that I am having the privilege of observing a love story unfold — and I'm not talking about Casey and Zeke. I'm talking about Casey and his father. It always makes me ache a little, just like it's doing now. Inevitably, my thoughts turn towards my own father. How I ridiculed him at times. How I never really attempted to show an interest in his interests. I happen to know that my father loves taking things apart and figuring out how they work, but I never bothered to let him know that I understood him. I was an arrogant, know-it-all teen- ager, a stage that Casey appears to have skipped entirely.

While I am reflecting on life and the universe, Clarissa has taken her turn. From her sister and brother-in-law, she has a beautiful new sweater and a pair of silver earrings that seem very much to her taste. She puts on the sweater over her sleepwear and declares that she is going to get the freshly brewed coffee and refill everyone's cups.

It is now Casey's grandmother's turn. She has uncovered a basket from Hickory Farms, full of meats and cheeses and crackers. She seems quite pleased, although it isn't something that would have been my first choice to buy as a gift. But then I know it can be difficult to buy for the elderly sometimes, because they seem to already have everything they could possibly want or need. the family know her I guess and they must know that she has a thing for Hickory Farms.

I must have Casey open my gift now.

"Kitten, open that one," I beg, pointing to the two-tiered set of rectangular packages, all in gold.

He gives me another of his sweet little smiles and does as I ask. The first, small box contains a pair of earrings, because I know he would never in a million years get them himself. They are very plain, small silver rings that I have seen on many a male, not terribly expensive either. I don't expect him to wear them both; just one would be the way to go, or two in the same ear. I view them as an experiment and if he doesn't ever wear them, so be it. I'm not going to tell him that, however.

"You got me jewellery again," Casey says, with a faint grin. He gets it. I'm not so certain that Frank and Zeke get it; they are both scowling.

"That's right," I reply.

"I didn't say I would get my ears pierced."

"Well, it's either that or the eyebrow waxing, kitten." I'm having a great time, but I think I may have milked this entertainment as far as I can. "Go on, open the other."

It is a much larger, heavier item and I'm sure Casey knows it is a cookbook long before he opens it. The title is Just Like Mom Used to Make. It's a comprehensive archive of recipes that Casey — and I, if I am perfectly honest — would remember from childhood. "Here's the deal," I say. "You choose one recipe every week from that book and I'll make it for you."

Casey is flipping through already. "‘Tuna casserole?'" he says in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Sloppy Joes?"

I swallow the desire to howl. "Yes."

"Peanut butter marshmallow squares?"

"Whatever you want."

From the expression on Casey's face, I think we may just have moved beyond truce to full detente on the food front. Of course, I have not said that I will stop attempting to expand his culinary horizons and he hasn't said he won't try new things. The day will come when he is ready to leave Cheese Whiz and Tuna Helper behind — but not yet. In the meantime, I will make sure he takes a multi-vitamin.

"I suppose I should open this one?" Zeke wonders, tapping his present from me.

I am equally interested in Casey's gift to him, but I quickly nod my head. For Zeke, I have gotten an electronic subscription to the American Journal of Speculative Philosophy, which mercifully I won't have to pay for until January at the earliest. Just so that he doesn't get an empty box from me, I have also gotten him the latest edition of Trivial Pursuit, but this is really a gift for the whole gang — including me, I'm sure. The game goes over even better than I expected; both Casey and Zeke seem eager to pull off the plastic and crack open that box of cards. I guess I don't really grasp the fun in collecting obscure facts, but I enjoy their enthusiasm for it.

We go around the room again, and for his next turn Casey chooses his present from Zeke. I see Zeke watching him, trying his darndest not to appear eager, because...well, he's Zeke. There is to be no untoward or unfounded sentimentality around him.

Casey unwraps a digital camera — a "Canon EOS 20D", and whatever that means I know one thing: It's expensive. I think Frank is the most impressed of the lot of us. He keeps saying, "Wow...pretty neat, pal...pretty neat." Casey looks stunned; I think he sometimes forgets that Zeke can pretty much buy whatever the hell he wants. "Most of the reviews say this one's the best," Zeke notes. He looks a bit flushed. "For...for amateur photographers."

"I...don't know what to...thank you." Casey hesitates, leans in and kisses Zeke, just alongside his mouth, not quite on his cheek. The parents more or less avert their eyes, while the grandmother feels free to make a disapproving noise.

"Mom," whispers Clarissa.

Zeke ignores it; I know him well enough to know that this is an act of politeness. "You can use it in Los Angeles," he says to Casey. It comes out a little bit questioning. He is not looking at me either, and this is not politeness. "Maybe you'll snap a shot of a celebrity."

"Right..." Casey has already turned the box over and is reading the back.

Zeke nudges him. "Can I open mine now?"

Tearing himself away, Casey answers, "Oh, yes."

Casey's present to Zeke is contained in a very large gift bag and camouflaged by tissue paper. Zeke sticks his hand in and comes out with another homemade CD. This one has only a black gradient pattern on the cover, and no title; nor have the songs been identified. "What's on it?" Zeke asks, turning it over several times.

"You'll have to listen to it," Casey answers, with a certain thrum in his voice that suggests things to remain implied. The effect on Zeke is instantaneous; I have to clear my throat to remind him that he's right in the middle of a task.

Next, he pulls out several books: The Random House-Webster's College Dictionary and Thesaurus, a dictionary of philosophical terms, and a book discussing the philosophy of The Simpsons.

"Awesome," is Zeke's comment. "So does this mean I can't get your editorial services anymore?"

"Um...unless you don't want me to..."

"Of course I want you to," Zeke says. I see him squeeze Casey's hand before he dips into the bag one more time. "Is there any more down here?"

"Sorry — "

"Geez, Zeke," I say, teasing mostly.

Zeke lets the bag drop. "I'm just kidding around. This is awesome...thank you."

For me, the climax of the morning has been achieved but there are still many gifts to open. Casey receives a yoga mat from his Aunt Clarissa and a shirt from his grandmother; from his parents, more clothing, and a watch. Delilah also has given him clothing, a shirt and tie that I know Casey would never pick out for himself but will be absolutely stunning on him; Allison remarks that he might be able to wear that to the wedding and I wonder if there isn't some sort of conspiracy at work. Stokely has given him twenty-five dollars for the movie theatre, and Stan has surprised me by giving him a book of Ansel Adams prints. I sense Charly's hand in this again, and so does Zeke, I would imagine, but he doesn't say anything.

Zeke has, in addition to what Frank and Allison already got him, has some warm socks and a desk-side coffee-cup warmer. From Stokely, he has a novelty ashtray, made out of lavarock or some such.

The Connors have given me a handmade sampler quilt; I adore it immediately, not because it is particularly to my taste but because it seems to have been carefully chosen to suggest affection and warmth. From my side, I have given them a large fillet of smoked salmon from a specialty shop in Seattle. Zeke got them $100 in gift certificates from Sojourn, which will get them started on a nice dinner. It is clearly expected that they will be visiting soon.

Casey gives his aunt and grandmother each a small gift basket of smelly bath products, and apologizes that he couldn't give more. They tell him not to be silly, so I don't have to.

"Hey, Sasha," Clarissa says as she crawls around rounding up a few stray packages. "There's another one for you here."

It's a small box that I have been fearing greatly — Jerry's gift. Before leaving Seattle I went back and forth in my head about whether I even wanted to bring it with me; I eventually just stuffed it in my luggage. Then once I was here, I debated whether I should put it under the tree. No gift ever had such a long, tortured journey to reach its destination, and as much as I may fear that box, I am also desperate to know what's inside it. I open it quickly.

The only thing inside is a sheet of paper. In Jerry's handwriting, it says, Dear Sasha, I hope you are having the wonderful Christmas that you deserve. I am at my mother's right now with my family and I wish the very same for you. I will be here all day, probably. If you want to call and wish me a Merry Christmas, the number is 206-555-6924.

Staring at the note, my mouth moves almost involuntarily. I hear myself request, "Can I use your phone...um, Frank, it's long distance but I'll pay for it."

"Don't sweat it," Frank says, obviously feeling magnanimous.

Trembling, I go into the kitchen and dial the number of Jerry's parents' house. "Hello?" says a young voice.

"Hi...um, may I speak to Jerry, please?"

Without covering the mouthpiece, the child at the other end screeches, "Jerry! It's for you!"

There is a wait, and my heart pounds. I am not usually nervous about talking to anyone but I am right now. My hand sweats and I have no idea what I am going to say.

"Hello?"

"Jerry...it's Sasha."

"Oh," he says.

"I...I'm at the Connors."

"Oh...that's good."

Well, this is just brilliant. I try to drive up the ambient wit on the line a few levels. "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too."

"Are you having a good time? Did you get some good stuff?"

"Yeah...thanks for the wine. I can't believe you did that."

I bought him a bottle of 1990 Chateau la Tour Cabernet Sauvignon. It's not a wine that a person will be able to enjoy every day unless they are either very lucky or very rich. I blurt, "Will you share it with me?"

"Huh?"

He's obviously feeling at a loss right now. I explain patiently, "I would like to share that bottle with you."

"What are you saying, Sasha?"

The moment has come when I have to take the risk that every person in the house is eavesdropping on me and, in a moment, will know exactly what I'm up to. I throw integrity, nobility, and caution to the winds and proceed at full volume: "I'm saying...I don't want it to be over."

Jerry's breath catches audibly. I must go on before I can lose my nerve.

"I'm saying I want to keep trying. Maybe it won't work out but I want to try and you're completely free to tell me to fuck off of course but...I'm saying I don't want to lose you, Jerry."

There is silence.

"What do you think?" I ask, and my voice shakes slightly.

He is still not talking.

"Um...babe? I could really use some sort of response right now."

From a thousand miles away, Jerry says, "I want to keep trying too."

"Oh..." And now I falter. The tears come in a rush and I have to fight them back just so I can speak, so I can let him know without delay how relieved, how happy I am feeling. If I weren't on the phone I wouldn't have this problem; if I weren't on the phone I would be able to just throw myself into his arms and — anyway, I have to talk, I have to tell him now, immediately: "That's so...that's really good. I'm really, really...well, glad."

"Me too." He, too, sounds like he might be struggling with emotion. "When do you get back here?"

"I'm..." I clear my throat. "I'm working a shift at the restaurant on Thursday night...my flight gets in that morning."

"I'll call you."

"Yes, please..." Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and feel something like contentment for the first time in...quite a long time. "Hey, babe, guess what? Zeke and Casey are going to cook a gourmet dinner for us."

A pause, then: "Are they?"

"That's what the card says."

"That should be interesting." Jerry pauses. "Actually, I think it'll be great."

And it is this moment when I finally know that I love him.

For brunch, there is a southwestern-style egg and ham strata, lovely cinnamon buns and a festive fruit salad. I find that I am hungrier than I've been in quite a while, and eat with gusto, earning a huge smile of appreciation from Allison.

Once the wrapping paper has been cleaned up and everyone has groomed and dressed, there is always the question of what to do next. There have been invitations to visit here and there, but Frank in particular doesn't want to go anywhere. He and Allison have a brief conversation about it and she agrees that she is perfectly okay with sticking around at home.

It is a quiet, perfect, peaceful day, the kind that I haven't had for months and months. Casey plays with his camera for quite a while, reading through the manual and getting familiar with the various bells and whistles. He takes practice shots of everyone; I know he must be an excellent photographer because I look good in every single one. I sip eggnog — minus the rum, today — and join Casey, Zeke and Clarissa in a game of Trivial Pursuit, occasionally wandering into the kitchen to offer Allison some help. Frank sneaks off to his den for a while to watch TV until he is caught and castigated. He rejoins us in the living room, listening in to our game and watching his son interact with everyone. I also observe Casey as he sits next to Zeke on the floor; he is fully participating in the game and only losing focus once in a while when no one has paid attention to what he's doing for a bit too long. I have agreed to let him and Zeke be team-mates this time, and they are absolutely slaughtering Clarissa and me. But that's okay. They're having fun.

It feels so normal, so tame and wonderful that I start to get a little nervous. Where are the panic attacks, the outbursts...or, going back to my earlier life history, where are the alcoholic debates, the bickering and the blood? I have no choice but to conclude that this is the best day that I've had in a long while. And I'm not trying too hard either. I know that I can do that sometimes...but that's not what's going on here.

The game wraps up all too quickly. Casey and Zeke are campaigning for a re-match but Clarissa and I are completely beaten and demoralized. I am about to suggest that Casey and Zeke go head to head when Frank puts his hands down on his knees, stands up and announces, "Casey...I think it's time for a driving lesson."

Casey looks stunned. Then he starts to stammer. "I — but I — right now?"

"Why not?"

"I already taught him," Zeke announces.

"Oh...I see."

Frank looks just about as devastated as I have ever seen. I am about to throw Zeke one of my patented, busybody looks, but he goes on, exemplifying the generosity of which he is very capable when he wants to be, "But we just had the one session...he's not ready to do the test or anything."

Brightening, Frank says to Casey, "Come on, pal. You need to learn how to handle the winter conditions. When I was a boy, my dad took me out one day after it'd just snowed."

"Um," Casey says. "I don't know --- "

"Sure you do, pal. Come on, you can't panic every time your wheels fishtail a little."

I am a little bit nervous on Casey's behalf although I'm not sure why. Perhaps a little concerned about safety. I wish I could invite myself along...but Casey would probably rather not have an audience. And he is safe with his father; for one thing, Frank's car has to be one of the heaviest vehicles on the road. I must satisfy myself with fussing over Casey, making sure he wears his new scarf; I tie it for him, making a jaunty, stylish knot at his throat. "There," I say, sending him out, "Just like a Gap ad."

I return to the couch, sitting down next to Clarissa. Zeke is on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, fiddling with pie pieces. "So do you want another game?" he asks, without very much enthusiasm.

"Uh...I don't think my ego is up to it," Clarissa says.

Zeke shrugs. He is looking positively gloomy all of a sudden.

"Something the matter?" I ask.

Zeke glances at Clarissa, who quickly declares an intention to go help Allison in the kitchen. Once she is out of the room, he lowers his voice to a hiss and demands, "Why did you get him earrings?"

"Why not? They're just for fun."

"But it's not like you're with him."

It takes several seconds for me to get my head around this, and then something clicks into place. I've been with Casey almost non-stop lately and Zeke's been shut up in his room without access to any of his usual methods of reassuring himself that Casey is his. I can't believe I missed this, but then, why wouldn't I? It would appear that figuring out human nature hasn't been my strong suit these past few weeks.

I say it as kindly as I can: "Don't be jealous."

His head jerks a full quarter-turn to avoid looking at me. "I'm not jealous."

I don't bother to argue; I merely raise my eyebrows.

"Why would I be jealous of you?" he says.

I shrug. "I don't know...and believe me, I am the last person you need to worry about. Sure Casey is hot stuff and as far as you're concerned he's irresistible but trust me...I can resist. I have no problem resisting."

There is something eating Zeke, that's for sure. I know that he is "the jealous type" but he and I both know this is ridiculous. And yet here he is being completely sullen. He won't even look in my direction.

"Zeke, c'mon," I coax, trying cute since reason has failed.

"You didn't have to buy him jewellery."

Okay, now I am fed up. "For Christ's sake, you can buy him jewellery too if you want."

"I don't want."

"Well, then, get over yourself."

"Sasha..." Zeke finally turns his head and it is hurt that I see, not anger. "It's just...you're the one he trusts."

"He trusts you too," I protest, utterly baffled. "Are you kidding? He trusts you."

Zeke just shakes his head. I don't know what thoughts or insecurities he's harbouring, but they are doing a number on him. Like Casey, he is need of some hard evidence.

I say, "Remember back a few weeks ago when he had that terrible panic attack? I was freaking out, I was going to call an ambulance...and you were the one who calmed him down. Not me. I was useless."

Finally, something I have said is having some impact on him; some of the heavy misery is lifting. "Right," he says, swallowing hard. I am just in the midst of working on something else I can say to pacify him when Clarissa returns to the living room. "Everything's under control in there!" she says brightly. She has yet another orange in one hand, and a Ferrero Rocher in the other. If there is to be more to this conversation, it will have to wait until another day when there are fewer relatives around.

A couple of hours later, Frank and Casey return from the driving lesson, and they are both smiling. They tell us that they went to the deserted mall parking lot, and Casey learned how to spin the car a full 360 degrees like a Hollywood stunt driver. He also learned to parallel park, but obviously that's of far less relevance to him.

Christmas Dinner is very good, although very traditional: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and of course, sweet potatoes. There is a little more novelty to the other side dishes. Again, I surprise myself by being hungry. It is probably because my stomach has been stretched to twice its normal size; I can literally feel myself expanding as I eat. I resolve to resume eating like a normal person tomorrow, but in the meantime I will enjoy the jellied salad and the honey garlic carrots and the chocolate Christmas pudding and the nuts and the shortbread and yes, I will even enjoy the fruitcake.

Later, I decide that I am in need of an after-Christmas-dinner walk. I make inquiries and no one looks interested. "I'm going to help with the dishes," Casey says, and Zeke adds quickly: "I should help too." So I end up walking by myself.

It is actually very pleasant to be alone. The air is crisp and invigorating, very cold — no snow falling tonight. There are many tidy little houses decorated neatly with lights and wreaths and bows. Some are absolutely classy; others are sentimental without being tacky, and then others are just tacky. And I enjoy them all. I do laps on the sidewalk, up and down the Connors' street, using perhaps twenty or thirty of the ten thousand calories that I have ingested.

It's a stupid thing to do maybe, but I find myself thinking about what my parents, siblings, relatives are doing right now. Most likely cleaning up after dinner, just like here. Once the clean-up is over, many of them will leave, move on to other parties or just go home to digest. My sisters and brother may go out in search of good will, leaving my parents alone. He may kiss her on the cheek and wish her a Merry Christmas now that there is no one around to see it, then settle in his armchair to nod off under the weight of too much food and booze. I know they don't talk about the fact that I'm not there, but I do wonder if they ever think about it. I think they must.

Softly, barely above a whisper, I speak the words that I have not uttered in eight years: "Merry Christmas, Dad. Merry Christmas, Mom."

And then I turn and walk back to where I belong.

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