Thanksgiving

The fake fire was ablaze in the loft one cold night in November. Brian and Justin were in their familiar position watching the fake flames. Brian was beginning to like the fireplace as much as Justin, not for its aesthetics but because he felt especially close to Justin when they sat together there. "We have been too busy the last few days," He remarked to Justin, "It's good just to sit here with nothing planned." Justin nodded but he didn't say anything because Justin had something planned.

"Thanksgiving is next week, Brian. You do observe Thanksgiving, don't you?" Justin asked.

"I observe everything these days," Brian said, "It keeps me out of trouble with you. You know we're going to Debbie's in the afternoon and over to see Gus in the evening so you know we are observing Thanksgiving - your way - as usual. By the way, Debbie always has a fantastic Thanksgiving dinner. Please don't eat so much that there won't be enough for the rest of us. People will think I don't feed you at home."

"You don't feed me at home," Justin pointed out, "If I waited for you to feed me, I'd starve. Not much chance of you slaving over a hot microwave. It's me who does the feeding around here."

"I got along for thirty years before I even met you and I didn't starve," Brian countered, "The only reason I never cook is that I know how much you love to do it. I don't deny you anything. You know that. That's why I let you do all the cooking."

"Well," Justin insisted, "You were a lot skinnier when I met you. Why don't you bake the three pumpkin pies and the three mince pies I'm supposed to take to Debbie's on Thanksgiving? I'm worried about ruining them after Vic told me I was a natural as a pie baker. It would take a load off my mind to know you were going to do them for me."

"I don't do pies," Brian grinned. "You don't do anything in the kitchen," Justin retorted.

"I can do it in the kitchen. I've done it in the kitchen," Brian laughed, "We've done it in the kitchen and we can do it in the kitchen right now if you want to."

"Brian, you're always changing the subject," Justin protested. "You don't like the new subject?" Brian asked. "Oh, I like the new subject well enough," Justin allowed.

Justin was pleased at how happy Brian seemed to be. He always wanted Brian to be happy but especially on this particular night. Then Brian said: "We do have a lot of things to be thankful for this year. We'll be busy most of the day but I hope we can have Thanksgiving morning to ourselves, maybe, just the two of us, OK?" Brian saw Justin's reaction to that and knew something was up. "There's something I don't know, isn't there?" he asked Justin, "We don't have to go to your mother's on Thanksgiving morning, do we? She and Molly are going to be at Debbie's. Tell me we don't have to go to your mother's on Thanksgiving morning."

"No, we don't," Justin assured him, "It's your mother's." That did not immediately sink into Brian's consciousness. Then it did. Brian seldom raised his voice, sometimes in anger and sometimes in surprise. "My mother's," he raised his voice, in surprise, Justin hoped.

"Your mother's," Justin repeated. Then Brian lowered his voice below its usual level. That was always more dangerous than his yelling. "There's a story here, Mr. Taylor, and you know what it is. Shit, you probably wrote it. I want to hear it all. Start now, and if I don't murder you while you're telling it, tell it all," Brian demanded.

"You wouldn't murder me, Brian, you love me, don't you?" Justin responded with a false bravado.

"Every day people are murdered by someone who loves them. Read the Post-Gazette. Now quit weaseling," Brian insisted.

"Well," Justin began, "Your mother called me yesterday morning." Brian interrupted: "My - mother - called - you - yesterday morning? Just out of the blue. My mother called you. She doesn't even know you." Brian's voice was raised again and Justin hoped that was a good sign.

"I guess I better begin earlier," Justin said, "You know we see Rev. Butterfield, your mother's minister, around Woody's and Babylon fairly often." "A little bit more than see, as I remember," Brian cut in. "I can't tell the story if you keep interrupting," Justin replied, "You're making me nervous." Brian was bewildered. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throttle Justin and he wanted to hold him. "Go on," is what he said.

So Justin continued: "Rev. Butterfield told me your mother is not well, not dangerously ill, but declining. She's also worried about you. He told her he has friends who know us and that you have just about given up drinking and drugs and promiscuity - that we are living a decent monogamous life together. He told her that a lot of good Christians accept our kind of relationship as holy before God, and that he himself thinks that it is holy before God. She wants to see you."

"In other words, I might still be going to Hell but not because of you," Brian laughed. He decided that the whole thing was funny "OK," Brian asked, "Why didn't the preacher come to me with this tale, Mr. Know-It-All?"

"He said he thought I would be more 'approachable.'" Justin said, a little apologetically.

"How does the good Reverend know that you can get me to do things I don't want to do?" Brian exclaimed, "Does everybody at Babylon know you can get me to do things I don't want to do? Jeez, does Ted know you can get me to do things I don't want to do? Can I ever show my face again at Babylon?" Brian was still laughing and Justin took that as a good sign.

"I am not trying to get you to do something you don't want to do. I am just delivering the message," Justin contended, "If there's a boss around here, it's you and we both know it. You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"All right, Sunshine, if I'm really the boss, I want you to tell me, word for word, leaving nothing out and adding nothing, exactly what you told my mother on the phone yesterday morning,"Brian ordered. Justin hesitated long enough for Brian to prod: "You heard me. Speak."

"I told her we'd be there about 10 o'clock on Thanksgiving morning," Justin muttered.

"We? Brian asked, "We?" "Yeah," Justin said, "She wants to see me too. She thinks I'm good for you."

Brian gave up. He couldn't stop laughing. He threw his arms around Justin to Justin's great relief. He was still laughing when he prayed: "Dear God, if you're listening, I'm happy and I'm thankful for everything I've got, but please God, if I ever get mixed up with another blond twink, let him, please let him be stupid."

Justin was thankful that there would never, never, be another blond twink for Brian.

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