The Christmas Roses Must Not Die

By Richard Shields

"...life is mocked by death, and we are the fools." --Justin Chance

Is this the despairing conviction of an eighteen-year-old boy haunted by personal demons pursuing him as he runs from a tragic past? Or were these words uttered in ignorance of the real demons seen by supersleuth Benjamin Wade as the Baby-Boomer parents of Michael Weston and Michael's betrothed Erin Jennings. When the friendship of Michael and Justin metamorphoses into romantic love before the fireplace on a snowy Christmas Eve, their lives suddenly change forever. Michael, a successful software entrepreneur at the young age of twenty, must now choose between Love and Love and can only watch helplessly as his world begins to collapse around him. A story of two boys who are coming of age in a Baby Boomer-dominated society and who find themselves suddenly faced with all the great questions humanity has perpended for millennia--questions about love and life and fate and who we are as participants in the social order, indeed as members of the human species--it is an indictment of the Boomer generation and the world that generation has created. As Michael and Justin struggle to understand the great personal and societal forces bearing down heavily upon them and to do what they each believe in their young minds is the right thing under impossible circumstances, their superior intelligence can find little guidance in the accepted wisdom of their country. A cast of colorful characters animates a story of deep emotion engaging the reader, a story whose suspense rivets as it builds toward the dramatic climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Feb 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781478753483

Richard Shields

Richard Shields, born in 1954, is nominally a Baby Boomer but views the world through a prism different from that of most of his Boomer peers. Writing has become his passion in the encroaching Autumn years with this, his first novel, the product thereof. A second novel is in the works. Visit: www.richardshields.net and http://outskirtspress.com/christmasroses

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This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

The Christmas Roses Must Not Die

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Richard Shields

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The Christmas Roses Must Not Die

E xcuse me, Mister, can you spare a quarter?

Their eyes locked and in those moments something—a feeling, a quantum of psychic energy, a metaphysical truth, maybe—passed between them, leaving them both confounded.

As they stared at each other, their silence became palpable. Finally, Mister spoke. You can’t do very much with just a quarter.

The panhandler, who looked no older than sixteen or seventeen, fidgeted. It was kind of hard to tell, though, because he stood with his arms wrapped around himself shivering. And no wonder: He was hopelessly underdressed on this cold, snowy December evening. And in an odd getup: A light, black windbreaker with a good-sized rip in one of the sleeves, exposing a gray shirt beneath; gray pants; black brogans; and a cheap, white towel wrapped around his neck. He wore no gloves and no kind of head covering. The lazy snowflakes that fell were beginning to accumulate in his long brown locks as he stood there silently.

So how much do you really need? asked the one who had been tagged Mister, a handle that seemed more than a little ironic, considering that he himself looked scarcely older than the beggar boy. It must have been the business habiliments—the long overcoat, the exposed portion of the four-in-hand, the black oxfords, the shoulder bag, the briefcase—that elicited the curious form of address.

I- The kid shifted and then looked down the street—a furtive look, Mister noted, the look of one who wanted to get away and was estimating his odds of succeeding if he made a run for it.

Mister frowned.

You’re not from around here, are you? he asked, having twigged the East Coast accent with which the kid had made his solicitation. New England, he judged from the way the r’s had sounded. Mister had come across as Mistuh. Quarter, quawtuh.

The kid’s head swung back around sharply, and their eyes locked once again. This time, Mister saw orbs that appeared tired and on the verge of tears. They spoke in wounded tones. Somehow he knew they were saying to him, pleading: Why are you doing this to me—interrogating me like this? All I want is a quarter!

Later that night, Mister would lie in bed, long contemplating this strange, and as it would turn out, momentous encounter and would wonder: Maybe it was the enchantment of all the sights and sounds of the Christmas season on this downtown street—the ubiquitous strings of blinking colored lights festooning the storefronts and the streets; the Christmas music, Deck The Halls emanating from one storefront speaker, Jingle Bells from another; Christmas trees sprouting up everywhere with marvelous trimmings; Santa Claus clones walking hither and yon, spreading joy and candy canes to the young and the young at heart; the unflagging bells of The Salvation Army kettle ringers; shoppers bustling past with armfuls of presents and bug-eyed kids in tow; bids of Merry Christmas! echoing all around; a gentle, steady snow painting the set. And the gamin. Appearing from out of nowhere, it seemed. Standing there before him in the freezing cold, begging for a quarter. It all seemed so . . . Dickensian.

Maybe it was the brotherly instinct he seemed to feel (even though he had no brothers—or sisters, for that matter—and therefore no legitimate idea what a brotherly instinct actually felt like), a sense that the kid was in some kind of difficulty, perhaps even real trouble, and like a big brother, he had to protect him.

Or maybe it was an altogether different impulsion that had moved him to set his briefcase down in the snow, retrieve two one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, and stuff them into the jacket pocket of a boy he didn’t even know and with whom he had exchanged but few words.

Whatever the reason, he was aware only that something had happened to him during those moments, something utterly inexplicable.

Mister picked up his briefcase and with a light clap on the kid’s shoulder, admonished him to buy some winter gear immediately. You shouldn’t be out here in this weather the way you’re dressed. And it’s going to get really bad tonight: There’s a winter storm warning out—did you know that? So duck into a clothing store and buy yourself a winter coat, a neckscarf, a cap with earmuffs, and a pair of warm gloves. After that, I’d head straight for home—or rather whatever hotel I imagine you and your parents are staying at—if I were you. He glanced at his watch and then took an extra-long look at the kid before proceeding on his way.

Dumbstruck by what had been pure happenstance, the slip of a boy watched with jaw dropped as his benefactor padded off through the snow that was rapidly thickening on the sidewalk.

This was not going to be a good night for St. Louis, Missouri. A monster winter storm was bearing down on the city and was expected to dump more than two feet of snow. The impending event had been the talk of the town all day long as the local prophets of weather watched a winter storm front moving down through Iowa and Nebraska. They had been issuing the same ominous forecasts on all the area television and radio stations since early morning, prompting the city’s snow crews to be called in before dawn to begin loading the salt trucks and preparing the massive plows.

But it was a slow-moving storm, they had declared expertly, and would not hit St. Louis until late—between 10 p.m. and midnight according to all the models. And so, many of the city’s natives, particularly the procrastinators of Christmas present, concluded by a quick calculus that they could squeeze in some increasingly urgent Christmas shopping (it was now only three days until Christmas) after work and be home before the roads became unsafe. Michael Lee Weston, a.k.a. Mister, had been one who so thought.

But the snowstorm had defied the weather wizards when it unexpectedly picked up momentum in the late afternoon and began invading the city some three hours sooner than what everyone had been led to believe. The clock on the corner of the 705 Olive Street Office Building across the street from where Michael Weston now stood read twenty minutes to eight. The light, gentle snowfall that made for a winter fantasyland little more than an hour ago had quickly metamorphosed into a howling, biting arctic beast. The magic of the evening was gone. The beat of the street was now frenzied as apprehensive shoppers began to seek out their cars instead of more Christmas presents.

Michael Weston stood behind a mash of pedestrians on the corner of 7th and Olive, waiting for the Don’t Walk Hand to change into the Walking Man. The infernal thing, like the bodies in front of him, seemed frozen. In addition to the briefcase he’d been carrying in his left hand, he now toted in his right a shopping bag brimming with Christmas presents he’d just bought. He was glad he’d remembered his winter cap and gloves as he was heading out the door this morning to go to the office; the temperature was now dropping rapidly. It was his exposed face that was taking the brunt of the frigid wind gusts, which fired the now fine, powdery snow like needles into his skin. He dreaded what was certain to be a slow, arduous, and treacherous drive home, a roughly five-mile journey across town to the city’s Central West End. The hard-blowing snow meant heavy drifting, and the snow crews would be hard pressed to keep the main thoroughfares clear.

Mister! Hey, Mister!

The cry, coming from some distance behind him and blunted by the whipping wind, was nevertheless unmistakable, and his head cocked involuntarily. Turning around abruptly, he saw the street arab, beating his way forward through the snow.

What in the world-? Over an hour had elapsed since their first encounter, and except for the driblet of snot depending uncertainly from his left nostril, the kid still looked the same—that is, still underdressed, Michael noted with some consternation—and the weather conditions were rapidly worsening. His face and ears, though, were now beet red, and he shivered uncontrollably. What are you still doing out here? And why are you still dressed like you are?

I- The kid looked suddenly frightened, as though he’d been caught flagrante delicto for a capital crime. He nervously swiped his nose with the sleeve of his windbreaker—just in time, too, for one more second and the gobbet of snot would certainly have dropped.

I’ve- I’ve been trying to find you. His teeth chattered from the cold as he spoke. I followed you to try and catch you, but you were too far ahead of me, and you were walking very fast. I saw you go into Macy’s department store here but didn’t see you again—until now. I kept waiting, hoping I would see you when you came out. But so much time passed that I figured maybe I missed you or else you left the store through one of the other doors. When it finally looked as though I was not going to see you again, I began walking down the street here—that was just a couple of minutes ago—and to my surprise . . . !

So why were you looking for me? Are you all right? Did you lose the money I gave you?

No! the kid quickly replied. No . . . I still have the money.

Well, what’s going on then? Michael regarded him skeptically.

Excuse me!

Michael looked over the kid’s shoulder and saw an elderly woman. She carried two huge shopping bags by their handles, one in each hand. An oversized purse hung from her shoulder. She looked irritated and battle-ready.

The sign says you can walk now!

Michael turned quickly and saw that the pedestrians who had been standing in front of him were now pouring into the crosswalk, taking care not to fall in the mounting snow. But he and the kid were blocking the old lady’s passage.

I’m sorry, he muttered perfunctorily, suddenly nonplussed by these converging events, together with the mind-numbing wind and snow and the fact that both of his hands were full. And since people were sluicing past them on either side—from both directions now—he and the kid could not simply step aside and let the old lady pass.

Are you boys going to go or not!

Quickly and clumsily, Michael transferred his briefcase to his right hand with the shopping bag. Just then, a gap did open in the stream. Michael placed his newly-emancipated arm around the kid’s shoulder so that they would not get separated in the press and ushered him over next to the Macy’s building.

Now tell me, he said, looking at the kid intently, What’s the matter?

You- His voice faltered in the numbing cold and his gaze fell to his frozen fingers fumbling inside the front pocket of his pants. Finally, he managed to withdraw a one-hundred-dollar bill, and with the awkward motions of gelid hands, he unfolded it and held it out to Michael. You dropped this back there. I noticed it in the snow after you left. And the serial numbers—they’re in sequence with the two bills you gave me.

Michael took the money absently. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. He looked alternately at the bill and the kid. Suddenly, the magic from earlier in the evening was back, and he was oblivious to the boreal monster that was clawing at him. His other hand still rested on the kid’s shoulder, and now he cupped the kid’s nape warmly. Hey . . . finders keepers, you know? And he stuffed the bill back into the kid’s pocket.

Thank you, Mister. Thank you, too, for the money you gave me earlier. That’s another reason I was hoping I’d find you again. I guess I was too shocked by what you did to speak before and say thank you. I’m sorry.

Passersby could have fairly questioned the sanity of these two birds standing out in the middle of a tempest, engaging in what was from all outside appearances a casual conversation. It was a possibility that was not lost on Michael as he acknowledged what to him was an unnecessary apology with a squeeze of the kid’s neck and looked around. You know, people are going to think we’re crazy standing out here like this in a blizzard, especially you, dressed like you’re on a spring outing. He was practically shouting to be heard over the roar of the wind. Come on, bud, you’re shivering so badly, it looks like you’re dancing or something. Since we’re right here, let’s duck into Macy’s and get you that winter gear you should have already gotten instead of chasing after some stranger in the middle of a snowstorm. Michael gave the kid a friendly wink, and they struck off around the corner of the building toward a nearby set of doors. He squinted at his new friend through the blowing snow and smiled. The kid smiled back. It was the first time Michael had seen his mouth upturned.

So what’s your name? asked Michael.

Justin.

That’s a cool name. I’m Michael. So, do you live here in St. Louis?

The kid hesitated before responding simply, No.

Are you staying downtown here at a hotel with your folks?

A longer hesitation this time. Again, No, without elaboration.

Michael looked at him expectantly, but the kid offered nothing more.

The two of them made their way into Macy’s and rode the escalator to the second floor, where they would find Men’s Clothing.

We really must hurry, said Michael. The storm is getting bad, so we need to get out of here as quickly as possible.

A young sales clerk met them at once, given that they were practically the only shoppers in the department now: I understand the storm is worsening out there.

Yes, it really is, Michael attested.

Well, I imagine you both are in a hurry then. My name is Alan. How may I help you?

My buddy here doesn’t listen to weather forecasts as you can see. So we need to get him fixed up with a coat, neckscarf, gloves, and winter cap, something to cover his ears.

Of course. Right this way. Our coats are over here.

In short order, Justin was outfitted with a parka, neckscarf, and a pair of ski gloves, all color coordinated in blue, his favorite color, he said. A last minute consensus between the boys and the sales clerk scrubbed the cap since the parka came with a hood and time was critical. And then Michael, the consummate contingency planner, both in his personal life and his world of business, was on his game this evening: You know, he began, his mouth twisted into a simper, if we get stranded downtown here and have to take a hotel room for a night or two, as I’m beginning to think we will, it would be totally derelict of us not to buy a couple of changes of skivvies.

Ah, yes, good foresight, granted the sales clerk.

And a change of shirt and pants. Actually, we’ll each need a robe and pair of slippers, too.

Of course. The clerk started toward another group of counters. If you’ll just follow me. Our underwear section is over here.

After the boys each selected three changes of tee shirts, briefs, and socks, a change of shirt and pants, and then picked out their robes, the trio made their way to the sales desk. When the sales clerk announced the total cost of their purchases as $590.44, Justin reached into his pocket and pulled out the three one-hundred-dollar bills he’d carried.

Put those away, chided Michael, who already had one of his several credit cards in his hand. He presented it to the sales clerk, who quickly processed the transaction.

I assume the gentleman will want to wear the parka, neckscarf, and gloves out of the store?

Yes, replied Michael.

In that case, I’ll go ahead and remove all the tags, and you’ll just need a bag for the other items.

Justin donned the new parka over his windbreaker, wrapped the scarf around his neck over the towel, and placed the ski gloves inside the coat’s pockets. Since Michael’s hands were already full, Justin carried the shopping bags containing their other purchases.

The sales clerk pointed across the way to the other side of the store. Gentlemen, you’ll find our slippers in Men’s Shoes, which is down this aisle, past the escalators. Happy Holidays to you both.

And to you, said Michael.

The stop at Men’s Shoes went quickly enough. After they added their slippers to Justin’s shopping bag, the two boys ventured back out to the street. The snowstorm greeted them with even greater fury now. They surveyed the change in conditions. Very few people were on the sidewalks any longer as near whiteout conditions now obtained. Cars were sliding and stalling in the street before them. Michael had a sudden foreboding about the people who had choked the sidewalks earlier and who were no doubt currently choking the roads in a frantic effort to make it home. The way things looked out here now, some, he thought grimly, would not survive this night.

Look, I don’t know where you were headed earlier, my friend, but traveling tonight is out of the question. I’m sure even bus and cab service is shut down at this point. Why, you can’t even see twenty feet in front of you. There’s no way we’re going to make it out of downtown here tonight. Michael’s demeanor was suddenly serious. He looked around.

Justin regarded Michael through the blowing snow, suddenly alarmed by his sober tone. What are we going to do?

Well, it’s a good thing we bought some underpinnings, replied Michael drolly, although he was not smiling, Justin noted. Come on, I know a good hotel only a few blocks from here. We’ll have to slog through the snow, but it shouldn’t take us too long to get there. At least you’re now dressed for the occasion.

It actually took them twenty-five minutes to negotiate the distance as the deepening snow on the sidewalks made for difficult and treacherous footing, while the unremitting blasts of wind and snow blinded them. Both did a good amount of slipping and sliding with their burdens. Michael had a sudden chimera of the two of them schlepping through a blizzard in the Yukon and wished he had snowshoes for his current journey.

When they finally attained The Wayfarer, one of St. Louis’ finest luxury hotels, the doorman hailed them with a sympathetic smile. They made their way across the plush lobby to the registration desk and were dutifully greeted by the desk manager, a 30ish man crisply invested in the blue and gold Wayfarer livery:

Good evening, gentlemen. How may I help you?

It will be a very good evening if you still have rooms available, said Michael, setting down his briefcase and shopping bag and then taking off his cap.

Indeed we do. Our selections are limited, however, as the conditions outside have produced an unexpected stream of patrons without reservations this evening.

I’m quite sure. Do you have any doubles left?

We do. Two, I believe. Let’s have a look. The desk manager checked the hotel’s vacancy register on the computer. As a matter of fact, we have exactly two, one on the third floor and the other on the fourteenth.

Michael looked at Justin. The better view or the shorter elevator ride?

The sudden, unexpected focus on him momentarily embarrassed Justin, and he blushed. The view, I guess, he replied timorously.

Michael turned back to the desk manager. We’ll take the higher elevation.

Okaaay, said the desk manager, pecking more keys on his keyboard. That’ll be Room 1412 on the fourteenth floor. Michael completed the registration, posturing Justin as a Weston, too, for the sake of simplicity and because it would have made for an awkward moment to ask Justin’s last name in front of the desk manager.

The desk manager handed Michael a set of key cards. I’ll ring for a porter to assist you both to your room with your belongings. Do you also have luggage?

No, replied Michael. And it won’t be necessary to call for a porter. We can manage.

Okay, then. Information about your room service may be found in your room. If you have any questions, feel free to call the desk here. If you need other services, including the latest information on travel conditions in the city or flight delays and cancellations, our concierge would be most happy to assist you.

Great, said Michael as he and Justin picked up their things.

The elevators, said the desk manager, casting a glance toward a corridor off the lobby, will take you to your floor. Enjoy your stay at The Wayfarer.

Thank you.

Michael and Justin headed toward the elevators. For Justin, it was a particular relief to know he had a warm and safe place to spend this of all nights, secure from the special danger that it obviously posed.

The hotel room was a refined setting, with elegant furnishings for the more affluent clientele and business travelers. Justin had seen hotel rooms like this, complete with a sofa set, only in magazine pictures.

They hung their damp outer garments in the bathroom. Then, Justin watched as Michael laid aside his shoulder bag and took the shopping bag and a towel from the bathroom over to the sofa. Michael peeled off his suit coat, and immediately set about toweling off the topmost Christmas packages. All the presents had been gift wrapped at the stores, but the wrappings on the presents at the top of the shopping bag were wet from the snow that had landed on them and since melted. The paper was already buckling. Hmm, looks like I’ll have to give humble apologies along with some of these gifts, he remarked with a dry smile.

Justin offered his assistance, but Michael demurred: Thanks, but this will only take a couple of minutes. You could, however, take the clothes we bought out of the bags and put them in the dresser.

Justin accepted the assignment with all the alacrity of a new army recruit in boot camp, a reaction that drew a smile from Michael.

When Michael finished his own task, he set all the presents out on the coffee table, giving those that needed it a chance to dry completely. He momentarily considered the collection with a palpable sense of relief that his Christmas shopping was over for this season. These were the last gifts he needed to buy—family presents, he called them, for Mom, Dad, Grandfather Tyler and Grandmother Emily, Grandmother Eleanor, Uncle Martin, Aunt Jessica, and little Joey, his four-year-old cousin—and he’d chosen safe items, like perfumes, colognes, curios—though for Joey he’d bought an electronic game console (and about two dozen different game DVDs to run on it). The sales clerk in the toy store had assured him that this console was the latest rage for boys—yes, even four-year-old boys. He may have been puffing the product to cinch the sale, but that didn’t matter to Michael, who had been informed by Aunt Jessica in a recent e-mail that her son was already exhibiting precocious ability in the realm of computer games, much to her dismay. While all were fine gifts, coming not without some expense or thought in their selection, the truth was that the whole ritual of buying these presents seemed to Michael little more than a mechanical exercise this year, devoid of the spirit of the season he’d felt in Christmases past, and for this lack of sentiment, he felt a pronounced pang of guilt.

Was he becoming unable to experience the simple joy of Christmas that he’d felt every year since he could remember? The possibility was depressing enough, but worse: Maybe he was foisting his own apathy upon others with all these basically meaningless gifts. They would elicit an Oh, Michael, dear, that was so sweet of you from each of the women, a concurrent clap on the back and Thank you, Michael, from each of the men. But none of the gifts would bring to its recipient anything even close to genuine delight, except the game console and game DVDs, in which he was sure Joey would find the ultimate thrill. Perhaps, thought Michael, he should have taken a chance with unsafe gifts.

But he knew that idea was basically futile also. In Mom’s case, she was too preoccupied with her myriad responsibilities as inveterate and indefatigable socialite to care one way or another about a Christmas present. Jennifer Weston was simply like that. And Dad—well, he was ever submerged in the petitions, motions, briefs, and other legal tackle that animated his law practice. For John Weston, life was defined exclusively in terms of his responsibilities as head of the very powerful and very prestigious Weston Law Firm, a group of fourteen high-caliber attorneys, along with twenty-two paralegals, all working in the highly specialized branch of corporate law dealing with the establishment of overseas corporate operations and the handling of such entities’ nonroutine legal matters that occasionally arose. Such frivolities as holidays and presents were part of life’s inevitable distractions, like going to the bathroom, and so he abided them quietly. Come on, Dad, you’ve got to live a little, Michael used to tell him. But Michael had not said that to his father in over two years now, not since deciding to forgo an Ivy League education and start his own software development business exactly one day after graduating high school. Aside from the reality that living a little, as he quickly learned, was no longer so simple when you have your own business to run, he had precious little to say in the first place to the man who kicked him out of the house and disowned him over that decision. And though relations between his parents and him had subsequently improved to the point where dialogue and interaction were once again possible, a certain coolness did remain. As he continued to look at the gaily-wrapped packages, his heart empty of Christmas joy, he realized just how insipid these presents really were.

He sighed at the thought that three days from now, when the entire Weston clan would assemble for Christmas dinner chez John and Jennifer Weston, as was the tradition, he would have to endure yet another empty ritual. How he wished the Christmas holidays were over.

He turned and walked back over to the bed, where he’d laid his suitcoat, and pulled from the inner pocket the single present he’d bought before any of the others, just before the first encounter with his new friend on the streets. He held the present almost reverently in his hands, a slender item elegantly wrapped in embossed purple and gold holiday paper with a dark green ribbon hitched into a bowknot. He opened the little card tethered to the ribbon and reflected on what he’d written:

For my princess,

with love,

Michael

He stared at the present, satisfied that the beautiful necklace he’d bought from one of St. Louis’ oldest and finest jewelers was indeed the right gift for Erin, his fiancée of one month. What to give her for Christmas had been an open question ever since they became engaged right after Thanksgiving. He had vacillated between the necklace, a new high-end laptop, and a cute little music box from Belgium, available through a friend who was a St. Louis importer. Which gift would be the right one had depended on what he happened to feel in his gut at the particular moment of consideration. The undying internal debate had turned into something of an obsession with him, curious since he knew that whatever he got her for Christmas, even a can of pork ‘n’ beans, she would tell him it was the best present she’d ever received because it was from him—and mean it, he thought wryly. He knew that in those heavenly blue eyes of hers, he could do no wrong, although he would tease her about this, telling her that one day he was going to figure out something he could do that would meet with her displeasure. I doubt it, Michael, she would reply saucily and then purse her lips demurely.

But something was curiously different since earlier this evening when he held this necklace in his hands at the jeweler’s, marveling at the way the ½ CTW princess-cut diamond sparkled so brilliantly, and thinking A gift befitting a princess. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was prompting in him an amorphous uncertainty, a dull unease, and yet at the same time there was something paradoxically tantalizing about these affections. He glanced over at the kid, who was watching him intently. Then, shaking off the strange feelings, he placed the present back in the suitcoat and turned his attention toward their new digs.

He looked around, his expression tepid, even bored. Hotel rooms—they depress me so, even the better ones like this. They’re so . . . not homey. That’s why I hate it when I have to travel. Might as well be spending the night in a jail cell as to stay in one of these basically cookie-cutter boxes.

Justin, however, was utterly delighted to be here, especially when he thought of some of the other places he might have had to bivouac for the night. And so he remained silent on the issue.

But I shouldn’t complain, Michael quickly appended. Considering the snowstorm that is raging out there tonight, we’re actually lucky to find a hotel room at all.

With this sentiment, Justin could well concur.

And speaking of the snowstorm, Michael continued, now removing his smartphone from his belt case, that reminds me: I need to make a few quick calls, first to my fiancée, Erin.

Michael sat down on the sofa and Justin a couple of feet away at the desk chair, which he reoriented to face Michael.

Justin watched as Michael hit an icon on his cell phone screen and then a contact. Hi, babe, Michael began when Erin answered on the first ring, her voice frantic. Yes, yes, baby, I’m fine. What about you? . . . Good . . . You have? . . . Oh, I’m sorry, Baby; I had silenced my cell phone during the meeting I was in downtown here this afternoon with one of our new clients- . . . Yes, after the Christmas party . . . -without putting it on vibrate, and I guess I forgot to change it back afterward. I was going to call you a couple of times but got distracted. Michael went on to explain how he stayed downtown following the meeting to do some Christmas shopping and ended up being stranded when the snowstorm hit suddenly. I’m staying at The Wayfarer with a guy I met this evening. His name is Justin. He couldn’t make it home either because of the storm, so we decided to take a room together and wait it out. Michael promised to see her when the roads were clear to travel again. After an exchange of sotto voce sweet-nothings that made Justin fairly embarrassed, the lovebirds clicked off.

One down, six to go, Michael told Justin as he tapped another contact. These won’t take long, though, I promise.

Elizabeth Flores also answered on the first ring in a worried voice, asking Michael where he was and if he was all right. Her concern was more that of a mother than of Michael’s forty-three-year-old Mexican housekeeper—and, until the nuptials of Michael and Erin in June, default matriarch of Weston House. Liz, to those who knew her, was a genuine human being.

Yes, Liz, I’m okay. I’m calling to see if you are all right and to let you know I won’t be home tonight because I’m stuck downtown and am staying at The Wayfarer . . . Okay, then, well that’s good. You just stay inside until this is over . . . Yes, I’ll be careful . . . No, I won’t drive until the roads are safe . . . No, I haven’t eaten yet this evening . . . I will, I promise . . . All right, Liz. Bye now.

Michael flashed Justin an embarrassed half-smile and proceeded to his next call.

Hi, Millie.

If Liz could be thought of as Michael’s surrogate mother in addition to her role as his housekeeper, then certainly Mildred Thompson could be considered his surrogate grandmother along with her function as Michael’s very capable and highly trusted personal secretary. A charming woman of sixty-two years, she was the lovable grandmother of everyone at Enterprise Solutions, her presence conferring upon Michael’s company offices a warm, home-like atmosphere, especially on those days when she would bring in a jumbo batch of her famous chocolate-chip cookies. Everyone at the firm simply adored her.

"Yes, Millie, I’m safe and sound, as I hope you are . . .Well, good. That’s a relief to know. Did everything go all right with the Christmas party after I left? . . . Great. I hated to bug out early like that, but I simply couldn’t postpone the meeting this afternoon with such an important client prospect . . . Yes, I think we’ve got him . . . Right. Anyway, I presume you and everyone else got out of the office before the snow started? . . . Good. I’m going to call the fellas and make sure they’re all okay. So, I- . . . what? . . . Now wait a minute, Millie, you’ve thanked me twice already today for the Christmas bonus—you and just about everyone else. I should have told everybody about the new company rule: Only one thank you allowed for Christmas bonuses- . . . Well, I’m glad you found it generous, but you should know, Millie, that I had ulterior, selfish motives . . . No, now listen, I’m serious: You see, that Christmas bonus was actually bribery money to help buy your continued employment, in case you’re thinking about retiring on me here in the next three years . . . No, I’m not being silly . . . What? You’re not? That’s a verbal contract, Millie, and I’m going to hold you to it . . . Thank you, Millie. Merry Christmas to you, too. I’ll see you Monday morning."

Michael noticed that Justin was smiling in amusement at this last conversation and gave him a wink. My secretary. She’s a sweetheart.

Next, he called each of the fellas, that is, his senior programmers. Brandon Jones, Ryan Williams, and Rajiv Singh. A crack team of twenties-something computer programmers he had culled from applicant pools over the past 2 1/2 years as his clients and contracts multiplied and his company grew. They were the heart and soul of Enterprise Solutions. Thankfully, all were safe at home.

Michael’s last call was to his parents. Mom answered the phone. Dad had made it home before the snowstorm set in, so they were both fine. Michael told her about his ill timing and how he ended up snowbound at a hotel downtown.

News of his plight prompted his mother’s gravest concern: Michael, I hope you were able to find a vacancy in a reputable hotel.

Because she was his mother, Michael had long abided her elitist way of thought, but sometimes when the opportunity arose to let her have it, he could not forbear:

"No, Mom, I couldn’t find a vacancy in any reputable hotel. I ended up having to take a room in a real fleabag. On North Broadway, just on the outskirts of downtown. I mean, this place is . . . beyond words. Filthy. Cold. Cockroaches everywhere. Wait a minute, there goes one now. Got him, Mom."

Justin lost it, bursting into hearty laughter.

What did you say, Mom? . . . Oh, that’s this guy I met tonight downtown here. We’re sharing a room because of the snowstorm. He’s a good person, Mom, but—looking at Justin and smiling the whole time, Michael suddenly lowered his voice to a heightened whisper to give his mom the impression that he was trying to keep his acquaintance from overhearing him but not so low as to actually keep Justin, who was less than two feet away, from doing so—I think he’s gay!

This time Justin quickly threw up a hand over his mouth to muffle a new burst of laughter.

"Yeah, I know, Mom. And what a coincidence, because I think this is one of those kind of hotels . . . No, I didn’t catch the name of it. Come to think of it, I don’t remember even seeing a name. I just saw a sleazy-looking neon sign that said HOTEL . . . I can’t leave, Mom. I’m stuck because of the snowstorm, remember? . . . Be careful? Well, I’ll certainly try, but that may be easier said than done in a seedy place like this—Wait a minute! You know what? I didn’t try The Wayfarer. That’s a huge hotel. They’ll surely have vacancies. That’s what I’ll do: I’ll call them right now and see if they have any vacancies. If they do, I’ll head out of here immediately and make my way there through the snowstorm . . . Yes, Mom, I’ll let you know what happens. Bye."

Justin was shaking his head and smiling incredulously as he looked at Michael.

I know: You’re thinking that was mean, said Michael. but she asked for it. She doesn’t know what it means to be humble in this life.

She’s probably pretty worried about you right now, offered Justin.

"She’s worried all right—about how it would tarnish the good Weston name, and, in particular, her reputation among her stuffy friends, if, say, I were accidentally caught up in some kind of police raid at this very seamy establishment. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but not a whole lot. Anyhow, I won’t fret her for long: I’ll call her back in a half hour or so and tell her that I made it to The Wayfarer—that we made it. I’ll tell her it wouldn’t be conscionable for me to abandon you in a place like that Broadway hotel, whether you’re gay or not."

His phone calls done, Michael leaned forward and extended his cell phone to Justin, who stared dumbly at the device.

Your turn, prompted Michael. I know you want to call your folks to let them know where you are and that you are all right. I guess they took a room at one of the hotels out near the airport since you said you are not staying at a downtown hotel. I imagine they are pretty worried about you by now, too, with the storm hitting like it’s doing.

But Justin immediately looked away. He sat there silent and uncertain.

Well, are you going to call them? Michael persisted. Justin turned his head back toward Michael, who now saw that his friend’s eyes were moist. It seemed that tears would flow at any moment. The kid displayed a tired, pleading aspect, and Michael remembered this same look on his face during their initial encounter on the street.

And just as then, Michael was now suddenly overcome by a strange and powerful compulsion to protect this kid from whatever it was that was inflicting such obvious pain upon him. He rose from the sofa, retrieved a nearby chair, and sat down directly in front of Justin. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?

Justin remained silent. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were pressed together between his legs. He rocked slightly as he stared downward. At nothing, it seemed.

Michael reached forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Justin now looked up. Finally, he spoke: Please, Mister, don’t turn me in. The words barely escaped through a choking voice.

I- Michael hesitated, suddenly unsure how to respond to the kid, and then broke in from a neutral angle: You’ve forgotten that my name is no longer Mister. I changed it to Michael after we met the second time, remember?

Justin looked suddenly frightened, an odd reaction to an obvious joke, thought Michael, who responded instinctively with an easy smile to show that no foul had been committed.

It’s all right, Michael assured him. Just remember: We’re friends, and friends do not call each other Mister. Besides, I’m only twenty years old, and when you call me Mister, you make me feel old.

I’m sorry.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Now tell me, what do you mean Don’t turn you in? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

Justin studied Michael, uncertain whether to proceed.

Look, said Michael, just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. It might not be as bad as you think. I mean, you don’t look like a mass murderer or anything. And who knows, I might even be able to help in some way. But you’ve got to talk to me first, okay?

I-

It’s all right.

I ran away from a boys’ home.

That’s it?

The response, casual almost to the point of indifference, left Justin momentarily discombobulated, and his face showed it in the most comical expression. Michael could not help himself: "You mean you didn’t kill anybody?" he teased, displaying a look of mock earnestness, but followed immediately by a nimble smile and a squeeze of the kid’s shoulder, which at once had its intended effect of putting his friend at ease. Now, an actual smile crept across the kid’s face, replacing his beleaguered cast.

Okay, so it’s all beginning to make sense now. When I first heard your accent, I pretty much figured you hailed from distant environs, from somewhere back east.

I’m from Boston.

Hmm, Boston. Yes, of course. That’s the accent. You’re a long way from home.

Yeah.

So how did you make it all the way here to St. Louis? Did you hitchhike, take a bus-

I hitchhiked.

I see. And is this boys’ home actually in Boston?

No, it’s a little over one hundred miles from Boston, a 157-acre site tucked away deep in a mountainous region of Western Massachusetts known as Berkshire Hills. The Berkshire Home for Boys it was called.

An image of the main building where all the boys were housed, and which contained administrative offices, formed on Justin’s mental screen. It was an imposing, rather bleak-looking, red brick edifice from the 1920s.

What exactly prompted you to run away?

Well, it had been a pretty draconian place from the time I first arrived there in June. Day-to-day life was heavily regimented, with lots of rules, and corporal punishment was often imposed for breaking the most serious rules. We had to wear a prison-like uniform consisting of—with the back of his hand, he indicated in a flourish the garb he was wearing, the dull gray shirt and gray pants, along with the uncomfortable black brogans—and the thin black windbreaker you saw me in.

Tomorrow, you can wear the shirt and pants you got at Macy’s. And we’ll definitely get you more clothes, including new shoes, once the storm ends, Michael assured him.

Anyway, last week is when things really began to get crazy. We had to do these marching drills twice a day, like we were in the army or something. I thought they were really quite pointless, pretty dumb actually, but I still did them—as best as I could anyway, with my bum leg and all.

I noticed you walk with a slight limp that becomes more pronounced the longer you walk. And you favor your right leg. What happened to it?

All of a sudden, Justin lost his visual focus. Michael saw that the kid was no longer looking at him but through him. It was a pensive look, and Michael saw tears once again welling in his eyes. He’d broached an obviously painful subject. Michael wished he could take the question back. What was he doing to this kid anyway, provoking him to tears repeatedly when it had never been his intention to do so?

This time, by some instinct, he reached forward, pulled the kid to him, and held him for a long while. Then Michael eased back to look at him. I can tell that you’re struggling with something. It would be a lot easier on you if you had some help. What I’m trying to say is sometimes it helps lighten the weight of our problems if we have someone with whom we can talk about those problems. If you try to keep it all inside, you’ll go crazy. But you don’t have to keep anything inside. I realize you see me as a stranger, but I’m also your friend, and I’d like to help you carry your burden if you’ll let me.

Justin regarded Michael for a long moment and then began: I was in an automobile accident. Nine months ago. His slow, desolate voice paused for several seconds and then continued. My mother, my father, and my brother were all killed. His face wrenched.

Oh, God, Justin, I’m sorry. I- Michael pressed Justin’s hands together in his own as his words faltered. Justin went on:

It was a head-on collision with a drunk driver. We were on our way home from dinner at this Italian restaurant. Dad was driving. Mom was across from him in the front, and my brother Rob and I were in the back seat. We were traveling on a two-lane highway when this oncoming car veered over into our lane. It all happened so fast: I saw those headlights, like angry, flaming eyes, coming at us. Dad tried to swerve, but there wasn’t enough time. I remember looking over suddenly at Rob. He was looking at me. I saw his face clearly in the glare of the lights. And he knew. He knew. That’s the last thing I remember until I woke up eleven days later. I’d been in a coma, the doctors said. When I asked about my parents and my brother, they looked at each other. Justin began choking on his words. And I knew from their looks. Before they even said it.

He threw a hand up over his face. Michael pulled him close once again and gave him the time he needed.

Justin managed to continue: They said Mom and Dad and Rob had all died instantly. After a pause, he added, The drunken driver lived.

Michael relaxed his embrace and the two of them looked at each other.

He had a lot of broken bones, but they put him back together. Just like they did me. My right arm was broken in two places; my right collar bone was broken; my right leg was broken in four places; and the right side of my skull was crushed. I must have looked like an Egyptian mummy with all those casts and bandages on. After I came out of the coma, the doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. But I remained in the hospital for another three months. I underwent multiple surgeries and scans. When the final cast came off my right leg, I had to do physical therapy for over a month. But I still couldn’t walk right. They did all these neurological tests on my leg and found out that I have neurological damage. They said it’s permanent but that I was lucky to have kept the leg because it had been badly mangled. I didn’t get out of the hospital until the last week of June. A single funeral had been held for Mom and Dad and Rob in March, but of course I was not able to go. He began choking again as he spoke. Some minister came by the hospital and told me the funeral service was—real nice was the way he put it. Lots of flowers had been sent and lots of people had attended the visitation, funeral, and burial.

That’s good, offered Michael quietly. That’s good.

Yeah. A number of people also came to the hospital to see me after I came out of the coma and to offer their condolences—friends, teachers, classmates, and people I didn’t even know. My girlfriend came almost every day for the first two months, and then her visits began to taper off. Finally, she stopped coming altogether. A buddy of mine from school told me she had started going out with someone else.

A gap of silence ensued. Michael eventually spoke:

I didn’t hear you mention any surviving relatives coming to the hospital to see you, he prompted, curious now about this kid’s kindred. Why hadn’t one of them taken this kid in following the terrible tragedy? He should not have ended up in a home for boys. And now on the streets.

There are no other relatives.

Dumbstruck, Michael opened his mouth and halted. His words were late coming. No grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins? No sisters? No other brothers?

Michael’s look was one of total amazement, which Justin decided obliged an enlargement upon the answer.

You see, my mom and dad were the only children in their families, and each of my grandparents on both sides died of heart failure when I was younger. I didn’t have any sisters, and Rob was my only brother. Justin choked again and then added, There weren’t many branches on this family tree to begin with; now only a twig remains.

Justin had been staring down at his hands clasped between his legs as he related his simple genealogy, and now he looked squarely at Michael. The entire tree should be dead.

Don’t say that, Michael gently reproved. The fact is, you still have life, and your life is precious, full of possibilities.

No, Michael, my life is only full of the memories of that night. They haunt me night and day. My mind plays cruel tricks on me. Like when I wake up in the middle of the night and don’t realize at first where I am. For a moment, I expect to get up and go downstairs to raid the refrigerator and encounter Mom or Dad or Rob down there for the same purpose. You see, my whole family was notorious for middle-of-the-night foraging expeditions for snacks. We were pretty weird like that.

Justin attempted a smile. It was short-lived.

But quickly I realize I am no longer at home, no longer in my own bed. I will not go downstairs to the refrigerator and will not see my mom or my dad or my brother. I know mine is a different incarnation now. I live in a new and grotesque reality, and all I want to do is roll back over and die. Die as I should have that night. It is a fell twist of fate that I was the only one who lived besides the drunk driver.

Justin went silent. His eyes held an eerily vacant look that left Michael uncertain just what to say or do next. This kid was going through emotional trauma of a kind Michael had never seen before. In a moment, Justin shifted, sniffing and emitting a nervous half-laugh. You know, I got off track and never did answer your question as to why I ran off from the boys’ home. Crazy me.

It’s okay, bud. You don’t have to talk about it anymore if you don’t want. Maybe you can tell me some other time what happened.

It’s all right; I’m okay now. Really.

Michael looked at him doubtfully.

Let’s see, Justin began again, I was telling you about the marching drills-

Wait a minute, Michael interrupted. I’m really confused about something. The more I think about it, the more this boys’ home sounds like a boot camp for juvenile delinquents. Now, I can understand that with no parents or other relatives to care for you, a court action became necessary on the custody issue, but surely the court did not order you sent to a place like that.

No. The court awarded custody of me to the DCFS—that’s the Department of Children and Family Services. I was in the hospital when that happened. It was the DCFS that sent me to Berkshire when I was released from the hospital. I don’t know why they sent me there because it was a place for kids who had been in trouble either in school or with the law. My placement there seemed to be some kind of mistake because I’d never been in any kind of trouble like that in my life. I didn’t fit in with the other boys and was depressed the whole time I was there.

So what happened to the home you were living in with your family? Wasn’t there a will conveying the family assets to you?

"There was a will, but it