Snow's coming down. I'm watching it fall. Lots of people around. . .

Baby Please Come Home
by Scotty

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LaGuardia International Airport

Justin crumpled the paper cup. For a minute, he was still and then Trace could see it pass through him. The slow shudder. That's when he extended his hand, palm up, like he always did. For gum wrappers, sun glasses, scribbled phone numbers here and there. Trace knew what to keep and what was trash. Justin didn’t seem to know the difference anymore. About anything. So Trace was there. Taking care of Justin when he couldn’t take care of himself. When even the small things were too much. It wasn’t small this time. He knew that. But he was there anyway. It wasn’t much, but he was there.

The balled-up cup didn’t drop and he looked at Justin again. Really looked at him. It had been a while since he’d done that. It was a strange thing to be thinking about just then, but he supposed that it happened to everyone. That after a while, you stopped seeing people. Those closest to you becoming an impression of what was really there. Like part of a landscape that had always been. But still you knew them. And picked up on things that others missed. Others who’d stopped caring or had never really cared in the first place.

Trace knew this part of the terrain well. Justin, trying to walk something off. Sometime last night he’d taken a hit. Had the wind knocked right out of him. He‘d stopped talking hours ago. That was always the first sign. Then he’d chewed the side of his thumb raw. By then Trace had brought coffee, black and hot, to put something in his hands so he would stop. Justin had nodded only slightly, circling the cup for long minutes before becoming aware of its presence, and moving it to his mouth.

He was kneading it again now, what was left of the cup. A slow pulse, throbbing. Knuckles red, then white, then red again. He’d stopped, like he’d almost forgotten it was there. Both the cup and the pain disappearing for a moment. Letting him catch his breath. Then he’d started again, like it was the most important thing in the world. To make the object in his hand as tiny as possible. Invisible pain visited on a paper ball.

Justin stood suddenly and walked to the observation deck. Trace let him go, putting a hand on the arm of the bodyguard who’d started to follow. Knowing innately that Justin needed to move. To parcel out some of the pain. At the wall of windows, he’d become very still. Then the hand had begun again. Clenching and unclenching. Fingers circling endlessly.

The terminal had grown quiet. The odd peace of strangers sharing a common bond. Bone-weary. Headed home for the holidays. The driver had been new tonight, and the bodyguard someone Trace did not know. The faces they did know were home with their own families or at least on their way. That had been an early gift. Fewer people who also knew the terrain and would have noticed.

The face he had not known caught his eye now and nodded toward the jetway. Trace stood slowly and stretched. As much as he'd wanted to go home, he'd dreaded this moment. When Justin would hesitate and look past him down the concourse. Then would look back, the unspoken truth passing between them.

He wasn't coming.

• The church bells in town. All ringing in song. Full of happy sounds. Baby please come home •

Millington, Tennessee

It was beautiful, in a surreal kind of way. Every city probably had some kind of Twinkle Town. Trees along the boulevard laced with lights. Justin had pressed a pair of sun glasses over his eyes almost immediately, then crossed the street. Trace almost lost track of him when he stopped to give directions to the community center, but caught up with him again near the fire station where Justin had himself stopped to admire a new hook and ladder. And to pose for a picture with a young boy. The glasses had come off and the smile had been real, but he'd slipped them back on as he turned toward the street. The smile was left at the station.

The three hour flight to Memphis had been uneventful. The thirty minute drive home had been stunning. No one had spoken a word. Not Justin. Not his mother. Not his best friend who from childhood had always been able to make him laugh, no matter what. At the house, Justin had kicked the snow off his boots, asked if there'd been any calls, then gone to bed. Lynn had looked at Trace, her own eyes red from crying, then had disappeared upstairs.

There was a sudden flare of trumpets and Trace covered his ears with his hands. He watched as both trumpeteers and a small choir of angels were hoisted high above the street in a triangle of white light. Trace caught Justin's profile out of the corner of his eye. His face was awash with emotion. It wasn't hard to tell what he was thinking about. What he was seeing. Five angels not six. Sailing high overhead.

It was a moment of pageantry meant to be glorious and uplifting.

But this year it had missed its mark. And only two people in the state of Tennessee knew why.

• They're singing Deck the Halls. But it's not like Christmas at all. Cause I remember when you were here.
And all the fun we had last year •

Washington DC

She had always unpacked his bag. A mother's way to reconnect with a son who had gone away a child and come back a man. A man who shared himself less than she would have liked. Who poured the secrets of his soul into a small brown book. A place so private that she had never been there. Nor asked him about it. A place for his music. And for Justin. The two great loves of his life. The same two things that had taken him away, taken him apart, and then given him back. Forgetting some of the pieces.

She stared again at the empty suitcase, then closed the lid, pulling the zipper slowly around the track until it would go no more. Then she slid it under the bed. In years past, she would have laid his journal on the nightstand, turned on the lamp, and the ritual would have been complete. But this year things were different. This year the journal was gone. The space conspicuously empty.

There was so much she had not known. Now she would never know.

• Pretty lights on the tree. I'm watching them shine. You should be here with me. Baby please come home •

Millington, Tennessee

A round of cheers went up as Justin pushed the plug into the wall. The angel on top still tilted meekly to the right, but otherwise it was another perfect tree. Lynn rewarded Justin with a kiss, then two elderly neighbors followed suit, waving sprigs of mistletoe as they bussed his cheek. Trace fed a log into the fire, then poked at it until the room had emptied. He looked over at Justin, rolling his eyes and smiling. He'd expected Justin to do the same, but instead he'd seen tears. Trace felt like someone had fisted his heart.

When they were young, Justin had taken care of everything. For both of them. If fishing line got tangled, he'd waded into the stream to get it. When Trace got a paper route and fell behind in school, Justin had done homework for both of them. And in fifth grade, he'd been a donkey in the Christmas play so that Trace didn't have to be. Not much had changed. Justin still took care of everything. Almost. The one thing in his life that he needed help with, no one was supposed to know about.

Trace felt his heart knot up again. He'd never wanted Justin to go in the first place. To move to Orlando and become someone else's best friend. To fall in love with that person. Someone who might know nothing about fishing lines, and bicycle tires, and how important it was not to be laughed at.

Then he'd seen them together for the first time. In this house. It was then that he'd understood. That Justin had found someone to take care of him. That he could never have been happy without him.

Now he would have to try. They would both have to try.

• They're singing Deck the Halls. But it's not like Christmas at all. Cause I remember when you were here.
And all the fun we had last year •

Washington DC

JC had drfited through the day. Touching objects in each room as if they could touch him back. Guide him somehow. Familiar landmarks in a world that had changed like wind blowing pages of a book. The move to LA. All that Orlando had been, simply fading away. This was the only place on earth that he knew now. Where he had once belonged and would always belong.

In the den, he'd nudged the couch with his knee, then moved the tree along with it. Away from the fireplace where his grandmother had again placed it too close to the fire. There'd been a small change in this room. He'd noticed it right away. Another brocaded chair had been crossed with ribbon, a warning to stay away. That made two in the room now. Chairs that were still beautiful but were no longer useful. They would not be thrown away or replaced. Not in this house. Here they would be cherished. And people would find other places to sit.

The room felt suddenly warm and small. JC squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the purple and gold circles that flooded the space in front of him. He had come here to feel loved. To be with people who loved him and wanted to be with him. Still it had crept into his conscious-ness. In the parlor of his grandfather's home, looking at useless chairs. Someone had told Justin that he was smart. That he was beautiful. And Justin had followed the sound of that voice. Away from JC.

The bank of pictures filled the hallway leading to the bedrooms. It was an Old World custom, a gallery of photographs, some so old that the subjects looked like silent movie stars. Their manner of dress and bearing so different that they seemed like characters in a film, not aunts and uncles, great grandmothers and infants who were now themselves old. Some were formal portraits, others taken with less care, but all were considered to be special. Private. Not something for strangers to see.

He'd been standing there when his mother came upstairs for the night. Leaning against the wall, staring. At a picture of Justin, added this past year. JC had not expected it. Unaware that his grandparents even knew. But there he was. A member of the family. Accepted. Loved because they loved JC. And because JC had loved him.

His mother had said nothing. But had put her arms around his waist and had wept with him.


Just before midnight, she saw his bag by the front door. Then found him in the kitchen, scribbling busily on some loose sheets of paper. He'd made coffee too strong for anyone else to drink.

An hour later, he was gone.

• If there was a way. I'd hold back these tears. But it's Christmas day. Please. Please. Please. Please.
Baby, please come home •

The Hollywood Hills

JC dropped his suitcase on the floor, then walked toward the tiny red light that blinked in the darkness. He fingered the keypad, then emptied his pockets onto a table by the kitchen door. In the morning he would call his grandmother and apologize for leaving without saying good-bye.

He'd already lifted the duffel bag onto the table and begun to pull at the zipper before remem-bering. There was no need to do it. There was no journal to take upstairs. He paused a second longer, somewhat disoriented by the small change in his coming home routine and by the finality of what he had done. Pushing the journal at Justin as he got out of the cab in New York. It wasn't a sudden thing. He'd planned it. For a time when the company of strangers would keep Justin from causing a scene. Justin had looked at him blankly, then at the notebook, then back at JC. The last time with stunned clarity. He was giving him back his life, all they had ever been. The cab had pulled away leaving JC standing on the sidewalk alone.

They had not spoken again.

-::-

The flight from Memphis had been long, but this time Justin had not slept. Instead, he'd made lists. The irony of making them after Christmas had put a brief smile on his face. It had been a long time since he'd made one of those. The kind full of hopes and dreams. Tonight there had been two lists. One for a song he'd been hearing in his head. Where the percussion would come in, the sax and strings. The other list had been much harder to make. He'd started it twice, then given up when his hand had begun to shake.

At LAX, he'd pushed both lists into his pocket. Then told the driver to take Mulholland Drive.

The house in the canyon had been dark except for the spray of ornamental lights that shadowed the front gate. He'd expected JC to be there. To somehow know that he was coming home and to come home himself. But he hadn't. And Justin found himself staring down the empty concourse one more time.

His own house had remained dark. Part of a game he'd contrived to keep from going crazy. In his mind, JC was playing too, alone in his house, refusing to turn on the lights. Daring Justin to leave them off forever. Such a stupid, foolish game. Such a stupid, foolish waste. All of it. He'd wanted things that Justin had absolutely no idea how to give. Taken his body, then decided it wasn't enough. So Justin had run. It had been easier that way. All they'd wanted was his name. JC had wanted him. And he didn't know who that was.

Justin took a deep breath, then pushed himself up off the bed, and started to walk, turning on lights as he made his way downstairs.

-::-

It was almost noon. Two sweaters, a pair of slacks, and a cell phone were piled on the table by the door. He'd been upstairs twice looking for his keys, each time picturing them in a different place, then finding that they were, in fact, not there. He stared at the pile of clothes and cupped his face with his hands, trying to remember where he had seen them last. He was halfway up the stairs again when he heard the knock at the door.

JC could not remember seeing Justin in broad daylight without glasses to hide his eyes. The knit cap and layers of jewelry were also gone. It was like looking at a stranger who reminded you of someone you knew. The familiarity taking you by surprise. He waited while the two images merged into one. When Justin stepped toward him, he had not thought to step aside or anything other than to wait for their mouths to meet. When it didn't happen, he closed his eyes, not quite sure what to do.

Justin had said nothing. Just leaned in, letting his body fall forward until they were touching. Then had stood there, his weight balanced as precariously as their lives. After a moment, he said something so quietly that JC had been unable to make it out. He said it again and JC pushed just far enough away to ask.

"I said, make me some coffee." He walked past JC into the hallway. "If we're going to do this, I better learn to drink that shit you make."

JC turned in time to see Justin waving a small brown book. He had stopped at the kitchen door and was looking at JC. His eyes were very dark and yet there was something bright in them. Something JC had not seen before. Justin waved the book again and walked back towards him.

"I have some questions. Your handwriting sucks, you know that? And your keys." He dangled them loosely, then pushed them at JC. "How'd you get in the house --"

JC stopped him with a kiss, and for the first time in months, Justin simply let it happen, without any thought of what had been or would be. Letting JC take his tongue, run a hand up his back and pull him close. It was the most public display of affection Justin had ever allowed himself. And for a long moment nothing else mattered. Then a car honked on the street below and JC's hand settled on his waist. Justin looked at him quickly. He was smiling, passion replaced by simple joy.

JC pushed at the door with his foot and it closed behind them. He was still smiling when Justin started again. Like there had never been a cab ride in New York or a choir of angels in Tennessee to break his heart. "I need to get some stuff. Like furniture and shit. That place is fuckin' empty. Did you know that?" His hand waved in the general direction of the house in the next glen. The one that had been dark and now blazed with light. JC laughed and started for the kitchen. Justin reached for his arm, turning him back. "And I need one of these."

He waved the journal for the third time, then handed it to JC. "This one is yours." For a moment, there was a terrible quiet between them. When JC took the book, Justin let go a short breath, then reached in his pocket and pulled out a rumpled napkin.

"Like I said, I have some questions. About a song I was working on."

JC searched his face and Justin shrugged meekly.

"Just make the coffee. There's another one of these." He smoothed the square of white paper against his leg. "And that one may take some time."

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