Remembering Christmas by Drew Ferguson Page A

James’s chest, whispering that maybe he could stay another night, or two. In the scheme of a lifetime, forty-eight hours was nothing.
    â€œWendy!” Kay shouted. “I’m leaving for the restaurant now. I got a sneaking suspicion that miserable little Mexican fry cook is still sleeping off his Feliz Navidad and I’m gonna be the kitchen for the lunch shift. You get your ass down there by three for the dinner shift. Where the hell did Jason go? Wendy, you tell him to be at work by eleven if he knows what’s good for him.”
    â€œI’m here, Ma. I had to go look for something,” he announced, clearly trying to hide whatever he had stuffed in the deep pocket of his coat.
    â€œYou run Jimmy over to where he’s staying and hightail it over to the restaurant. I’m depending on you this morning.”
    A blizzard that would have paralyzed New York for three days hadn’t inconvenienced the Prevics for more than an hour. Kay’s truck bounced down the driveway and disappeared, hidden from sight by the towering banks of snow.
    â€œYou have any drugs on you?” Jason snickered, nodding at Wendy who was preoccupied with stacking the clean dishes in the cupboard. “Something that would knock her out so we can make out before I drive you back.”
    James laughed and ran his fingers through his dirty hair, still damp from sweating in his stocking cap.
    â€œJason, you take your friend upstairs and get him some dry socks before you drive him back to town. Them boots you loaned him was too big, and I know his feet must be soaking wet.”
    Jason beamed at his unexpected good fortune, this twist of fate in the form of a command to accompany James to a far corner of the house away from curious eyes and sensitive ears.
    It was a standard issue boy’s room, with a bed that likely had gone unmade since he’d arrived home from Boston and laundry scattered across the room. James assumed the clothes tossed on the floor were dirty and the ones piled on bureau and the bed were waiting to be folded. There were faded posters of Hendrix and Clapton and a newer one of the great Steeler Jerome Bettis on his walls. Jason brushed a stack of boxer shorts off the mattress so James could sit on the bed and found a pair of white tube socks, presumably clean, the type that come three pairs to a package, in his dresser drawer. James was sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot, when Jason plopped down beside him and gave him an awkward kiss.
    It was most definitely a boy’s kiss, tentative, lacking confidence, with a shyness James hadn’t tasted in years. Jason’s mouth didn’t resist James’s tongue, and he whimpered softly as James took control and gently rolled him onto his back. But a loud creaking bedspring snapped James to attention, and he jumped to his feet, certain that Wendy would be charging up the stairs and that he was about to find himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
    â€œI’ll come stay with you tonight. In your motel. Just you and me,” Jason said, looking impossibly young.
    James knew he was likely to be stranded another day or two. The truck stop ogre was certain to have to order parts if not from Germany, then at least from a dealer in Pittsburgh. Twenty-fourhour delivery was the best case scenario, meaning James would be spending at least one more night before continuing his journey.
    â€œWe’ll see,” he said, doubting the wisdom of entertaining a young overnight guest in his Bollywood Ho Jo.
    â€œJason, you better get your ass in gear or your mother’s gonna be really pissed off!” Wendy shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
    Jason wasn’t very talkative on the drive back to town. The silence made James uneasy, so he tried to make small talk about annual snowfall in the county and the incredible efficiency of the local plowing crews. He felt guilty, remembering how easy it was to break an inexperienced