Temperance Creek. Pamela Royes

keeping their office affairs running smoothly for nearly fifty years. It must be hard, I thought, really looking at him. He was sixty-three, trying to build a reputation in a new place, without contacts or connections. And then Dad, his jaw tightening, interrupted Randy to ask Mark how his car was running.

      “I don’t have a car. Nobody in Paris drives. Parking in Paris is inconceivable.” He lounged against the back of the chair, indolent under Dad’s scrutiny. “I walk,” he said, “or take the metro.”

      “But I thought your mother and I loaned you money for a car? What did that check go toward?”

      “Bruce,” Mom said, “let’s not get into that now.” She got up and packed a few dishes into the kitchen, hoping to deflect the tension. Here we go, I thought, torn between retreating to my bedroom or shouting out loud, Here’s an idea, how about we just get along!

      I was relieved when Dad retired to the den to watch the news, or the parade, or whatever it was that people watched on Christmas Eve when they were trying to avoid one another. Randy jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen, and we gathered dishes and began filling the dishwasher.

      With Mark home, Randy told me he’d gotten off easy this Christmas. “Dad’s actually supportive of me working in the county assessor’s office. Hasn’t mentioned taking the Realtor’s exam once.”

      “Surreal,” I said, handing him a plate to stack. He raised his eyebrows and peered meaningfully at me over the top of his glasses.

      “I have a job with benefits,” Randy said. “Stability.”

      “Stability,” I echo, singing the word to the tune of “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof. Randy grinned and pointed to a glass, and I handed it to him. “How does it feel to be the only one toeing the line?”

      “I’m not sure whether to feel relief or concern,” Randy said. “I mean, what have I let go of in return for his approval?” I knew he was talking about his art degree. “It’s odd, sharing this sense of camaraderie with him.”

      “But you were never in trouble. You’ve always been the perfect child,” I retorted, wondering if I should confide in him, tell him I want to quit school and travel. We sparred around, giving each other little wet-handed slaps, and went back to the dining room where Mark and Mom were deep in conversation. Randy sat down, but I stood, undecided.

      “I’m going to my bedroom, do a little reading,” I said, walking around the table to give them hugs, Mark smelling of unfiltered French nicotine, of subways and dark cafés. “Thanks, Mom, outstanding dinner, as usual. Merry Christmas.”

      “No rum cake?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.

      “Not tonight, too full.”

      Dad was in the den sitting in his straight-backed chair with his socks off. I wanted to tell him how I felt about school, but I didn’t know how. I stood beside him, neither of us speaking. Then I said, “What you watching?”

      “Movie. Say, we haven’t talked about your grades. Your mother and I are concerned about you moving out to that farm. You did say farm? With those . . . people.”

      “School’s good. I’m feeling really good about everything.”

      He looked up at me.

      “Well, a wonderful Christmas Eve. I’m going to bed now so I can get up before Santa.” I bent over and hugged him. “I love you Dad, g’night.”

      “Night, Pammy. Good to have you home.”

      “Dad, maybe we could take a drive tomorrow?”

      “Sure.”

      In my room I rummaged through my suitcase, found my book, and flopped on the bed.

      Compared to my gap year after high school graduation, my junior year of college was tasting bland as canned bamboo. At age eighteen, fresh from the constraints of parental supervision, I’d bought a ticket on a ferry to Anchorage, Alaska, and spent the next six months hiking glaciers, eating crab, and watching moose glide through Sitka spruce woods on telescoping legs outside my single-wide trailer. I’d thrown back two shots of Wild Turkey before beginning my nightly shift at Chilicoot Charlie’s, where I’d deflected the advances of union pipeline employees who laid down fifty-dollar tips and kept their hands to themselves until the power went out and serving drinks turned into a game of catch and release. In January, sun-starved and almost at a loss as to how to keep my VW running in subzero temperatures, I traversed the frozen ALCAN Highway with a companion in a loaf-shaped bread truck (my bug towed behind) and spent four months working for an Arabian horse trainer in the Arizona desert, hanging out with a group of college baseball players, the pitcher a good friend from high school. The year had ended with a three-week train tour of Europe with my fifty-one-year-old mother. In Paris, we were joined by my brother Mark and his redheaded friend Yves, only too happy to act as guide. Yves and I rode the subways, French-kissed in cinemas with English subtitles, and sipped Drambuie in dark underground cafés while my brother chaperoned my mother through vaulted museums of priceless art.

      Now, listening to the night noises in my parents’ house, I couldn’t put my finger on what had gone wrong. After a year’s stint at a community college, I’d moved to Eugene and enrolled in the University of Oregon’s animal science program, but now after two and a half years even the prerequisites were killing me and I was beginning to question whether a career as a veterinarian was merely a childhood fantasy. I hadn’t gotten close to anything four-legged and still breathing, and I loathed the Willamette Valley rain and the repetitive conventionality of my current course, the inevitable Birkenstocks, soybeans, and granola liberalism of campus life.

      I’d made friends in the art department and was seeing a med student named David. But the old farm I was living in outside of town, and my roommates there, were the reasons I was still in Eugene, still in school. That, and not wanting to disappoint my parents.

      I opened my book to the bookmark, and a napkin with a map drawn on it fell out. I picked it up and remembered meeting with Chuck last week for a beer. He’d asked me how school was going.

      “Every chance, I’m gone,” I’d said. “To the coast, to the mountains. I’ve gotten to where I drive home some weekends to be with my parents. How weird is that?”

      “Why don’t you come out to northeastern Oregon? Annie and I are renovating the old schoolhouse in Minam. There’s this whole group of people living in the hills. Like us. It’s nuts. During your break, drive out, spend a few days. Look, I’ll draw you a map.”

      I tucked the napkin in the back of the book. From the other room, I heard raised voices.

      Mark: “I’m going out.”

      Dad: “What would you find open on Christmas Eve?”

      Mark: “A bar.”

      Dad: “You must know your mother and I are concerned about your drinking. Where is the money going that we send you? Why with all your education can’t you find a decent job?”

      Mark: “There’s no talking to you.”

      The door shut. The room went silent. I heard the sound of a car engine catching and the garage door opening. I got up and watched his headlights make the corner at the intersection and disappear down the hill, knowing he’d spend the rest of the evening in the pub and not come back until we were all in bed. I doubted Dad slept when he was here. I didn’t think Dad had ever tried to understand why he and Mark didn’t get along, just accepted their relationship as difficult. One that required a lot of space. Like the distance between here and Antarctica, or Pluto. Miles of space. I don’t think he knew Mark was gay. But he knew something was different.

      After Mark left, I remembered my gifts for the family, still in the car. And that cake. The television was blaring, and when I peeked into the living room, I could see Mom’s empty Seagram’s glass and her, asleep in the chair. As I sliced the cake, I watched Dad touch her shoulder and then give it a gentle shake, saying, “Lois.”