Remembering Christmas by Drew Ferguson Page B

heart. Jason was a bright, perceptive boy and already knew James’s answer. The innocent kiss in the bedroom was as far as James was going to go. James smiled, predicting the complete scenario. Today, tonight, Jason would feel as if his world had ended, that his one and only opportunity for true love and happiness had been lost forever, believing with all his heart that a feeling this rare and special could never, would never, repeat itself. And, in the darkest hours of the night, when it seemed the sun would never rise again, he would pick up his guitar and force it to sing a sad and lonely song, causing his mother, lying in bed with Wendy down the hall, to curse the callow stranger who had caused her baby such misery and pain. But, come morning, bright light streaming through his window, Jason would jump out of bed, eager to greet another day, forgetting for a moment that he was mourning his great, lost love. Resuming the requiem, he would trudge downstairs and mope into his oatmeal, utterly morose until Wendy, as usual, did something silly and he couldn’t help laughing, and, soon enough, a week would have passed and he wouldn’t be able to remember the color of James’s eyes.
    James’s phone rang, the battery low from being left uncharged all night. The mechanic’s news was brief and completely unexpected. The repair was done, and James could pick up the car whenever he liked. It was the alternator, an easy enough part to get from the dealer in Bedford.
    â€œYou can just drop me off at the garage,” he told Jason. “I’ll be fine from there.”
    It was awkward, saying good-bye, knowing they were unlikely to meet again. Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, making fists, trying not to cry and not succeeding.
    â€œCan I e-mail you?” he asked.
    â€œOf course. That’s why I gave you my address.”
    â€œHere, this is for you,” he said, pulling a CD from his pocket. “It’s just okay. There are a few mistakes. Some of it’s pretty good,” he said, shyly.
    James thanked him for the gift, grateful he would be spared being scrutinized by Jason’s eager face as he listened to his clumsy, heartfelt love songs.
    â€œIt’s Bach. Arranged for guitar.”
    Jason threw his arms around him and kissed him on the mouth, then turned and ran back to his truck. James turned to face the mechanic, expecting his wrath and fury. But the ogre merely handed him the bill and took his credit card, knowing to keep any unpleasant thoughts to himself, the man obviously smarter than he looked and wise enough not to incur the wrath of the proprietress of the KOZY KORNER, the best place in town to EAT.
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    Little Carol Ann’s inaugural Christmas had been, of course, a disaster of Titanic proportions, forcing the overwhelmed bride to take to her bed sobbing when an overflowing toilet caused the dining room ceiling to collapse on her Perfect Holiday Table.
    â€œTragic, just tragic,” James’s mother declared in the most solemn of tones. “I just don’t know if that poor child is ever going to recover from that catastrophe. You stop laughing, Jimmy, because it is not in the least bit funny.”
    James, of course, completely disagreed and was delighted by the thought of his hysterical niece, a young lady as histrionic as the most flamboyant Fire Island drama queen, pounding her mattress with her tight little fists and kicking the headboard with her tiny feet.
    â€œWhy don’t you go find some nice Christmas music to listen to while we have our drinks in the living room?”
    Adele Hoffmann had suffered through enough Bach arranged for guitar for one afternoon and was longing for more seasonal offerings from Bing and Elvis.
    â€œRoy and his mama have been listening to ‘White Christmas’ at the mall since October. Maybe they want to hear something different.”
    â€œJimmy, stop trying my patience. I’m already nervous