Remembering Christmas

by Michael Salvatore, Frank Anthony Polito, Tom Mendicino

Genres: Holiday books; LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Christmastime brings back memories as surely as office parties bring recriminations. The childhood wishes fulfilled (or dashed), the magic of anticipation, fighting over the dinner table. . .these are the ghosts of every Christmas past and present. Remembering Christmas brings together three holiday stories in a sparkling anthology sprinkled with nostalgia. It's Christmas Eve in Tom Mendicino's Away in a Manger, and James is snowbound en route from New York City to his West Virginia hometown. While the sight of a familiar Motor Lodge sparks longing for a roadside America of yesteryear, his visions of peppermint stick ice cream are thwarted by a vending machine. But amid the revelry at the local diner, James finds something far more satisfying that will change his Christmases forever. . . 1991, Michigan State University. Best friends Jack and Kirk are preparing for an end-of-semester party in Frank Anthony Polito's A Christmas to Remember. But there's something unspoken in the air—and it's not just the aroma of cinnamon-speckled eggnog. In Missed Connections by Michael Salvatore, two childhood friends reconnect in an airport lounge on Christmas Eve. And over cocktail-fueled reminiscences, they reconsider the paths they're on—and the roads never taken. . . Get what you really want this Christmas, with three captivating stories stuffed with warmth, wit, surprises—and the promise of sweet Christmases yet to come. . .

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 257

Sample

James couldn’t remember the last time he could be found sitting in his office, waiting for the phone to ring, at 7:50 in the morning. The support staff, dragging their backpacks, wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour, and the editors and sales managers they supported never began to meander in until after ten. Solitude wasn’t unpleasant, he decided, even briefly considering whether he ought to become a morning person. It was actually calming, having a few quiet moments to scan the titles of the volumes jammed into his bookshelves, a reminder of the relative importance of things, of the transitory nature of daily crises and urgent deadlines. Many of these books had once been well reviewed. Several had won prizes. More than a few had been prominently featured on best-seller lists. Sic transit gloria mundi. The few lucky ones, the award winners, now lived quiet, uneventful lives as paperback editions, languishing on the shelves of Barnes and Noble for years, waiting to attract a buyer’s interest. The others had been banished to remainder tables or used-book bins, destined to be forgotten altogether. He jumped to grab the receiver as the phone shrieked, startling him from his reverie, and tipped a Starbucks Venti Morning Roast into his lap.

“Fuck!” he shouted, not exactly the warm greeting the highly respected but overbearing Washington D.C. super-agent expected from the editor who had won the bidding war to publish the as-yet-unwritten presidential campaign “autobiography” of his client, a charismatic and ambitious junior senator from a swing state rich in electoral votes.

“And a Merry Christmas to you too,” the super-agent snorted.

“Sorry. Sorry,” James apologized, trying to mop up the mess with a damp, wrinkled napkin. “I just spilled a cup of scalding hot coffee all over my pants.”

“Ouch,” the Senator snickered. “You’ve got to protect your most valuable assets.”

James was taken aback at the unexpected sound of the voice he knew only from CNN and Meet the Press; the author-to-be, whom James had yet to meet, wasn’t scheduled to be on the call. The leering undertone was clearly at odds with his reputation as a devout family man, the father of six, a husband admired for his deep, spiritual connection to his Episcopalian minister wife.

“No, no,” James assured him. “No permanent damage.”

But he couldn’t shake the feeling this Starbucks catastrophe was an omen that this book wasn’t fated to be one of defining successes of his career. By the age of forty-six, James had acquired and edited a long string of successful history and political books, including a former Secretary of State’s Pulitzer Prize–winning chronicle of the democratization of the Balkan nations, a former President’s literary memoir of his hardscrabble childhood, the definitive biography of William Howard Taft, and the autobiographies of an unsuccessful Democratic presidential nominee, a beloved First Lady, and a long-shot neophyte who had landed the vice presidential slot on a winning Republican ticket largely on the strength of the manuscript James had painstakingly coaxed out of him. The Senator was a prestigious addition to his stable of authors (though he wouldn’t actually write a single word), and the bulk sales to his political action committee ensured at least a brief run on the New York Times bestseller list. Things had gone well so far, despite the super-agent’s insistence on ungodly early meetings for scheduling convenience, his, not James’s. James had engaged the perfect ghost to capture the Senator’s colloquial style. He’d hired the best photographer in the industry for the cover shoot. And, thank God, the staffer the Senator had assigned to be James’s primary contact seemed to be bright and responsive.

“So, what are your Christmas plans?” the Senator asked, clearly not interested, but feeling the need to make small talk.

“Going home to my mother’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“West Virginia.”

The Senator’s interest was piqued. For one, brief, fleeting moment, James existed as something more than a faceless fungible unit in his campaign apparatus.

“I thought I detected an accent,” the Senator claimed.

“I hope not! I’ve spent the last twenty-five years trying to clean up my hillbilly pronunciation!”

Big mistake, he quickly realized. The Senator spoke with a thick, musical drawl. James clearly was off his game, paying the price for rising before dawn with too little caffeine to kick-start his engine.

“Pure West Virginia, as Hannibal Lecter once observed about another native of the Mountain State. I always wanted a Carolina Piedmont accent like yours,” James said, effectively recovering the fumble.

He wandered out of his office after finishing the call, carrying several pages of handwritten notes for his assistant to type. The floor was still dark. The only signs of life were the burning lights in an office at the opposite end of the hall. Damn, he thought, remembering it was December 23, and that the holiday sabbatical had begun at five yesterday afternoon. He was officially on vacation now, having just completed the last meeting on his calendar for the year. He headed back to his computer, deciding to type the notes himself while his recollection was fresh, knowing he wouldn’t be able to decipher his own chicken scratch when he returned in ten days, leaving him unable to translate for his frustrated assistant. After he finished, he answered the e-mails in his in-box and deleted his opened messages before shutting down his computer, determined to start the New Year with a clean slate, then turned off the lights and locked the door to his office.

It was all of nine-thirty as he walked to the elevator. The deserted offices and cubicles were decorated with dollar-store holiday trappings—red and green garland, plastic wreaths and holly, cutout Santas and snowflakes—that would be tossed into storage boxes or garbage pails when the occupants returned in January. He was tempted to steal a miniature Charlie Brown Christmas tree from a desktop to take home with him, but his good judgment prevented him from causing an innocent janitor to be fired for theft. To reach the elevator he had to pass the one brightly lit office, where Rhonda Brinkman, children’s chapter book editor extraordinaire and workaholic, was chained to her desk, probably putting the final touches on the galleys of another Newbury Medal instant classic. She looked up and waved as he passed; he shrugged his shoulders and pointed at his watch, feigning urgent business, not wanting to waste an hour whining over their workloads, bitching about that year’s meager annual bonus, and speculating over rumored editorial layoffs.

“See you next year,” he hollered as the elevator door closed behind him.

Traffic, both street and foot, was light for a weekday morning at the corner of Broadway and Fifty-fifth. The city was slowing down for the holiday. Commuters from Westchester and New Jersey had taken vacation days to finish their shopping. The wind whipping through the concrete canyons was brisk; it was chilly on the shaded side of the street, but unseasonably warm in the sun. James was comfortable going coatless, wearing only a cashmere sweater and a scarf knotted around his neck, an accessory chosen for color rather than warmth at the last minute before leaving the apartment. He grabbed a Daily News from the newsstand and easily found a seat at the counter of his favorite coffee shop, a relic from a bygone era before fast-food franchises and the caffeine purveyor from Seattle conquered the world. He left a five-dollar tip on a twelve-dollar check for coffee and juice, a bowl of Special K, and an order of wheat toast, and decided to walk to Madison rather than taking a cab. He hadn’t bought a gift for Ernst yet and had no intention of going to lunch that afternoon empty-handed.

Rockefeller Center was surprisingly, pleasantly, uncrowded, with just enough shoppers and skaters for it to seem a postcard-perfect holiday tableau. The women were well dressed, wearing leather coats and high, polished boots, and their children belonged in the glossy pages of high-end retail catalogues. The stampede of tourists in garish parkas and dirty sneakers had returned to their undesirable zip codes. Manhattan belonged to its residents again. James resented the hordes of slack-jawed visitors from Minnesota and Belgium, the lumpen masses staring through the lenses of their Nikons and clutching their tickets to the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall. He missed the gritty and dangerous island of his youth, the Golden Era of Gotham when needles and broken bottles littered Ninth Avenue and six dead bolts on the door of his fourth-floor walkup never deterred the junkies from breaking in to steal his television two or three times a year. He paused to linger beside a sidewalk vendor, inhaling the aroma of roasting chestnuts (another dying tradition) and was surprised to hear himself humming along to the instrumental “Silver Bells” piped over an outdoor loudspeaker.

Why shouldn’t he feel cheerful as the holiday approached? It was two days after the solstice, and here he was sauntering across Midtown wearing sunglasses, not needing a coat. Global warming certainly had its fringe benefits. One of these years the daytime highs would never dip below fifty and the nighttime lows would hover above freezing the entire winter. Wishful thinking, he knew, but definitely a possibility in his lifetime. He was young enough to expect to be alive when the environmental apocalypse finally arrived. He suddenly realized he’d squandered an hour doing nothing more productive than staring at the Saks window displays and cruising the college boys who had taken to the streets in cargo shorts and flip-flops, enjoying the benign December weather. He picked up the pace, his armpits damp with sweat as he charged the front door of Paul Stuart to choose a cravat (as Ernst, with European formality, insisted on calling a necktie) for his oldest (literally) New York friend. James still felt a thrill each time he entered the hushed cathedral of haberdashery and paused to admire the plush carpets and polished wood surfaces, the slouchy leather sofas, and the expertly crafted wares artfully displayed on the tables and racks.

A clerk, old enough to have been working the sales floor when Mary Martin headlined on Broadway, approached and led James directly to the ties. He considered and rejected an assortment of more traditional foulards and reps in standard reds and greens and blues. His eye was attracted to the more risqué selections, soft, rich silks of dazzling colors, cheeky plums and bold scarlets, arresting emeralds, and blinding sapphires. He finally settled on a brash blood orange, a small extravagance at two hundred dollars. Ernst, seventy-eight, bald as an egg and ugly as a box turtle, relied on an eccentric wardrobe to cut a dashing figure.

“Unusual color,” the clerk commented as he rang up the sale.

“I’d like a bow for the box, if you don’t mind,” James asked, slightly perturbed by what he considered to be an intrusive remark.

The traffic uptown was heavier than he’d expected, and he fidgeted in the back seat of the taxi, knowing that Ernst demanded strict punctuality and that he could expect a cold greeting and biting remark at best if he arrived after the appointed hour. If the old man were in a particularly foul mood, James would receive a haughty dismissal by the maitre d’ informing him that Monsieur Belcher had decided to leave when his guest was more than ten minutes late. Much to his relief, James had the good fortune to have entered the cab of a particularly aggressive Sikh driver and was delivered to the door of The Box Tree restaurant with six minutes to spare. He stood, finger on the bell under the brass nameplate, AUGUSTIN V. PAEGE, RESTAURATEUR, and despaired. How the fuck had he forgotten he wasn’t wearing a jacket? He was sweating profusely as the door opened, expecting to be banished with a withering glance. But because of either the early hour or an abundance of forgiving holiday cheer, he was warmly greeted, his handsome scarf complimented as he was led to the table.

“Don’t gawk, Jimmy. I know you better than you know yourself and as soon as you realize Betty Bacall is sitting at the next table, you’re going to go all moonfaced and slack jawed and embarrass me to death.”

James was pleased to find Ernst in a jovial mood, for him at least, and asked Severin their waiter, a man as austere and stern as his name, to bring him a bourbon and water, hoping for a quick buzz. Ernst was obviously on his second Tanqueray martini; these days he was blotto by four in the afternoon.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, you mean, cranky bastard,” he teased the old man, knowing the septuagenarian reveled in his contrarian nature.

“Is that gift for me?” Ernst asked, his interest piqued by the box James had set on the table. “Don’t make an old man crawl over the place settings to get it!”

“What makes you so sure it’s yours?”

“Very funny, Jimmy. I suppose you want to pay for your own lunch, in which case I’m ordering the most expensive bottle of Cabernet in the cellar and having Severin charge it to you.”

“You win. Your taste in Cabs would set me back two months of co-op maintenance fee. Please accept this small token of my affection,” James laughed. “Merry Christmas, Ernst.”

Ernst, like many gentlemen of means whose emotional attachments required significant financial support, took an almost childish delight in receiving gifts. He tore off the ribbon like a greedy boy and held up the tie to admire.

“Unusual,” Severin commented, unimpressed by the loud, bright color.

James was shaken to hear the same critical judgment of his taste repeated within a single hour.

“Well, I love it!” Ernst declared, insisting Severin help him from his chair and lead him to the men’s room so he could replace his own canary yellow cravat with James’s gift.

James sipped his bourbon, potent as rocket fuel, and stared at the menu, not bothering to read it. He hated everything about this pretentious little bandbox, its Tiffany glass panels and Wedgewood china and Christofle silverware and, most of all, the haute-faggot affectation of a red rose at every place setting. He knew the lunch selections by heart; nothing ever changed here, nothing ever new, let alone, God forbid, nouvelle, on the menu. The routine never changed. Ernst would stuff himself with bread and butter, avoiding the wasteful extravagance of an appetizer because, despite his taste for luxury, he was, like many wealthy men, at heart a cheapskate. He would order the escargot, complaining they weren’t as well-prepared as they had been his last meal here, and vow never to return until Augustin V. Paege himself descended on their table to flatter and mollycoddle him, soliciting Ernst’s undying loyalty. James, as always, would order a salad, the sole, and a dessert.

Ernst wobbled back to the table, stopping to accept Betty Bacall’s compliments on his marvelous tie. Severin poured the first glasses of a very good, not great, mid-list Bordeaux. James drained the last dregs of his bourbon before moving on to the wine, steeling himself for the annual accounting of Ernst’s financial affairs, followed by the none-too-subtle warning about his continued expectation of James’s unquestioning fealty. James was one of Ernst’s three surviving long-term relationships; each had been promised an equal distribution of the considerable estate, built on the profits of his wine import business. Cody Parkinson, James’s second successor, now a mergers and acquisitions lawyer at Davis Polk, knew for a fact the old man was delusional, that his business partners, his sister and her sons, had gone to great lengths to ensure the assets would never pass out of the family. But the three younger men were all genuinely fond of their old benefactor, and none of them wanted to hurt him by destroying any illusion that he still held complete power over their good fortunes. Plus, even though a cash endowment was out of the question, the personal effects—the furniture and the museumquality tchotchkes and the artworks by minor painters—would be up for grabs when the old toad croaked. James had first dibs on a pair of sterling candlesticks and the German-language first editions of Thomas Mann.

But much to James’s surprise, instead of delivering mildly veiled threats of being cut out of the will, Ernst wanted to spend the afternoon reminiscing, which in the past had always meant his repeating oft-told tales of notorious and celebrated homosexuals of the middle and late decades of the Twentieth Century, their scandalous behavior observed firsthand by Ernst in the discotheques of Manhattan and on the dunes of Fire Island. These anecdotes had been his currency, traded for invitations to the best dinner parties and weekends in country houses on the upper Hudson. Personal memories, however, were rarely shared, such indulgence being an affront to Ernst’s deeply engrained Old World sense of privacy, so it was unsettling to James to hear the old man speaking sentimentally about their early years together.

“You were such a gawky boy, all knees and elbows. I remember Peter Orlovsky saying whoever took you home the night we met was going to wake up black-and-blue with bruises.”

But fear of contusions hadn’t deterred Ernst from descending on him in the basement of The Ninth Circle, where he had plied James with so many bottles of Budweiser he had to be carried up the stairs.

“I should have had you arrested the next morning for assault,” James teased, delighting an old man who still took great pride in a well-earned reputation as an aggressive sexual predator.

“I still can hear your voice, Jimmy, protesting you were a top, though you were far too drunk to get it up. What a silly boy you were, thinking I would believe you had never been fucked before.”

Ernst was clearly tipsy, his voice growing loud enough to offend the sensibilities of the legend lunching at the next table. But James was relieved to see Miss Bacall was too busy enjoying the ribald conversation of her own lunch companions to pay any attention to the embarrassing details of his youthful escapades.

“Do you recall that terrible shirt you were wearing that night? With those nasty little holes under your armpits?”

“That was my favorite shirt! I loved that shirt!”

And, indeed, James had worn his Patti Smith Group “Easter” Tour souvenir tee until the day it literally disintegrated in the wash cycle.

“I was so young and naïve in those days,” James laughed. “I thought it meant you really loved me when you agreed to go see the Talking Heads with me at CBGB.”

“Warhol was there that night,” Ernst reminded him, always having perfect recall of even the briefest interaction with celebrity.

“At the next table.”

Ernst took a deep breath and sighed, reaching across the table to grab James’s hands with his own.

“We should spend one more Christmas in Munich. It’s not too late, Jimmy. There is a night flight from JFK. My treat.”

“You know my mother is expecting me in West Virginia tomorrow. It would break her heart,” James laughed, expecting that this proposed spontaneous Christmas trip was nothing more than an old man’s pipe dream and that the aged tightwad would never consider paying the walk-up price for two first-class tickets to Europe. “Besides Ernst, it’s not like you to want to embark on sentimental journeys.”

The little rube in the punk rock tee shirt had had pretensions to worldliness, but he’d never been issued a passport before meeting Ernst. Ernst had insisted they spend their first Christmas as a couple in Bavaria, making every effort to ensure the trip was memorable. James had studied his Baedeker’s at breakfast, preparing for long mornings touring spectacular castles and cathedrals with Ernst as his guide. After a long, heavy lunch, they had meandered through the stalls of the Christmas Market with steaming cups of chocolate or spiced mulled wine. Come evening, they had dined in the ancient rathskellers, feasting on roasted slabs of pork and beef, pierced with the jagged ends of broken bones. And Ernst, being an experienced lover of much younger men, was wise enough to plead exhaustion and the need to retire to his comfortable bed after his nightcap, allowing James to explore the dance clubs and the cruise bars with their pitchblack, maze-like back rooms alone, undeterred by his patron’s critical eye.

“I’ll start working on my mother tomorrow to give her an entire year to prepare for the disappointment of spending her favorite holiday without her favorite son,” James said, halfbelieving the two of them might escape to Europe for one last memorable holiday in the coming year.

“Oh, that hateful mother of yours will never give you permission to ruin her Christmas,” Ernst said bitterly, rolling his eyes.

James relaxed as the conversation veered away from uncomfortable nostalgic reveries to the more familiar territory of resentful complaints. Momentary lapses into elegiac interludes must be an inevitable malady of old age, he expected, like macular degeneration and osteoporosis.

“My mother is very fond of you, Ernst, and you know it,” he said, lying through his teeth.

“I am not so senile to have forgotten how your mother chose to have her guest rooms painted during my one and only visit to that wretched town, so that the two of us would have to stay at a hotel.”

James had long accepted that Ernst was far too self-absorbed to understand why a woman of a certain age and place who was struggling to accept her son’s uncomfortable “problem” could never have trusted an overbearing and controlling and much older gentleman who seemed to exercise an undue and most likely unwholesome influence over her child. He’d long suspected the real reason Ernst found his mother and his hometown repellently distasteful was that they reminded him of a far more provincial upbringing in rural Germany than he would ever deign to admit. James was starting to feel unpleasantly drunk after imbibing a cocktail and two glasses of Bordeaux. He hadn’t been drinking much lately as overwork had left him too exhausted to pursue much of a social life. Even in his younger days, he’d never developed a taste for consuming alcoholic beverages before sunset, being pale eyed and prone to blinding headaches whenever he eventually needed to emerge into the sun. Ernst, greedy little bastard that he was, happily killed the bottle of Bordeaux and was about to order a brandy until James insisted he had to be in Chelsea for an appointment at half past three.

“With an hourly companion, I suppose,” the old man snorted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” James huffed, acting affronted by the assumption that he, a very well-preserved and youthful forty-six, with a body that s. . .