What Happens When You Go Home To New England For Christmas After Living In LA For Long Enough

You disembark at Wickford Junction and smile. Cold air, naked trees, Wal-Mart and Staples rising on your right like lonely boulders from the gritty wilderness. Christmas in New England! You descend the platform steps and shrug your duffel bag onto a bench. Mom will be here any minute.

Take a look around, kid. This is home—or it used to be. It’s quaint, now, like a place out of time. Witness the parking spots in front of you that don’t say COMPACT. Check out the startling absence of Tesla charging stations. Notice, if you will, that traffic moves freely along Ten Rod Road. You laugh with delight. A mining town, practically!

Your mother arrives in her Nissan Juke, a garish set of wheels your friend once nicknamed “The Red Rocket.” (Mom has adopted the moniker enthusiastically, and you wonder whether she knows about this particular phrase, that people often use it to refer to a dog’s swollen penis.) You put on your N95 mask and get in.

“I’m wearing this until I can get a rapid antigen test,” you say, off her quizzical look. “LA is a hotbed right now. It’s, like, so bad.” Mom shrugs like, I knew my daughter was gay, but I had no idea about you.

Four pharmacies later, you find a couple at-home test kits and manage to slip into the conversation that you’re in town from LA—like, Los Angeles—and that everywhere is sold out there, too. “It’s a hotbed,” you say. “LA, that is. That's where I live.” The cashier stares at you blankly and you smile back. She starts to drool. You leave and get back in the Red Rocket where you complete a negative test and so allow yourself—with great misgiving—to remove the N95 mask.

It feels good, like taking off a bra. But it also feels bad, like admitting you think former Speaker of the House Paul Ryan is handsome. “That’s better,” your mom says, and leans over to kiss you on the cheek. “How was your flight?”

You scoff. “Well, LAX was a nightmare. There was construction at Tijera and Sepulveda, which put me back like twenty minutes, and then the Hell Loop was clogged like you wouldn't believe. Some idiot rear-ended a guy in front of Tom Bradley, and I was flying United so it took me another fifteen minutes just to get to Terminal 7. It was so bad the driver dropped me off at Arrivals and I had to take the escalator up to Departures.”

She frowns. Did you answer the question? You smile and shake your head ruefully—of course you did.

When you get home, she offers you coffee. “You must be exhausted after your red eye,” she says. “I can brew a pot.” You shift from foot to foot uneasily. A pot? You look around, thinking that surely she must be teasing. Where is the espresso machine?

“Su…sure,” you stammer. “A…‘pot’ of coffee sounds great.” You take a deep breath, gather your courage, and steel yourself for what comes next. “Do you have any milk or cream?” you say, hardly believing the words that are coming out of your mouth.

She nods. “I have milk,” she says, peering into the fridge. “Or I have this non-dairy creamer.” Relief floods over you like waves over sand at Will Rogers Beach. You sweep your mom into an embrace, dip her low, and French kiss her. “Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you for the non-dairy creamer.”

. . .

Later that night, your dad picks Maeve up at Logan and drives her to Mom’s. Maeve lives in LA, too, but she hasn’t lived there as long as you have. So when Mom asks her how her flight was, she says something about the actual flight and not about the process of getting from her house to LAX. You smile and shake your head ruefully—it’s like watching a baby giraffe learn to walk!

You hug your dad. “How was traffic on The 95?” you say. You see him falter for a second and you quickly correct yourself. “Sorry,” you say, laughing. “It’s an LA thing. How was traffic on ninety-five?” He furrows his brow and squints at you, as if trying to puzzle something out. 

“It was fine,” he says. “What are you wearing?”

You look down. What? He gestures to your head and you touch the beanie you’ve balanced there. “Oh, this,” you say. “It’s a hat.”

“Well, I know it’s a hat,” he says. He looks around, as if trying to remember where he left his gun. “But we’re inside.” You laugh and clap him on the shoulder. Guy talk. “Why are you wearing so many rings?” he says.

“I wouldn’t say ‘so many,’” you say, appreciating the ribbing. This is what guys do. “It’s five rings. Big whoop.” 

“And why does your shirt say ‘Born-ex-Raised’”? You smile and shake your head ruefully—Dad doesn’t care about anti-gentrification activism, but hey. Old dogs, new tricks.

. . .

The next day, Meghan and Joel come over with the kids. “What’s with the rings?” Meghan says, passing the baby off to you. Joel hugs Mom and asks her where he can put the casserole. 

“Oh, just anywhere in the fridge,” she says. “Would you like a Manhattan?” 

Joel shrugs and says sure and Mom sets about making cocktails. “Duke, do you want one?” she says. You ask if she can make a Paper Plane. She tells you she doesn’t know what that is. You smile and shake your head ruefully—big shock. “I guess Paper Planes haven’t flown east for the winter yet,” you say, and you and Maeve bust up laughing.

Mom ignores the joke and asks what you want instead. “Just a Negroni, I guess,” you say. She tells you she doesn’t have the stuff for a Negroni.

Unease creeps over you. “What do you have for wine?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, opening the cupboard. “Apothic red.” You know better than to ask whether it’s natural.

“Too many added sulfites,” you mutter. “I’ll just have a craft beer. Whatever you have is fine.” 

Mom smiles. “That I can do.”

She hands you a Sam Adams Winter Lager. You feel bile rising in your throat, and you make a dash for the guest room where you bury your head in the comforter and text your therapist, asking whether he has time for a quick Zoom call. 

. . .

After presents, the girls go off to play. Mom makes another “pot” for everyone and the adults sit around the living room, enjoying the fire and sipping coffee. “You know,” Dad says, “I don’t understand Peloton. Why am I gonna pay fifteen hundred bucks for a bike that doesn’t go anywhere, plus forty bucks a month to have someone on TV tell me how fast I should ride?”

You and Maeve exchange a glance like, is he being funny? But he seems earnest, and you ask a few follow-up questions to confirm that, yes, he really doesn’t ‘get’ Peloton. “Hold on,” you say. You pull one of the kitchen stools over to the fireplace, climb up, and with great effort take down the two swords that hang above the mantel. “Sorry, Dad,” you say. “But honor compels me.” You strap one of the swords to your waist. “I challenge you to single combat.”

“What?” he says. 

“I challenge you to single combat,” you repeat. “To the death.” 

He tells you he doesn’t want to.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, and toss him a sword. “En garde.” 

Joel and Meghan help clear the furniture away. Maeve starts vaping. Mom weeps softly in the corner. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Duke,” she says. Maeve puts a hand on her shoulder consolingly and offers her the vape pen. Mom declines.

“Duke, don’t be ridiculous,” your dad says. “It’s a stationary bicycle. This isn’t worth getting upset over.” You shake your head and smile ruefully—oh, Dad. Then, without answering, you unsheathe your weapon and lunge forward. 

“Fuck!” he shouts, jumping out of the way and bringing his own sword up to defend himself. “Duke, stop!” You lunge again, your blade darting in, hungry for blood. Dad knocks it away, and the force of his parry puts you off balance. You stagger back on one foot, and Dad takes the advantage to bring down a high overhead cut. You block, spin back towards the Christmas tree, and reset your footing. You see a wild look in your father’s eye. 

He snarls and advances. “No son of mine wears a beanie like that,” he says, hacking wildly at you. You turn away his blade once. “No son of mine drives an electric car!” he shouts, swinging with full force. You turn away his blade twice. “NO SON OF MINE SHOPS AT EREWHON!” he bellows, and his third attack finds its way past your defense. Your father strikes true, burying his blade deep in your breast, and you look down with shock as blood ribbons out in excited geysers.

The truth washes over you like waves wash over the sands of Narragansett Beach. The west coast has softened you to something beyond recognition. Regret rears its head. “Forgive me, Father,” you say, falling to your knees. “I lost myself.” Dad’s bloodlust fades and he pales at the realization of what he’s done. He drops to the ground and cradles your dying body in his arms. Maeve rips a sick cloud of cotton and blows vape rings towards the sad tableau.

“There is nothing to forgive, Duke,” he says.

“Dad,” you say, a tremor of fear in your voice. The darkness is closing in. “Dad, can you hear me?”

“I’m here, my boy,” he says.

You cough blood. Your voice is a faint rasp.

“Go Sox?” you say.

“Go Sox,” he says, and a shudder of grief passes through him as you slip away. “Go Sox,” he whispers, pulling the beanie off your head and casting it in to the fire. “And go Pats.”