Chapter Nine

The green glow of the old-fashioned alarm clock told Arthur it was barely past six in the morning and the house was cold. His mother had been asleep when he returned, or was at least pretending to be, so they hadn't spoken. His mom was usually an early riser, especially on Christmas. He sniffed the air, but there was no sign of breakfast.

A small thread of panic crawled up his spine, the thought that maybe something had happened in her sleep, that the last words spoken to each other had been unpleasant ones. Not even a year earlier he had been trying to remember the last conversation he'd had with his father and couldn't. It was probably something about hockey that Arthur had only half-paid attention to.

He hopped up and wrapped a robe around himself to keep warm, then crept down the hall. If his mother was sleeping, he didn't want to wake her. He was too tired himself and he was way past the age of waking up at the crack of dawn to eagerly open Christmas presents and see what Santa left in his stocking.

The door to his mother's bedroom was open a crack, making it possible to peak in without waking her. He couldn't see much, but there was an ever so slight rise and fall of her chest that he could make out in the dim streetlight coming through the window.

Well, I'm awake.

If he was going to smile through a sub-par Christmas dinner, he was going to make a solid Christmas breakfast.

He started by pulling out a pack of bacon, because there was always a pack of bacon, and tossing it into a low pan. Then he found half a bottle of vinegar left over from who knows what and set about descaling the coffee pot. Because there were still a few places in this country where the coffee revolution hadn't arrived, and his home town was one of them.

He had the urge to go all out, make something like eggs Florentine, but there was no spinach and if by some miracle there was thyme in the spice rack, it would almost certainly be dried and flavorless.

There were, however, plenty of leftover baking supplies. Cinnamon swirl pancakes. He checked in the cupboards and cringed at the collection of aluminum and flaky Teflon pots and pans. He made the decision that he was going to stop being nice and start getting her stainless steel for Mother’s Day. He could probably enlist Jennine from next door to steal the old stuff.

The first pancake was in the pan when his mother came into the kitchen. She was fully dressed, hair done, light dusting of makeup, just enough to make her look more proper. She sniffed the air.

"What are you making?"

"Cinnamon pancakes and bacon. Pour yourself some coffee."

She did and took a sip. "Did you change the coffee?"

"Descaled the pot." He gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Mom. Sit down and let me make you breakfast."

She sat and watched, sipping her coffee. Arthur put in no flourishes but didn't pretend he didn't know exactly what he was doing when he swirled the cinnamon caramel sauce into the batter before flipping the first pancake, revealing a dark brown spiral in the golden cake.

"How do you get them so fluffy?"

His mother had never asked about anything he'd cooked for her, ever. "Whip up the egg whites separately then carefully mix in the yolk, trying to keep as much volume as possible, then very carefully mix that in with the rest of the ingredients that you've already mixed together. They do these pancakes in Japan where they keep the egg whites completely separate. Treat it like a soufflé. They come out three inches tall and take like ten minutes to cook."

He flipped another out of the pan and eyeballed the bacon, deciding it should be perfectly crisp by the time he got another two pancakes done.

"What's in the swirl?"

"Melted butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon. Not exactly healthy. But it's Christmas."

There were no more questions, but he could feel his mother watching. In an odd way it reminded him of Martin watching him cook when he couldn't stand for more than a couple of minutes, but still liked to sit in the kitchen and watch Arthur prepare food. During those times, Arthur would keep a running commentary of what he was doing so Martin could learn even while healing.

He garnished the plates with orange wedges to cut through the sugar and salt and refilled his mother's coffee before sitting down himself.

"This looks lovely. Thank you."

"Absolutely my pleasure."

They opened their gifts after the breakfast dishes were put away.

"It's a French press." It was porcelain and hand-painted with lilies by a rather Bohemian couple who lived in his building. "Does six cups so I thought you could bring it out when it's your turn to host bible study." He knew his mother was never giving up that Mr. Coffee pot for day-to-day brews, but for the subtle status posturing of one’s abilities as a hostess, well, it made very nice coffee.

"Thank you, it's beautiful." She handed him a small, wrapped package.

He carefully pulled off the wrapping and his jaw dropped. It was a copy of Alphaville, an intensely obscure French science fiction, new wave, neo-noir film from the mid-sixties. And what was more, it was the Criterion edition, which last he checked was out of print. "Where did you find this!?"

His mother smiled. "In the church charity shop. Still in the plastic wrap with a Borders Books price tag on it. I know you like those types of movies so I thought you might enjoy that one."

"I've never actually seen it. I read about it and have been looking for a copy for ages."

His mom positively beamed. "Well, Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

It was more a slight crawling sensation along his spine than the halting footsteps that told him someone had stopped at the entrance to his cubicle. It would not be Arthur, who had returned to his childhood home three days earlier. Aside from Arthur and his direct supervisors, no one else had ever come to his cubicle, and his supervisors had only come on three occasions. That said, he had been informed that other agents had 'warmed up' to him after his absence, and while none spoke, he did get more nods as he passed them in the hall.

"Hey, there."

Agent Jones. Carol. Level 3 analyst. Eastern European specialist. Arthur's friend, and lunch companion when they could not share the meal. Girlfriend of Doctor Jennifer Hernandez, PhD, who had once lectured the library children about dinosaurs.

Arthur turned around. "Agent Jones."

"Agent Groves. It's 6:15 on December 25^th. Pack up, we're having Christmas dinner together."

"I was not aware you celebrated Christmas."

"I do not, which is why I know every restaurant in this town that is open tonight. Come on, my girlfriend is stuck in Argentina, trying to dig up an entire Neuquenosaurus before her grant money runs out, and your boyfriend is stuck in the same flavor of small-town Middle America hell I ran screaming from. Pack up. You have your choice between Chinese, Thai, and Indian."

Martin contemplated the offer, if it could be called that. He had only interacted with Carol with Arthur present. She was intelligent and never attempted to ask probing questions or comment on his habits. His trauma therapist–who in recent months seems to have become more of a general therapist–had been encouraging him to attempt to form other friendships. He had tried to explain how difficult that was, that patterns and routine gave his life order and that other people caused breaks in those patterns that could verge on physically painful.

Carol, he supposed, was vetted in a way. She understood some small pieces of him, even if it was through the lens of Arthur. And, at worst, it was dinner. He had planned to make himself a croque madame using the knives Arthur had given him. He could easily make it his pre-flight lunch before flying to New York in the evening.

He gave a small nod. "Thai." There were no chopsticks involved, though he was improving on that front, and while he did find the flavor combinations of Indian food intriguing, he often ran into textural issues. Noodles he could handle.

Arthur had gotten away with 'helpfully' sautéing the greens in a pan with a little garlic powder, saving them from being boiled to death. The chicken and rice were still overdone but that didn't really matter. He and his mother had spent the day in quiet, mostly reading, sipping hot chocolate because it was Christmas, and listening to the icy wind outside rattle the trees. There was a time the silence would have bothered him; he would have felt forced to make conversation so no one was stuck alone with their thoughts. It didn't bother him anymore. Partly because his own thoughts no longer felt as lonely, not when he knew there was someone out there who seemed to have an understanding of him.

"Tomorrow, if the weather's not too rough, I'm going to go see Dad."

"That's good. We got the headstone up. It's a very nice one. Your Martin helped me pick it."

There was something about the way she said 'your Martin' that gave him both a warm feeling and pricked up his ears. She'd never used quite that turn of phrase before. Had she heard him on his phone calls? He'd sat through the years of sermons on the subject and seen the pamphlets about 'traditional marriage.’ And even if he did have the energy within him to explain the details to his mother in a way she would understand… No. It was Christmas, he was running on less than five hours of sleep, he missed Martin, and he wanted to crawl back to bed.

"He's good at helping people through difficult situations. And he's very generous with his time."

His mother nodded. They ate the apple pie, overly sweet, a little synthetic, but warm and calming, and gave her a hug in front of the Christmas tree.

"Merry Christmas."

She squeezed him more tightly than she ever had before and mumbled something into his shirt that he couldn't make out before pulling back. "Merry Christmas."

The Thai restaurant had a plastic silver Christmas tree in the corner, some tinsel strung over the door, and an option of preset menus. Martin and Carol agreed on the Traditional for Two. The waitress noted it down then brought them their drinks.

Carol raised her glass of sparkling wine and Martin raised his of sparkling water.

"Happy, whatever you might celebrate."

Martin briefly tried to remember the old prayers recited diligently over every meal. "Thank you. Happy Hanukkah, a trifle late," he replied.

Carol smiled. "Thanks."

Martin sipped his water. Alcohol did not mix with several medications he still took, and he was worried about triggering a migraine with Arthur not around. The aggressively twinkling Christmas lights his neighbors had put around their door were bad enough to have him reaching for his dark glasses and fumbling into his apartment nearly blind, at least until he had gathered up the confidence to knock on their door.

Carol sipped her wine. Martin felt his pulse increase slightly, followed by an increase in his respiratory rate. When he had accepted the dinner invitation, he had considered the possibility of small talk, but now that it was in front of him it felt far more unpleasant.

Arthur understood that he didn't talk, that some days he simply couldn't talk, that forcing communication beyond the absolute necessary was too much. It was the same as touch. Some days, Arthur spooned against his back brought him to the edge of pure peace. Other days, even the lightest brush of fingers was more than he could manage, feeling like electrified sandpaper.

A part of him had very much wanted to join Arthur for the holidays, but that would have been unlikely to end well. Slipping in as a kindly face and a helping hand during a time of tragedy had been easy enough. People were distracted. His name was real but everything else a complete fabrication. People were happy for the assistance, and no one looked too closely. Grief and shock had masked the flimsy lies and sub-par acting. The Agency had trained him as best as they were able, but a truly believable performance requires an x factor that he lacked. 'Not everyone is destined for Broadway, or undercover work' his training agent had said with a sigh. Martin had learned enough not to mention that he technically owned two buildings on Broadway.

Christmas would have been far harder to justify. Tricky to keep up the act.

Carol smiled at him. "You don't have to make random conversation. I mostly just didn't want to be sitting here alone. And there may have been a request from someone to make sure you eat a bit tonight."

Martin allowed himself a small smile. Arthur slipping him food was nearly the foundation of their relationship, or at least the starting point.

"It'll probably take another couple of months to get that Neuquenosaurus up and out of the ground, but Jennifer says she'd love to come and talk with your library kids as soon as she's back."

"They will enjoy that."

"She said they asked better questions and wrote more coherent essays than most of the grad students she's lectured."

"I should hope so." Martin had put considerable time into making sure his library children knew how to ask questions that would garner the maximum information. And he did not allow for sloppy reports from them, either.

"Oh, and while Mr. Restaurant isn't here, the best stuffing you can have: make fresh challah bread, cut it into little cubes, toast it in the oven with rosemary infused olive oil and a bit of garlic until it's all nice and crunchy, then shove it up the turkey with a bunch of diced green apple, sage, onion, and a pinch of salt. Absolutely perfect."

Martin nodded. "If I am ever in a position where I have to stuff a turkey, I will keep that in mind."