Remembering Christmas by Drew Ferguson

music.
    â€œYou’re lucky. I’ve got a score, but it’s arranged for a guitar quartet. A bunch of us whore ourselves out, doing crap like Sunday brunches at the Ritz. We don’t even have to practice since no one really listens. They’d rather eat waffles and get shit-faced on mimosas. Hang on. It’s gonna take me a minute to work this out.”
    He screwed his face into a pantomime of concentration as he studied the notes on the page, muttering instructions to himself. He ran his long, tapered fingers through his thick hair and announced he’d figured out how to play this solo. No promises, he said, but he was sure he could do a pretty decent job.
    â€œClose your eyes and think of a full orchestra,” he said, his voice brimming with quiet confidence. He tweaked the tuners and, finally satisfied, began to play.
    The intensity of his focus, the power of his concentration was astonishing and unexpected. Only a brief moment ago he’d been a boy, awkward and eager to impress. His poise and command of his instrument was intimidating. His mastery of the neck was complete as his fingers coaxed a chorus of voices from the six strings.
    â€œSo? What do you think?” he asked, as the final note faded, seeking a sign of approval.
    The question left James mystified and feeling inadequate, since any words of praise would seem facile, patronizing.
    â€œBut can you play ‘Blue Christmas’?” he asked, retreating to the comfort zone where sarcasm was a brittle shield and a wry retort the best defense.
    Jason smiled and strummed a few open chords as he sang the familiar lyrics. He didn’t try any humorous attempts at Elvis-like vocal pyrotechnics, no campy gulps and throbs. His simple, sincere voice, direct and unaffected, was steeped in the all-toofamiliar soul-crushing loneliness of a boy who feared he’d never be loved.
    He played until long after midnight and, when it was finally time for bed, he sprawled on the sofa beside James, folding himself into the long crevices of James’s body and gripping his hand through the night. James dozed in fits, never yielding to an aching arm or twisted knee lest he wake the boy. The man who longed to fall asleep beside a beating heart refused to yield to the sandman, knowing daybreak would arrive much too quickly, bringing this brief and unexpected interlude of peaceful contentment to its inevitable end.

    The overnight accumulation measured an additional eleven inches. The Prevics, however, were undaunted by the challenge, and James, in his borrowed work gloves and boots, grabbed a shovel to aid in the cause. Mother and son took the wheels of their respective pickups and, working in perfect tandem, quickly plowed the long drive down the hill to the state highway. James and Wendy followed behind them on foot, clearing any residual clumps of frozen snow and ice scattered along the way.
    Kay was in good spirits, promising a good, hot breakfast, though she was clearly distressed when Wendy insisted on soaking her Bisquick short stack with a half bottle of Log Cabin. James, unused to any physical labor other than moving heavy weights on the floor of his expensive gym, was convinced that muscle aches and pains from his strenuous efforts had already commenced. Jason was clearly nervous, making silly jokes and teasing his mother, trying to find some plausible excuse to postpone driving James back to Breezewood.
    â€œThank you very much for allowing me to share your Christmas in your home,” James said, as he finished drying the breakfast dishes, knowing the time for good-byes had arrived.
    â€œIt was our pleasure, Jimmy,” Kay said, with great sincerity and polite formality. James realized it was the first time since their introduction she had called him by his name. “Our Jason gets awfully lonely with no one but two old women for company, so I am very glad you could join us.”
    Some strange little beast was stirring in