“I guess you’d rather have her be, what? A debutante? A socialite? An heiress?”
“I’d rather have her be normal.” The word came out like a punch, and then emotion overwhelmed Grace Elaine, and she blinked rapidly as tears welled in her eyes. “I’d rather have her be happy. Think about what her life is going to be like, you and John-Henry playing house like this, as she grows up in Wahredua. Think about what her life will be like in elementary school. You grew up here; think about what her life will be like in high school.” She shook her head, gathering her handbag and turning toward the car. Then, over her shoulder, she shot a final volley: “I’d think you would understand better than anyone else the price of being different in a small town.”
Then she was swallowed up by the Aston Martin, and the car slid away like molten silver under the bright September sun.
V
SEPTEMBER 7
FRIDAY
5:13 PM
THE PARTY WAS SHIFTING when Hazard stepped back inside: Somers and a few of the moms were herding the children toward the kitchen, and shouts of, “Cake,” were threatening to turn an orderly movement into a riot.
“Hey,” Somers said, hanging back as the crowd trickled out of the front room. “Where’d you go?”
It wasn’t really a decision, but Hazard felt like he was still making a choice, falling on one side of a problem. He held up the present. “I thought I’d double check one last spot.”
Grinning, Somers accepted the wrapped book and turned it over. “Where’d you find it?”
“In the dining room.”
“I checked the dining room.” Somers was eyeing him now, his gaze frank and assessing.
“It was under the table.”
“I looked under the table.”
“One of the kids,” Hazard said with a shrug. “Maybe that nasty pig-tailed girl was carrying it around.”
“Uh huh. And then you went outside to talk to my mother?”
“I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Uh huh. Because the two of you are so close.”
“No, John. Because it’s the polite thing to do.”
Somers ran his fingers along Hazard’s jaw. “Emery Hazard, you wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”
Meeting Somers’s gaze dead on, Hazard said, “You’re the one who always says I’m a terrible liar.”
“You are, my love. You really are.” Then Somers leaned forward and kissed him. He took Hazard’s hand and led him into the kitchen.
Although the promise of cake had stoked the kids into a frenzy, very little had changed in the party dynamic. The other dads clumped together along the wall, while the moms set up paper plates and napkins and disposable forks. Somers flowed into action, getting the kids lined up around the table, plucking matches from a cabinet, laughing and shooting the shit with some of the guys who were trying to stay clear of the action.
Hazard stayed where he was: on the outside of all of it. Where he always was.
And then Somers looked up, head swiveling as he glanced around the room until he caught sight of Hazard. Then, he gave an impatient jerk of his head.
Hazard offered a small wave; a negation.
Come on, Somers mouthed with another jerk of his head, this time indicating the refrigerator. The cake.
Hazard shook his head.
With a dramatic roll of the eyes that Hazard could read across the room, Somers set down the matches and slipped out of the kitchen. He took Hazard by the arm and tugged him toward the chaos.
“No, John. I’ll just stay out here.”
“Not a chance, dummy. You’re the one who messed up the cake for little Evic. Now you’ve got to take the rap.”
“John,” Hazard protested, but Somers drew him forward inexorably until Hazard was deep in the crush of children.
“Ok, Evie,” Somers said, pulling the cake from the refrigerator and setting it in front of Hazard. “Who’s going to light the candles? Daddy or—”
He never had a chance to finish. Evie raised both hands toward Hazard and shrieked, “Dee!”
PRIDE SLAYS THANKSGIVING
This story takes place before Police Brutality.
Pride slays thanksgiving, but a humble mind is the soil out of which thanks naturally grow. A proud man is seldom a grateful man, for he never thinks he gets as much as he deserves.
- Henry Ward Beecher
I
NOVEMBER 21
WEDNESDAY
4:25 PM
NORMALLY, EMERY HAZARD LOVED having his boyfriend home from work early.
Well.
Normally might have been an exaggeration. Thirty percent exaggeration.
Sometimes, Emery Hazard loved having his boyfriend home from work early. One time, John-Henry Somerset, who was blond and beautiful and was maybe just a little too spontaneous and imaginative for Hazard’s comfort, had come home, locked the doors, lowered the blinds, and made Hazard lose track of several hours. And one time, Somers had come home from work early, blindfolded Hazard, and driven him twenty miles to a cabin he’d rented—and, subsequently, made Hazard lose track of several days. One time—the best of all—Somers had come home from work early and done all the laundry. Washed, dried, and folded by the time Hazard got back from running errands. That might have been the day Hazard loved his boyfriend the most.
But sometimes, Somers came home and wanted to talk.
“You know what I could go for?” Somers called from the kitchen, the words accompanied by the sound of the refrigerator doors opening. “Pumpkin pie.”
The words registered at the edge of Hazard’s consciousness; they didn’t sound like they needed a response, so he let his attention slide back to the text in front of him. A Statistical Analysis of Recidivism, First-time Offenders, Missouri, Iowa, Kansas, Arkansas, 2007-2009 was turning out to be even more of a page turner than he’d anticipated.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator doors closed. Stockinged footsteps crossed the tile. Then they crossed back. The refrigerator doors opened again.
“Maybe we could make a pie this weekend.”
A ripple at the edge of consciousness: that sounded like it required some sort of acknowledgment. Hazard grunted.
“I know we said we’re not doing Thanksgiving,”
