The next day dawned windy and bitterly cold, the heavy skies threatening snow, but never making good. In the warmth of his rose-festooned living room, Jason pulled out his laptop, determined to trace his family tree back to its Tennessee roots so he could find the place where his ancestors overlapped with Ben’s family.

“I guess the logical first step would be to call my parents.” But it was the last thing he wanted to do.

Ben must have heard the reluctance in Jason’s voice. “I’ve noticed you never talk about your family. You don’t get along with them?”

They were sitting on the couch, Jason’s open laptop on the coffee table in front of him. Ben had seen it before, but he always watched it warily, as if expecting it to misbehave. The wind buffeted the house, rattling the windows in their panes, and Jason sighed, not wanting to get into it. “It’s not that we don’t get along so much as we have no use for each other. My dad’s a stockbroker, and he’s always busy. And my mom . . .” He glanced over at Ben, remembering what he’d said about how children were viewed in the nineteenth century. “I was a commodity. And at this point, I have no value.”

“You mean you made money for them when you were a kid, but now your money is all your own?”

“Well, that too. But it wasn’t about money so much as bragging rights, and there’s no glamour being the mother of a has-been.”

Ben shook his head and scooted a bit farther away from the computer. “You’re not a ‘has-been.’ And anyway, I’m sure your mother doesn’t see it that way.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s an agent now. She has other clients. Other projects.” Jason shrugged. “It’s not like there’s bad blood between us. We just don’t have much to say.” He chewed his thumbnail, eyeing the online genealogy site. He could start with his grandparents, but he knew it was silly to create more work for himself when all he had to do was make a simple phone call.

He swallowed his pride and dialed.

Neither of his parents recalled having any connection to Tennessee. They were able to give him the names of their grandparents, and a couple of their great-grandparents, but nothing more than that.

It felt like a good start, but Jason quickly found that doing genealogy online was far more difficult than the commercials would have him believe. Ben grew bored with the process after only a few minutes and went back to watching reruns of Seinfeld on TV, leaving Jason to fight his way through the lineage lists himself. It might have been easier if he’d had one specific line to trace back, but there was no way of knowing which of his eight great-grandparents shared Ben’s blood, and with each new generation, the number of names he had to trace doubled. His list soon included more than fifty ancestors. The problem was, he couldn’t find the maiden names of most of the women, and many of the men had frustratingly common names. Without knowing their birthdates, or where they’d been born or died, he had no way of knowing which Mary Smith or John Walker was actually connected to his family.

Jason stopped, chewing a cuticle in frustration. He wasn’t following the trunk of the tree to its roots as he’d envisioned. He was running up and down its branches like a mad squirrel, trying to find the one slender twig that took him where he longed to go. Even after feeding his credit card number into the genealogy sites, he got nowhere near Tennessee or anybody with the last name of Ward.

Maybe he was going about it wrong. Tracing his own lineage meant following the branches of an ever-widening tree. But he knew his final destination: Ben.

“What was your sister’s full name?”

“Sarah Elizabeth Ward.”

“And do you know her birthday?”

“September 9, 1837.”

But even with that information, Jason came up empty. Most of the records from the nineteenth century weren’t available online. He tried searching for Ben and Sarah’s father, and for Theodore Jameson, the man Sarah was supposed to marry, but couldn’t find him either.

“The only way to figure it out,” he told Ben at last, “would be to drive to all of these cities and dig through the archives in their libraries or courthouses or . . . or wherever the hell old records like this are kept. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Ben watched him for a moment, chewing his lip as he debated. “Why does it matter?” he asked at last.

Jason didn’t have a good answer. He’d had some half-brained idea that finding their shared ancestry would lead to an explanation of Ben’s predicament, but when he sat back and looked at it logically, he realized it was ridiculous. How would knowing a name change anything? Even if he knew which parent shared Ben’s blood, it got him no nearer to understanding Ben’s situation. It certainly didn’t offer any kind of solution. After all, if any of his cousins or aunts or uncles had any kind of mystical powers, he was sure he would have heard of it. His mother would undoubtedly have found a way to make a dime off it by now.

Still . . .

“Aren’t you curious?” Jason asked.

Ben graced him with one of his sweetest smiles. “Not really. You can see me, and you can hear me. That’s good enough for me.”

“But what if this is the answer?”

“The answer to what?”

“To getting you out of the globe?”

Ben scowled and turned away. The more time they spent together, the more Jason found himself wondering about the globe that held Ben prisoner, but it was a topic Ben adamantly refused to discuss.

“I’ve spent a hundred and fifty years in there,” he said at last. “I don’t want to spend the time I have with you talking about it.”

“But there must be a way to get you out.”

“If there was, I would have found it by now.”

“Maybe there’s something we’ve missed,” Jason insisted. “Maybe she left a clue somewhere.”

Ben’s expression bordered on disdain. “A clue? Like what, some kind of cryptic treasure map?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, feeling defensive. “Why not?”

Ben shook his head. “She wasn’t a pirate, and I’m not a chest full of gold. She put me in here to keep me safe, not to torture me. If she’d thought to leave directions, they would have been crystal clear. Something like, ‘Bathe in the blood of a rooster and dance naked under the full moon.’”

“Do you think that would work?” Jason asked.

Ben winked out of existence rather than gracing him with an answer.

Jason dropped the subject for the rest of the afternoon, but he didn’t give up his search. Any time that wasn’t spent sleeping or with Ben was spent online, tracking down people who claimed to be experts in the supernatural. He sent emails and made phone calls asking for advice, but got nowhere. Most of them never responded. The ones who did generally thought he was pulling their leg. The vast majority of the people who claimed to believe him quickly proved to be complete frauds who asked for massive down payments in advance, clearly hoping only to take him for as much money as possible while running him in circles. Only a handful showed genuine interest, but they all suggested the same thing: a religious intervention, similar to an exorcism. But they assumed he wanted Ben’s spirit banished or “laid to rest.” They were at a loss when he tried to explain that he wanted Ben returned to his living state.

“Why would you want to do that?” one man asked him. “Most folks don’t like being haunted.”

“That’s because they aren’t haunted by Ben.”

A few days later, they settled together on the couch to watch the most recent of Jason’s movies, Summer Camp Nightmare 3.

“I’ll be so sad when it’s over,” Ben said before Jason had a chance to hit Play.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the last one. You’ll have to go make more movies for me to watch.”

Jason winced, thinking about the script sitting in the desk drawer. “I wasn’t planning on acting again.”

“Why not? Don’t you enjoy it?” Ben asked.

“Yes and no.”

“Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

Jason laughed. That, of course, was the crux of the issue. As much as he sometimes wanted to swear off acting forever, it was the only thing he really knew. He sure as hell didn’t want to get an office job, or work in retail. Dylan always laughed when he said that, reminding him those weren’t the only options. He was right of course, but nothing in the world held the same appeal as acting.

“Yes,” Jason answered at last. “I’d rather be sitting here with you.”

Ben smiled, but shook his head. “That doesn’t count.”

Jason didn’t want to argue about it, so he pointed the remote at the TV and hit Play. It seemed like the easiest way to end the conversation.

Watching Summer Camp Nightmare 3 was nothing like watching Alley of Blood. That movie had been tainted from the get-go, but he found as he watched Summer Camp Nightmare 3 that he had fond memories of the shoot. Yes, there had been the incident of the actress who’d been given bad weed. And yes, there’d been the usual pain of watching Dylan fuck his way through the cast. But for the most part, the shoot had been several months of hanging out with friends.

He became aware of Ben next to him, flailing his hands to get Jason’s attention. Winding the music box had become habit for Jason, whether they were watching TV or sitting on the veranda or walking in the woods. He rarely had to be reminded, but he’d been so caught up in watching and reminiscing, wondering if maybe he should take the part in Summer Camp Nightmare 4 after all, that he’d nearly forgotten Ben was present. Ben pointed emphatically at the globe, and Jason paused the movie before obligingly turning the key so Ben could be heard.

“Back it up a bit,” Ben said.

Jason did.

“Stop! That guy there. That’s the guy who was here, isn’t it? The one you were with on the balcony.”

“Yes,” Jason said, feeling that horrible pain in his chest he’d come to associate with the object of his unrequited love. “Dylan.”

Ben glanced over at him, frowning. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“A friend?”

“Do you know the term ‘friends with benefits’?”

Ben’s image flickered for a second. Jason sometimes thought of those strange flickers as blushes. “No, but I think I get the list.”

“Gist,” Jason corrected. “You get the gist.”

“But you are friends?”

“Yes.”

Ben chewed his lip thoughtfully, studying Jason, and Jason squirmed under the sudden scrutiny. “Then why does seeing him and talking about him make you so sad?”

Jason didn’t necessarily think of what he was feeling as sadness, but he supposed it did seem that way. He hit Play again. “It’s hard to explain.” Of course, it wasn’t. It was quite easy. He loved Dylan, and Dylan would never love him back. And yet now, sitting next to Ben, seeing Dylan up on the screen, Jason found he didn’t want to dwell on it for another day. Whatever it was that Dylan made him feel—whether it was sadness or regret or something else entirely—Jason was tired of wallowing in it. He was tired of justifying his own unhappiness. He was here now, in his new house, away from Hollywood and the reporters and all the hype, and yes, away from Dylan too, and he felt better than he had in ages.

He was glad he didn’t need to explain any of that, though. Ben had already turned back to the movie. They’d come to the requisite sex scene in Summer Camp Nightmare 3, and the camera showed Jason kissing one of the actresses while he undressed her. “What about her?” Ben asked.

“Kayleigh?”

“Yeah. It seems like you really liked her. Was she a friend with benefits too?”

“No, not at all.”

“Why not?”

Jason found the entire line of questioning surprising and mildly amusing. “Lots of reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Mainly because I wasn’t interested, and neither was she. She had a boyfriend at the time. I mean, she was a perfectly nice girl. Great to work with. But this?” He indicated the on-screen action. “This was just part of the job.”

“So, you didn’t find her attractive?”

“Not really.”

“Do you find any women attractive?”

Jason leaned back on the couch, seeing where the conversation was going and hoping it wouldn’t be awkward. “Not like that, no.”

Ben hesitated, his image flickering again. “Are there lots of men like you?”

“Gay men, you mean? Homosexuals? Men who prefer other men? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Not exactly.” Ben kept his eyes on the floor as if he was unable to make eye contact. He hesitated, choosing his words. “I know there are men who are attracted to other men,” Ben said at last, his voice low, “because I am one.” He stopped, glancing nervously at Jason, as if waiting to be questioned or reprimanded.

The admission surprised Jason—Ben had given him no such indication until now—but he didn’t want to make Ben even more uncomfortable by making a fuss over it, so he simply waited.

Ben took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “My father said it was because I was runty and weak-natured.”

Jason blinked, trying to put it together. “Your father told you that being ‘runty’ and being gay were the same thing?”

Ben nodded. “He said if I’d been a dog, he would have drowned me in the river because I was skinny and sickly, and my lungs were small and worthless, and my sexual responses . . .” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He said I was abnormal.”

“You’re not abnormal,” Jason said. “Absolutely not.”

Ben nodded. “I’ve sort of learned . . . Well, I haven’t seen it much. I remember stuff on the news about this terrible disease that was killing men, back when I’d watch TV with Edith—”

“AIDS.”

“Yes. But then, in my years at the antique shop, I realized . . . Well, it was owned by two women, and so I heard them talk about wanting to get married, and how it was happening all over. But . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not making any sense.”

“You’re doing fine.”

Ben glanced his direction, and he must have liked what he saw on Jason’s face, because his tension seemed to dissipate. He unclenched his fists, and his slumped shoulders regained a bit of their levity. The lines of concern on his face gave way to a hesitant smile. “You’re like me,” he said at last. “But you’re not. And so maybe my father was wrong.”

And finally, Jason saw the crux of the issue. “Your father was a fool. Or just deluded, maybe. I’m sure everything was different back then. But I promise you, being gay is not synonymous with being ‘runty,’ or sickly. Those things have nothing to do with one another. Physically, gay men are as varied as straight men.” He leaned forward, wishing he could take Ben’s hand. He settled instead for reaching across the couch, resting his fingers on the edges of Ben’s cushion. “You’re absolutely perfect, Ben. There’s nothing wrong with you at all.”

Ben turned away, his image flickering fitfully. “Thank you,” he said, his voice tight, barely louder than a whisper. Jason suspected he was holding back tears.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’m only telling you the truth.”

Ben nodded once, and Jason turned back to the TV in order to give Ben some semblance of privacy while he pulled himself back together. They returned to watching the movie, and Ben eventually returned to his usual cheery self. He didn’t mention his sexuality again, and yet Jason felt things shifting in his mind, as if Ben’s confession had turned a light on some previously undiscovered room in the house that was his life. Looking across the couch at Ben—hearing his laugh, watching his animated face and the way his lips curved so readily into a smile, knowing what he now knew—Jason suspected he’d never see Ben quite the same way again.

Having exhausted Jason’s less-than-vast filmography, Jason and Ben searched for new forms of entertainment. They walked in the woods. They watched TV. And then, on the bitterly cold morning of Thanksgiving Eve, Ben asked to see more of the house. It was a strange realization, that Ben had only seen the couple of rooms Jason had taken him into thus far. So Jason took him slowly through his house, letting him explore each room in turn, even opening drawers and closet doors for him, when requested. It was in this way that Ben learned about Summer Camp Nightmare 4.

“I haven’t even read it yet,” Jason confessed, hefting the script in his hand as if he could weigh its worth.

“But you’ll do it, right?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like there’s no point in trying when I’ll never be anything more than I am right now.”

Ben frowned at him, his image flickering. “But what you are right now is wonderful. Why would you want to give that up?”

Jason shook his head. It wasn’t worth explaining. Ben would never understand what Hollywood was like. He’d never comprehend that terrible scramble to reach the top, or the insatiable and futile need to have the world acknowledge your talent. He’d never know the petty, shameful pang of bitterness when some seemingly less-deserving star suddenly got their big break, or the deep-seated resentment when you worked your ass off on a film only to have it snubbed by critics and viewers alike.

“It’s hard,” Jason said at last. “It’s like ripping out my soul just so people can wipe their feet on it. Nobody really cares if JayWalk makes another film.”

“I care.”

Jason couldn’t help but smile. “I appreciate that, even if you can’t actually buy a ticket at the box office.” He regretted it as soon as he said it. He’d meant it as a joke, but he was afraid it sounded petty. He needn’t have worried, though. Ben laughed anyway, and as he did, Jason had a sudden thought. “Hey! You want to go see a real movie?”

“You mean Off Demand?”

“It’s On Demand, but no. I mean in an actual movie theater. Something big and spectacular, up on the big screen. There might even be an IMAX in Coeur d’Alene or Spokane. Do you know what that is?”

Ben shook his head, his eyes wide. “I have no idea. Is it wonderful?”

Jason laughed. “I have a feeling you’ll think so.”

He pulled up their options online, and they debated. Jason’s first instinct was to take Ben to one of the IMAX films at the museum—one of the visually stunning documentaries about space or the arctic or the depths of the sea—but the film playing that week was described as “poignant” and “heartbreaking,” and Ben shook his head emphatically. “I’d rather see something fun.”

“No problem,” Jason told him. “Plenty of blockbusters to choose from this time of year.”

Once that was decided, they tackled the problem of actually getting Ben into the theater. None of Jason’s coat pockets were big enough to hold the globe. He tried stuffing it in his laptop carrier, but discovered that unless he left it unzipped, Ben had no way of escaping. Besides, who took their laptop into a movie? It was bound to raise suspicion. In the end, he wrapped the globe in bubble wrap. He left the top exposed, partly so anybody who checked the bag could easily see it was a snow globe, partly because they discovered that without some kind of gap, Ben couldn’t get out. Jason also left the bottom of the music box exposed so he could wind it frequently. He found a paper bag with a thin rope handle—the kind of bag used in many gift shops—and put the globe inside.

When they raised their eyebrows at the box office, he held it out for them to inspect.

“I’m afraid it’ll freeze and break if I leave it in the car,” he explained.

Given the small, shockingly hard flakes buffeting down the sidewalk—it’d felt like being stabbed by tiny needles as Jason had dashed toward the front door—the fear of something freezing seemed completely logical, but the girl behind the glass smacked her gum, narrowing her eyes at him. “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”

“Some people say I look like William Moseley.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Can I go in, or not?”

She glanced again at the snow globe in the bag, and then toward the bitter outdoors. “Sure.” She shrugged. “Long as there’s no booze in there, it makes no difference to me.”

Jason picked seats near the back of the theater. Not that it mattered to Ben. Unseen by people and uninhibited by little things like solid matter, he walked straight through rows of seats and people’s legs blocking the aisles, wandering the theater in awe. At one point, he walked right up to the screen to inspect it, then stopped multiple times to listen to other people’s conversations before making his way back to Jason.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know,” Jason said as Ben sank into a sitting position next to him. The bottom of the seat stayed upright though, and Ben hovered there, two feet above the sticky floor. “Move for a second,” Jason told Ben. It was silly, he knew. He could have left Ben how he was, or he could have messed with the seat with Ben still sitting there, but it felt wrong to reach through Ben’s spectral presence. Once he was out of the way, Jason wedged the seat down with his coat and the gift bag. The angle was still wrong, but it’d be less disconcerting than before. “Now sit down.”

Ben obeyed, then leaned close to Jason’s ear. “That lady in the front there? The one with the blonde hair? She saw you buy your ticket. She and her friend are arguing about whether you’re you.”

Sure enough, the woman in question glanced around at him. She quickly turned away when she caught Jason’s eyes on her.

“Great,” Jason groaned, sinking lower in his seat.

“She’s debating if she should ask you for your autograph.”

“Christ. Let’s book it out of here as soon as the credits start, all right?”

“Not like I have much of a choice. I leave when you leave, assuming you take the globe with you.”

“Not a chance in hell I’d leave you behind.”

Jason froze as a voice behind him whispered, “Who’s he talking to?”

He spun around in his seat. Two teenagers sat behind him, both of them starting at him in horror. They’d obviously been talking about him but hadn’t expected him to hear. To his relief, they didn’t seem to know him. Still, he gathered his coat and bag containing the snow globe and moved silently to the seat at the end of their row, where nobody was directly behind him. It’d make for an easier escape when the film ended anyway.

“What was that all about?” Ben asked as Jason prepared his seat again.

“Nothing.” But it was a rude reminder that he needed to be a bit more careful about talking to Ben in public. He was relieved when the lights dimmed a minute later.

Ben loved the movie. More than anything, he was impressed by the surround sound, and more than once he turned to look behind them, as if he actually expected to see something approaching from the back of the auditorium. And they didn’t get to leave as soon as the credits started, despite Jason’s hushed pleas. Ben insisted on sitting through to the very end. Luckily, Jason’s makeshift fan club had less patience, and the lobby was all but deserted by the time the two of them emerged from the theater.

“What do you want to do next?” Jason asked as they exited into the blustering, icy cold. The sleet had turned to snow, although it had slowed, so the wind wasn't blowing tiny daggers as it had when they’d gone in.

Ben glanced around, scoping out the area. The theater was set in downtown Coeur d’Alene, where old architecture had been given a facelift and turned into a bustling, modern-day shopping center. In less than forty-eight hours, the Black Friday madness would start, but now, whether due to the snow or simply because people had better things to do, the streets were practically deserted.

Ben pointed. “Let’s go in there!”

Jason followed his finger. “Best Buy?”

“I don’t even care what they sell. I just want to see more.”

A reasonable enough request, when he considered how little of the world Ben had access to. “Sure. Why not?”

An employee greeted them at the front door and requested that Jason leave his bag with them. “For security,” the man assured him. “I promise you’ll get it back on your way out.”

Jason glanced toward Ben, unsure what to do.

“I’ve never been in a place this big,” Ben told him. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay with you or not.”

“I won’t be able to hear you for long.”

“Excuse me?” the Best Buy employee said.

Jason’s cheeks burned. “Sorry, I was thinking about something else.” He reluctantly handed over his bag.

Ben passed quickly through the music section, literally walking straight through the racks, leaving Jason to hurry around them in order to catch up. He scowled at the section of iPads and tablets, until Jason picked one up and played with it, at which point Ben began to gush in silent excitement. The music box had run out, so Jason couldn’t hear a word he said, but he could read the delight in Ben’s eyes. But when Ben found the DVDs and Blu-rays, he stopped short, looking as if he’d stumbled into heaven. He gestured wildly at Jason over the rack between them, his lips moving far too fast for Jason to read, but Jason got the gist of it. It was something along the lines of, “Oh my God, look at these, come quick, come quick.”

“Hang on a minute,” Jason told him. “I can’t walk right through the damn shelves like you, you know. I have to go around.”

“Excuse me?” the woman next to him said.

He held his hand up to his ear on the side opposite her. “Bluetooth. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away, and Jason took the opportunity to take his phone out and hold it up to his ear. Better for people to think him a rude asshole talking too loud on his phone than a lunatic talking to himself.

He finally made it around to Ben’s side of the display. He’d expected to find movies, but that wasn’t what had excited Ben so much. Instead, it was box sets of old TV shows.

Ben was practically beside himself, his pale hands pointing to different boxes and then fluttering in wild gesticulations around his head as he talked. His eyes were bright, his lips so perfectly expressive and mobile, and for a while, Jason could only watch him, still stupidly holding his phone to his ear, not catching a single word Ben was saying, just drinking in Ben’s enthusiasm and his joy and his beauty. It took him a minute to come up with something good to say.

“Pick some,” he said at last.

Ben froze, all of his motions settling into stillness like a bird finally fluttering to a perch. Really?

“Sure. I mean, maybe not all of them, but we can buy a few. Which ones do you like best?”

Ben bounced on his toes, his hands clasped under his chin, and not for the first time, Jason found himself thinking about how young Ben was—not even twenty-one—and yet how strangely, terribly old at the same time.

Ben began scanning the shelves, occasionally pointing to boxes, at which point Jason would pick them up and flip them over so Ben could read the back. In the end, they left with season one of Fantasy Island, season three of The Love Boat, season four of Dallas—Jason realized with some guilt that he never had googled who shot J.R.—and the entire series of something called Murder, She Wrote.

“Are these for your grandma or something?” the teenage girl at the register asked.

“For a friend,” Jason told her, smiling at Ben. He didn’t need to hear Ben to read the thank you on his lips.

“What should we do today?” Jason asked Ben the next day when the latter finally made an appearance late in the morning. “It’s Thanksgiving, but I’ve never baked a turkey before, and it wouldn’t do you much good anyway.”

They were in the kitchen, sunlight streaming through the windows into the small space as Jason loaded the dishwasher. He used so few dishes each day, it made more sense to wash them by hand after each meal, but who had that kind of self-discipline? He’d let an embarrassing number of coffee cups pile up next to the sink. Time to fall back on modern technology.

Ben stood in the corner, by the entrance to the mudroom, ostensibly with a hip against the counter, although he’d missed by about three inches. “Anything is fine.”

“Well, there’ll be movies on TV, and there’s football, although don’t ask me to explain it to you, because as far as I can tell, they’re all just running into each other. And there’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Have you ever seen that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Me neither, but I know it’ll be on.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was nearly eleven. “Unless we missed it. It’s on the East Coast, and it might be a morning thing.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ben crossed to the window, pushing his face right through the white curtain to peer outside so that it looked as if his head ended half an inch in front of his ears.

Jason found it disturbing and turned back to the dishes. “Do you want me to take you outside?”

“I don’t know. The sky is clear, but it looks awfully cold.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Maybe later.”

His response lacked his usual cheer, and Jason risked a glance his direction. Not that it did any good. Ben’s face was still obscured by the curtain. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” But his voice was pensive, and Jason waited, knowing there’d be more. “I remember the first Thanksgiving,” Ben said at last.

“What?” Jason dropped the little pellet of detergent in and closed the dishwasher, flipping it on as he did. “You mean like at Plymouth Rock? You’re not that old.”

Ben laughed, turning back into the room as Jason wound the music box back up in order to keep the conversation going. “No. I mean, I remember when President Lincoln declared it a holiday.”

Jason frowned, trying to recall what he’d learned about Thanksgiving back in grade school. All he really remembered was tracing his hand on construction paper and coloring it to look like a turkey. “It wasn’t a holiday before that?”

“Well, sort of. The president or the governor would occasionally decide to declare some random day ‘a day of thanksgiving.’ But it wasn’t a yearly thing. It was more of a religious celebration back then—”

“Really?”

“Sure. In Tennessee, the Episcopalians celebrated Thanksgiving early in November. But then sometimes the governors would try to declare the last Sunday of the year as a day of thanksgiving, which would piss all the Episcopalians off, because they’d already done that. But mostly, we thought of Thanksgiving as a Yankee idea. Something those silly superstitious Puritans did in New England. And anything they did in New England wasn’t something we were anxious to copy in the South. It was something of a joke.”

“So you didn’t celebrate it at all?”

“Some people did. I know Arkansas declared it a holiday a few years before the war, but Tennessee was a bit slower to embrace it. Nashville had a Thanksgiving parade in 1859—that was a big deal, it was all anybody talked about for weeks—but when the war started brewing, Thanksgiving became one more point of contention between the North and the South.”

“I had no idea.”

“Then, in 1863, President Lincoln declared the last Thursday in November as a national holiday. Of course I was north by then, living with the Yank who’d stolen the globe and his family, and they talked all about it, how Lincoln had called on the nation to reflect upon its lost brethren, and to find a path to healing, or some such nonsense.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I remember laughing, thinking how back at home, they were probably up in arms. Anything Lincoln said was cause for a riot. If he told them the sky was blue, the South would be out there blustering about how any damn fool could see it was red. So even though I wasn’t there anymore, I knew the South would fight it. And I knew my dad would spend the whole day in a rage over it too.”

“I bet you missed them.”

Ben shrugged. “I missed being home, and I missed Sarah, but I can’t say I ever really missed my dad.”

“And now?”

Ben hung his head, staring down at his scuffed boot. “I feel like I should say yes, I miss them. But it’s been so long. The truth is, I hardly even remember them. I remember that Sarah was terrible at spelling, and she hated needlepoint, and when we were little she was always climbing trees and tearing her dresses. But I’m not sure I even remember what she looked like.”

“What do you remember?”

Ben’s eyes became distant as he thought back. “Smells and sensations, mostly. I remember . . .” He moved his hands futilely, as if trying to grasp at the words. “I remember the smell of fresh-baked bread, and the warmth of it in my hand, and the way the butter would tear right through the slice Cook gave me, no matter how carefully I tried to spread it. I remember the drone of cicadas, even though I haven’t heard it in more than a century, and how the sound seemed to rise and fall as I drifted off to sleep. And I remember the smell of horses and hay, and the snorting sound our old mare made when I walked into the barn, like she was saying hello. I remember the odor of rain-soaked cotton bales and sun-baked tobacco fields and the rhythm of the songs the slaves sang and the itchiness of my best Sunday shirt. But the people?” He shook his head. “I remember Edith more than my own sister.”

Jason couldn’t imagine. He thought about people he’d grown up with, friends from twenty years before. In most cases, he remembered little more than a single moment, or a sensory impression. In some cases, he recalled a smile or a distinct face, and yet when he tried to focus on it, it grew hazy and nondescript. How must it be after a hundred and fifty years? He felt bad for having brought it up.

“Well,” he said, wanting to lighten the mood, “I’m happy to report that the holiday is no longer about Puritan superstitions, or whatever it was you said. Now, it’s mostly about pigging out.”

“And being thankful.”

“Yeah. That too, I guess.”

Ben smiled at him, like some kind of blessing. “I am, you know.”

“What?”

“Thankful. For you. Every minute of every single day since we met, I’ve been thankful.”

As so often happened with Ben, the frankness of such an intimate statement caught Jason off-guard, as did the knowledge that Ben still lived a half life at best. And yet, despite everything, Ben found a reason to smile each and every day. Here Jason was with a career many would envy, a bank account that kept him fed and clothed, a house out of a fairy tale, and yet how often did he stop and take account of his joys?

I’m thankful for you too, he wanted to say, but Ben had already turned away to stare out the window again. This time, he peeked through the gap in the curtain rather than sticking his spectral face straight into the fabric. “The parade,” he said. “I think we should watch the parade. Do you think we missed it?”

“I’ll find a way,” Jason promised. “Anything for you.”