Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

the chair to the couch next to my grandmother. I give Grandma a hug. She barely touches me as she hugs me back.

      Grandma—a prim, expensively coifed Southern widow of a prominent physician and the quiet matriarch of the Westfall family—still lives in Louisiana. She’s been generous with me through the years, but distant. I’m like one of her charities that she donates to. I wonder sometimes if that will change after Dad’s gone, if she’ll see me as the last link to her lost son. I wonder if she knows it’ll be about eighteen years too late.

      “The kids are dying to open their gifts,” Aunt Olivia says. “But I told them they had to wait until you guys got here.” She calls out to Aunt Whitney and my uncles to join us.

      Every year I dread this part of Christmas day—the gift exchange. Mom put her foot down years ago about exchanging gifts with extended family. It was just too much—the shopping, the expense. She asked that they not purchase gifts for us either. At first I resented her for that. Why shouldn’t they give us gifts? They can afford it.

      I don’t see it that way anymore.

      We sit awkwardly, pretending to enjoy watching our pajama-clad relatives unwrap presents. It infuriates Mom that we are subjected to this year after year, but it never changes. Aunt Whitney refuses to let anyone open a gift until we are all together. And Dad has refused to allow anything or anyone—not his wife or his child—to get in the way of his childhood tradition. They’ve fought about it for as long as I can remember. Dad always wins.

      Mom’s jaw tightens when Aunt Olivia hands her a small envelope with a red bow on it. Once again, they have refused to respect her request. Mom opens the envelope. Inside is a hundred-dollar gift card to Chico’s. She never shops in that store; apparently, she should. The card is signed by both of my aunts and my grandmother.

      For me there’s an emergency roadside kit and two tickets to the Iron Maiden concert at the Pavilion. Metal music is not really my thing, but I love the outdoor amphitheater, and at least it’s not The Beach Boys or Chicago or Jimmy Buffett. It’s that kind of venue. I actually like both gifts, but not nearly as much as the car stereo Mom gave me this morning. I have to install it myself, but I’m cool with that. I don’t look at Mom as I thank everyone.

      Dad doesn’t open his own gifts. They are piled all around him on the couch. Aunt Whitney sits on the floor in front of him, opening them one by one, exclaiming over each like he’s a two-year-old.

      “Oh, wow, a saint’s bracelet. This is beautiful.” She moves her fingers from square to square as she indentifies the saints thereon and their heavenly assignments. I can feel Mom’s smirk from across the room. When she’s done with muster, Aunt Whitney says to my dad, “Here, let me put it on your arm.”

      Another gift. “Oh, look what Mom got you. This throw looks warm too.” She tosses it over Dad’s lap.

      Grandma tucks it under his leg. “You’ve always loved owls,” she says thoughtfully, “even when you were a little boy.”

      It’s hard for me to imagine my dad as a little boy, or my grandmother as a doting mom.

      There’s a new LSU cap, which Aunt Whitney places on Dad’s head. His face is slack on one side, and when he crooks a weak smile, the look is ghoulish. There’s a marked increase in his sluggishness today, almost a catatonia. Whether it’s the cancer or the morphine, I don’t know. Probably both.

      I can’t watch anymore. I head up to the media room. The cousins are playing Rock Band. I settle onto a couch in the back, behind the captain’s chairs, and pull out my cell phone.

      “Are you texting your boyfriend?” Franny asks with a knowing grin. She thinks my being gay is so romantic.

      “Yeah,” I say.

      Andrew

      The first text hits my in-box during Christmas dinner. It’s just the three of us—Mom, Dad, and me—so we don’t stand much on ceremony. We’re eating in front of the television, our plates balanced on our laps, doing our traditional Christmas thing—watching It’s a Wonderful Life.

      I fish my phone out of my pocket just as James Stewart crashes his car into a tree during a snowstorm. I don’t recognize the number. I view the text anyway.

      Hey.

      Hmph. I thumb in a reply. Who is this?

      Robert.

      I smile to myself. I’m surprised, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little pleased.

      Robert! Merry Christmas, my friend.

      Merry Christmas to you too.

      You caught me right in the middle of turkey and a movie.

      Oh. Sorry. What movie?

      “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Have you had Christmas dinner already?

      Just about to. I’ve never seen the movie. Any good?

      The first 20 times, yes. Now, it’s just kind of habit.

      “Is that Maya?” Mom asks.

      “No. It’s a student of mine.” When she doesn’t respond, I look up at her. “His dad is dying of cancer. I think he’s a little traumatized by the whole thing, poor kid.”

      “A boy?” she asks. I detect a hint of something in her voice, a slight disapproval, perhaps, but I dismiss it as a figment of my imagination. “Yeah. A senior. He’s one of my AP Calculus kids.”

      I slip my phone back in my pocket and take a bite of stuffing, ignoring the vibration.

      Are you with your family today?

      Yeah. In Oklahoma.

      Oklahoma? Really? Drive or fly?

      Drove.

      Is it cold there?

      So cold the snowman out front is begging me to take him inside.

      So cold Santa had to jumpstart Rudolph?

      When I put on my coat to take out the trash, it wouldn’t go.

      So cold the local flasher had to describe himself to women?

      I laugh out loud. I’m walking Shep for my dad. It’s actually not that cold outside—I’m pretty sure the flashers are still doing a brisk business. I love walking around my old neighborhood. The houses are smaller than I remember, the trees bigger. But it kind of makes me feel like a kid again.

      I flex my thumbs. It’s been a while since I’ve carried on such an extensive conversation using the keyboard on my phone. And Robert is quick with the thumbs. My texts, on the other hand, always take a little longer to compose.

      The aging springer spaniel sits patiently while I thumb out another response.

      Ahahaha. So what did Santa bring you this Christmas?

      The pause drags out, and I’m beginning to think he’s grown bored or I’ve said something wrong when the next text comes in.

      So what do you like about AfterElton? The articles, right? Ha, ha.

      At first I’m confused. And then I get it. My Twitter account. Shit. But I can’t help being a little flattered, too, that he’s checked me out.

      The articles. Absolutely!

      My response sounds coy, but it’s the truth. AfterElton isn’t some kind of online Playboy for gay men, after all. It’s more of a pop culture news site, but the articles, columns, and such have a gay focus. The site has nothing to do with Elton John, but the name does refer to the musician’s public coming out, a milestone for gay men.

      It doesn’t surprise me that Robert knows about AfterElton. It does surprise me that he knows about me.

      But I’m more concerned that he avoided my question.

      Do you have brothers and sisters? he texts.

      Nope.