Andrew's Gremlin was cherry. It was diamond blue with white chevron shaped stripes (does that make it mobil? Go back into your shell), and fairly glinted in the cold evening air. The car was all nose and no butt, the interior was all original plastic and tin foil, and Lee felt very strange getting into it. Lee had had college buddies who'd had Gremlins, and he had always refused to get into them. He was, it seemed, much less picky these days. He didn't mind riding in a well-kept-up shoe with wheels as long as there was beer at the end of the ride. The bucket seat was cold. Lee shivered slightly into his coat, and wondered if it was due to the weather or the car.

"How are you feeling?" Andrew asked.

"I'd rather you drove a Caddie."

"No, I mean about signing the papers."

Lee shrugged, and Andrew shifted grindingly into second. The car lurched forward in a blinding display of incongruous ownership. Lee held on to the door handle and held his breath until Andrew settled into third. That gave Lee time to think about how he was doing. All he knew was that he should be happy, finally, now that they had signed the papers, but he wasn't. Beyond that, the strange discombobulation in his gut kept trying to get his attention, and he did everything he could to ignore it. It was bound to be unpleasant.

Peter tried to decide if he dare try another sip of beer. He had just accepted a date with Jim. Or, at least, it seemed he had. It all happened so unexpectedly that all he was sure about was that he had no idea what to be sure about. He picked up the glass and went for it.

"I'm starting fresh, here," Jim said, and Peter wished he had waited a few minutes for the sip. "I have to try everything. I want to see what I want to do with my life."

Peter pursed his lips very tightly to avoid another spit take, and forcibly swallowed. Beer had never tasted so painful. Okay, he thought. Now what the hell am I going to do?

"I, um..." he said, trying to sound confidently masculine. "I'm not very experienced. What if you hate it and it's my fault?"

Peter turned the brightest shade of pink that Jim had ever seen, and Jim smiled. Then Peter flinched and looked like he might duck beneath the table and Jim turned around to see what had startled him. It never crossed his mind that he had already startled Peter. Mr. Harris was just coming into the bar with that older man he had been with at the theater. Hey, Jim thought, maybe Mr. Harris was trying this, too. Cool. He turned back to Peter who looked like he was trying to look normal. The beard and overalls had taken him way past that long ago.

"Let's go to your place," he said.

Peter had just ventured another sip. He held it in his mouth, stood numbly and numbly followed Jim toward the front door. Now what the hell am I going to do, he thought again, and beer dribbled through his beard. He tried to remember what dishes might be in the living room. He tried to remember what pans might be on the bed. He tried to figure out how he could tell this wonderful looking young man who had some strange notion about him that they couldn't possibly go to his place and not destroy the chance to "go out". Now. "Go out" right now. He hadn't "gone out" in such a long time. Jim was ahead of Peter. He, obviously, wasn't processing this whole thing. Jim rushed past Lee and Andrew. Lee looked back toward him with a very odd expression on his face. Peter wondered if he could remember how to become invisible long enough to get by Lee. Then he remembered that that was just a book he had read sometime in his childhood, and he had never really mastered the actual art. He could, however, burst into a flaming (Steve, no queen jokes) super hero. (Thank you, Steve.) With snappy shoes. (You're hopeless.)

"Hey, Peter," Andrew said.

"Hi, Peter," Lee said.

"Come join us for a beer," Andrew said.

"Yeah, we're celebrating," Lee said.

Peter swallowed the beer, gave up all notions of super powers and settled on looking confused. I can't say yes, Jim's waiting. I can't say no, then I'll have to tell them why. I can't say random pandemonium in any case. He looked at his shoes, which were dirty and old and had mismatched laces.

"You all right, man?" Lee asked.

"Yeah, why?" Peter said and noticed Jim poking his head back into the bar. Oh, my God, he thought. I wonder if Lee already knows. He shrugged slightly at Jim, who hesitantly joined them.

"I just signed the divorce agreement," Lee added just as Jim got there. "Oh. Hi."

Jim nodded and looked like he wanted to keep his distance.

"We, um..." Peter said, "were working. At the theater. And I thought I'd show Jim around. Being dollar beer night and all. So here we are. We were just leaving. Parting is such sweet fellow. Sorrow."

He wondered if Lee would feel like he was replacing him as a friend. He thought it must look like he belonged to Friend of the Month Club. He was going to say that it was Jim's idea to go out for beer, and he could never replace Lee, but even thinking it sounded like a junior high school conversation, and anyway it would take entirely too much explanation. He wondered if Andrew and Lee had already figured out that he was going home with someone. He wondered how he would ever get over the embarrassment. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, Peter thought, they picked The Office. No, Lee thought back, she walks into mine. What, Peter thought. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine, Lee thought. Casablanca. No, Peter thought, not she. You - Andrew - here. Oh, Lee thought.

"I'm Andrew," Andrew said and put out his hand.

"Jim. Ackerman. Yeah, my father..." he side glanced at Lee and stopped. He wanted to stop being frightened of this man, but for the life of him, it was entirely too exciting.

"Yeah," Lee said. He wanted to know why the hell Peter was having beer with this jerk.

This is the weirdest conversation I've ever been in, Andrew thought, then insisted that Peter and Jim join them for a beer. To avoid shooting Andrew a look for inviting Jim, Lee went to the bar for the beer. Andrew led Jim and Peter to the same table they had just vacated. The waitress had already cleared their half-consumed mugs. Lee came back and set the beers down.

"Headline consoled me for not getting a part," he said. "Doesn't anybody in this town have anything to do?"

Peter thought, yeah, I do. Then his face flushed again. He raised his glass to hide it.

"Congratulations," he said to Lee through the foam.

They all raised their beer, then took a sip. Then they stared at each other. Or, rather, avoided staring at each other. Or, rather, Peter and Jim avoided staring at each other and Jim and Lee avoided staring at each other. Peter avoided staring at Lee. Andrew avoided staring at the old woman with the fur coat and jewelry who sat in the corner rolling her own and patting all the men on the fanny.

Peter asked Lee how the agreement came out.

"Good. Good. Andrew did a great job. He's crafty. That's why we're drinking beer."

Lee wanted to tell Peter all the details, but didn't want to say much in front of Jim. Peter wanted to hear more, but didn't want to just then. Andrew wanted to walk by the old lady and get his fanny patted.

"Well. Look at the time," Jim said, shooting Peter a quick look. "Eight fifty-nine. I should go."

"Nice meeting you," Andrew said.

"Yeah," Lee said, very glad Jim was leaving. Now he could tell Peter all about the agreement and the rat dog threat and how surprised he was that he wasn't more excited and maybe get more excited by telling Peter. "Nice seeing you again."

"I should go, too," Peter said, really torn between the possibility of offending Lee which he really hated to do and the need to find out just what Jim really had in mind which he really needed to do. "Gotta go feed Cliche. And I have to work tomorrow."

"Come on," Lee said, a bit hurt. "Stay for one more."

A waitress walked by and gave Peter an "I think your head is going to explode" look.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow. You can tell me everything. I... Gotta.... Um... Go."

Lee and Andrew watched Jim leave followed by Peter.

"What was all that?" Andrew asked.

Lee shrugged, bewildered. He had never been so glad and so sorry to see people leave a table. He wondered why the hell Peter was spending time with Jim. He's not his friend. It's not like he's Bear or Agnes.

"Congratulations again," Andrew said and looked at Lee for a long time. "You'll be fine. It'll hit you. It's a new beginning. The missus and I are going out of town next week, but I don't think much will happen until we get back. Got any plans for Thanksgiving?"

Lee patiently waited while his mind processed the question.

"I haven't thought about it, really. Twain's is open, so I guess I'll be working. Doesn't really matter, I guess. I don't have family here," he said, then was surprised to feel a strange ball in his chest. He wondered what Excalibur would be doing for Thanksgiving. He hoped he wouldn't cry. Andrew put a hand on his shoulder and told him again that he'd be fine, and said he should find some place to go.

"Lots of people take in strays for Thanksgiving."

Lee nodded and said he'd think about it and drank the rest of his beer. Better alcohol than tears, he thought, being a guy and all.

"So what do you have against Gremlins?" Andrew asked.

"What?" Lee responded intellegently. (That's "intelligently", Geof. I no.)

When Jim and Peter got to the house, Peter's panic shifted slightly to a stronger focus on the thought of what his house looked like. He asked Jim to wait outside, then he ran in to make sure there wasn't anything too appalling laying about rotting. After turning in circles in the living room two or three times, he picked up an old banana peel from the coffee table. Part of it stuck. The scent of old banana instantly wafted across the room, reminding him that he hadn't made banana bread in a very long time. He threw the peel in the garbage, turned around in circles two or three more times, gave up and just opened the door.

"Sorry about the mess," he said.

"That's all right," Jim said, smiling graciously, "you should see my place."

Peter decided he would very much like to do that. Often.

As he sat down on the couch, Jim noticed the red, three-bump LEGO™ piece on the coffee table right next to the strange, slimy stain that smelled like bananas. It reminded him of the Clue game his father had gotten him when he was six. The LEGO™, not the banana stain. That reminded him of the Where's Waldo book his father had gotten him last year. Peter moved a stack of magazines and sat on the couch. He made sure no part of him touched any part of Jim. Not even the edge of his overalls crossed the imaginary divide and ventured into contact with any part of Jim's designer knock-off shirt or slacks.

Cliche sat on the floor washing his left hind leg. Jim and Peter watched him with an odd fascination. Peter's breathing was strangely shallow and his face felt red. Jim breathed pointedly, rapidly. Peter's mind was filled with rising bread dough. Jim tried not to think of Clue and Waldo and his father. Cliche changed legs. Jim cleared his throat and Peter turned his head toward him a little. Jim didn't have anything to say, so he cleared his throat again. Peter turned his head back to resume watching Cliche and breathed in once very deeply. It hurt his breast bone, so he stopped.

"Um," Peter said, and Jim turned his head toward him a little. "Would you like... um... some... uh... whiskey?"

"Yes," Jim said, entirely too enthusiastically.

Peter lurched up off the couch, accidentally brushing against Jim's leg.

"Sorry," he said, and rushed into the kitchen, where Jim could hear him taking in big breaths.

Jim picked up the remote and turned on the television to see if that would drain a little of the blood out of his brain. This wasn't going as smoothly as he had expected. The show that was on was about the making of the Rockford Files. He quickly flipped to a show about J. Edgar Hoover. Something was wrong with that. He didn't know just what, but it made his stomach lurch, so he changed the channel again and settled on a college football game.

"... on their own thirty-five yard line," the announcer's voice boomed from the television.

Jim checked his body. Nothing bled or lurched. Good. Safe. Peter came back with two shot glasses and the bottle of Canadian, sat and poured. He sat a little farther away than he had been before.

"Football," Peter said, peripherally noticing the television.

"Oh," Jim said. "I can turn it off."

"No. No, it's fine."

They raised their glasses in salute, then they both knocked back the shots. Then they both shuddered slightly. Then they both got embarrassed and Peter poured two more. They both took little sips. That wasn't nearly as embarrassing.

"They're down by six," the announcer said. "The Wildcats better do something, they've only got thirteen seconds to go."

Jim set his glass down and put his hand on Peter's knee. Nothing else touched. They still looked forward.

"Let's see how the Grizzlies will respond."

Every molecule in Peter's body flinched. Every cell in Jim's froze. Peter's eyes widened. He did mean "go out," he thought. Jim's palm got sweaty. Overalls have really soft fabric, he thought. Maybe I should get a pair. They both watched the football game. To Peter it looked like colors moving on a screen. To Jim it looked like colors moving on a screen wearing uniforms. Cliche stopped washing and watched Peter and Jim. This is better than The English Patient, he thought. And I really hope the Wildcats win.

"The Wildcats just called their last time out," the second announcer responded. "This would be a good opportunity for Coach Prescott to try something new. He's known for pulling a rabbit out of a hat at the last minute... "

Jim took his hand off Peter's knee and put his arm around his shoulder. Nothing else touched. They both still looked forward. Peter's spine stiffened and his legs trembled. The spot on his knee where Jim's hand had been felt cold. Jim could feel his heartbeat in his thumb, and his left foot itched. They still watched the screen. Cliche took notes.

"This is the first meeting between the Wildcats and the Grizzlies. Certainly has proved to be an exciting match-up," the first announcer said. "I sure would like to see these teams get together again next year."

"Okay, we're ready to go," the second announcer announced. "Kowalski steps up behind the center. It's do or die time. Kowalski barks his commands. He takes the snap from Windell... "

The third announcer was out getting a foot long hot dog with sauerkraut, chili, sliced jalapeños, chopped onions, horseradish sauce, Dijon mustard, pickle relish, Cheddar and Muenster cheese, bacon bits, diced tomato, radishes, green olives, black olive paste, sauteed mushrooms, grilled scallions, roasted garlic, anchovies, capers, Rocky-Mountain oysters and fried Spam and a Yoohoo.

Jim reached over with his free hand and gently took Peter's hand in his. Nothing else touched. They still stared forward. Oh, my God, Peter thought, wondering if the bread dough in his head was starting to extrude from his eyes and ears. It's really happening. But if we go through with this and I'm really awful, then I'm really a loser and Jim will hate me. If I reject him now, I can save face. But then Jim will hate me. And I don't have any face left to save anyway. I wish he would leave so I could melt some cheese. Oh, my God, what does the bedroom look like? Oh, my God, what if I'm straight? Oh, my God, did I send in the royalty check for The Wiz? Why can't I move my fingers? What the hell am I going to do? Why does everything happen to me? Stellaaaaaaaaaa!

Jim's mind was blank. No blood. No thoughts. No Waldo.

Cliche shook his head and left the room.

"He breaks another tackle," the second announcer shouted. "He's on the fifty, the forty, the thirty. It looks like he's going all the way!"

Jim leaned his face in toward Peter's. Peter felt the move and turned toward him, very surprised. He pulled his head back a little. He wished Jim wasn't holding his hand so he could pour himself another drink.

"Oh, and he fumbles," the third announcer garbled around his chili dog. "On the ten yard line. DuBois fumbles on the ten yard line. There was nobody around. Nobody touched him. He just dropped the ball and it went out of bounds with no time left on the clock. I don't' believe it. The Grizzlies win the game!"

Peter shuddered once, then leaned in toward Jim.

Peter awoke feeling more tired and more rested then he ever had. The first thing he saw when his eyes opened was the sleeping face of Jim Ackerman. He liked the way the stubble on his cheek moved in time to the small, sweet snore.

Jim awoke feeling odd. The first thing he saw were Peter's eyes looking at him. He sat up and rubbed his face. I need a shave, he thought. He looked over at Peter. That was really awful, he thought. I guess I'm not gay. Of course, it was my first time. Maybe it was because I didn't know what I was doing. I kind of do, now. Maybe now that I kind of know what I'm doing, it'll go better. Maybe I'm just straight. But I really have to be sure. If I really like it, and I don't do it, I'll never know. Then where would I be?

Peter saw the look in Jim's face. Oh, my God, he thought. He hated it. I'm such a loser.

"So," Jim said, and Peter steeled himself for the brush-off. "Got any plans for Thanksgiving?"

"Oh, um... Yeah," Peter said, wondering how that could be a brush-off. "Sort of. I was supposed to go visit family, but it fell through. The guy who played Charlie and the Doctor invited me over, but it's sort of a mercy invitation."

"My dad wanted me to come back to Chicago, but I just got here."

"Um..." Peter said, cautiously, "You could... maybe... I could cook. You could come here. I got a turkey in the freezer. I got it free for spending over fifty dollars on one visit. Hell, I do that all the time. Unless I'm just buying cheese. Or something. Anyway, you could come here. Then I wouldn't have to go to the pity party."

"Yeah," Jim answered. "That would be great."

The more Jim thought about it, the better it sounded. The perfect setting. Second date. Second dates are always more relaxed. Good food. A little beer. A ball game. No pressure. Then I can be sure.

I'm not a loser, Peter thought. He actually likes me.

He floated all the way to work.

(Wait, Peter's gay?)

"Something happened last night," Stella said to him as soon as she saw him.

Peter smiled and looked down at his desk.

"You were with someone, weren't you?"

Peter shrugged. He tried to say "no," but the smile felt too good sitting under his nose like that.

Stella's smile was a little more mischievous. "Who?" she asked.

Peter didn't say anything.

"Come on, Peter, who? Spill."

"Stella," Peter said through the embarrassment . "I'm a gentleman."

"So you were with someone. You rascal. You know you're going to tell me eventually. Who was it?" Stella said, then her smile disappeared . "Oh."

Jim. Suddenly, she knew it was Jim. She didn't even know how she knew, but she had no doubt that it was Jim. Jim who flirted with her. Jim whose cologne hung in the air for an hour after he left a room. Jim whose father liked the Rockford Files. No. Jim is mine, Peter.

Peter had no idea why Stella was so cold to him the rest of the day. He didn't much care.

"Someone to see you, Lee," Twain called back into the kitchen.

Lee dried his hands on his apron and came out front. Abby stood by the counter wearing a smart navy blue suit that looked business-like, but feminine, and complimented her slightly larger than average frame. Her hair was pulled back, which accentuated her round face and she wore just a touch of makeup on her high cheekbones.

"Want to buy some radio advertising?" she asked when Lee came around the corner.

"The many faces of Eve," Lee said.

"Oh, you mean the uniform? Don't I look beguiling?"

She raised her arms gracefully, looking toward the heavens, like a model in a J.C. Penney catalogue. Or L.L. Bean. Or Soldier of Fortune. (Steve. What? I like guns. And knives. And fire. And long walks on the beach. And poetry by Rod McKuen. You hopeless romantic, you. And foot-long hot dogs with... Stop it right now. Stop. Just stop. Woof.)

"I was in the neighborhood and all of a sudden it dawned on me that you probably don't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving. We have a huge family and always have tons of people over. We cook two turkeys and have lots of beer and wine and football and singing and cards and laughter. You should come."

"Thanks. I'm working that day."

"Come after. We go all night. It's a great party. How late are you going to be open?"

"I don't know, six, six-thirty."

"That's early. Come after work."

"Sure. Okay. Why not? I suppose. What the hell. What can I bring?"

"I don't know, you have any guns? Knives? Poetry by Rod McKuen?" (Steve...) "I mean any board games?"

"Sorry."

"About what?"

"No, I have Sorry. And Twister. They're actually Twain's."

She wrote directions on the back of a coupon for harpoons (How come you can do it, Geoff? Because no one expects it from me. See? Humor), handed it to him and went on her way.

That evening, Peter floated into the diner. Even Lee could tell something had happened, but he was too discrete to ask. Or too embarrassed. Or, perhaps, he simply didn't want to know. In fact, he was really hoping Peter was too discrete to tell him. Or too embarrassed. Peter sat on a stool, set his elbows on the cool counter-top, set his chin in his hands, sighed and smiled. That, somehow, pissed Lee off.

"Um." Lee said. "Hi."

"Hi," Peter said, refusing to get rid of that infuriating smile. "Sorry I jetted last night. So tell me about the divorce."

Jim. Suddenly, Lee knew it was Jim. He didn't even know how he knew, but he had no doubt that it was Jim. Jim who had stalked him. Jim whose infernal presence hung in the air for an hour after he left a room. Stupid Jim whose stupid father liked the stupid Rockford Files. No, Peter, how could you? I'd rather see you with anybody but Jim. Even Twain. He looked over at Twain. Well, maybe not Twain.

Peter looked up at Lee and saw Lee's face get cold. Oh, no, he thought, he is really mad at me. I'm such a loser. Then, suddenly it dawned on him that Lee probably didn't have any place to go for Thanksgiving. How could I have been so selfish, he thought. I didn't even think of that. If I had known I was cooking Thanksgiving dinner a week ago, he would have been the first person I invited, but I can't invite him now. But if he doesn't have any place to go, I'll never forgive myself. All night I'll be thinking of him up in his little dark attic, eating his little pungent Vienna Wieners, drinking his little weak beer, sitting on his little green couch, listening to his little scratchy radio, crying about Beverly, and I won't even be able to look at Jim. Not even once. Damn it. His smile disappeared. He sighed, resigned, feeling strangely compelled by the feeling of martyrdom.

"Do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?"

"Yes," Lee said, not even considering for a moment that Peter might not.

"So," Peter said, feeling relieved, feeling guilty for feeling relieved, "tell me about the divorce."

Lee was surprised to discover that he didn't want to. He just wants to patronize me, he thought. He told Peter the technical details in as terse a manner as possible. As he talked, Peter seemed to listen for a moment, then his eyes drifted, and the stupid smile would return. Then he'd listen, then he'd drift. He wanted to tell Peter everything so he could finally get excited, but Peter was thinking about that jerk, Jim. I'm surrounded by jerks, he thought. And Peter's gay, for God's sake. I would expect this behavior from me or one of my straight friends, but he should know better.

Peter was smiling again. He looked like a cross between an old Baby Huey and a bearded Marilyn Monroe. It really pissed Lee off. How dare he be happy at me. But he's my friend, even if he is patronizing me. Why should I piss on his parade.

"It's nice to see you happy," Lee said to him begrudgingly.

Peter's smile got huge, his eyes filled with moisture and he threw his arms around Lee.

"Oh. Um. Yeah," Lee said, his arms pinned to his side, waiting for it all to be over, hoping it would be over soon, being not European and all.

When Peter untangled himself with an embarrassed shrug, Lee noticed Twain looking at them with no expression whatsoever. The man in the John Deere hat sprayed his mouth with three short squirts of Generic™ breath spray. Peter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smiled again and thanked Lee for noticing. Lee was really confused, now. He actually was happy for Peter. And he was still really pissed off that Peter wasn't paying any attention to him. Both reactions surprised him. He needed a ledger he could balance. Numbers were so easy to comprehend. They never surprised him. He could always get them to add up to zero. He wondered where he could get a mechanical pencil and some .5mm lead.

Peter wondered why Lee's eyes suddenly got distant.

The next afternoon, Peter went to the store on the way home and picked up some provisions. After feeding Cliche, he washed a bag of fresh cranberries, put a large pot on the stove, squeezed several oranges through a strainer into it, measured out some sugar and a drop of lemon and, when it started to simmer, put the cranberries in. He grated a large quantity of orange peel in and let it cook for ten minutes. As he watched the viscous mixture simmer, he smiled, knowing that good food always made an evening go well. Then the smiled faded as he thought about Lee, who had been really strange, really cold to him at the diner. I hope he doesn't think I'm only a fair weather friend. It's not fair, I'm a foul weather friend, too. He should know that. I really did want to hear about the divorce. God, Jim has nice hair. When the cranberries burst, he let the mixture cool, then put it in the refrigerator to marinate for a week.

On Friday morning, Lee opened the freezer to get a loaf of bread and noticed, next to Jimmy Hoffa and in front of the corsage, a tub of what looked like homemade vanilla ice cream with actual black specks of real vanilla beans. The tub of what looked like homemade ice cream seemed even more incongruous to Lee than the corsage. The thought of eating what looked like homemade ice cream filled him with an unexpected anticipation. He didn't like sweets. Especially ice cream. The only sweet he liked was beef jerky. He savored the anticipation for as long as it took to find a spoon and sneak some. He smoothed out the spoon mark, then tasted the bite. His eyes slowly widened. It was really good. Oh, my, he thought. The tub of what looked like homemade ice cream really was homemade ice cream. He slowly pulled the chilled spoon from his mouth then threw it behind him, lest he plunge it back into the tub for just one more taste. He started to shake. Just back away from the freezer, he thought. He closed the door and backed away. Turn around, now, he thought. And keep your mouth closed. Must be some kind of Twainian tradition. Why does everyone think Thanksgiving is so damn special? Beverly used to make that horrible pea casserole with oysters, cheese and breadcrumbs. Blech. Every year. Blech. Blech. And every year I tasted it and smiled. Blech. Blech. Blech. I should have known then that she was going to cheat on me. Now she can make it for the Jerk. Serve him right. And I'm going to a dinner for strays. I'm their stupid tradition. Okay, that just sounded too whiny. I've got to stop hanging around gay men. I wonder what Peter's stupid tradition is.

On Saturday, Twain told him to stay out of the ice cream.

Monday evening Peter gutted and peeled a large (Moose Hippopotamus Cow Deer Elk Whale Yak Titmouse Armadillo Hyena Ostrich Sea Lion Buffalo Jackal um um um um... Wore yourself out, didn't you?) pumpkin and steamed it with spices, then let it cool and put it in the refrigerator next to the cranberry sauce. He lifted the plastic wrap from the cranberries and the sweet sour scent swirled surreptitiously skyward (Easy, Geoff, give the other letters a chance. So Sorry, Steve), surrounding his senses. (Stop it, stupid. Sure. Sheesh.) He replaced the plastic wrap and savored the anticipation.

On Thanksgiving morning, Lee was awakened by the sound of pots and pans rattling below him. When he came downstairs, Twain was chopping celery and onions and adding them to a big pot filled with stale bread chunks. He poured broth into that, then spooned it into the cavity of the three huge turkeys. He put the left over stuffing in a baking pan.

Peter had spent the previous evening cleaning and straightening out the kitchen, living room and bedroom. He awoke early and began chopping portabella, crimini, shitake and California button mushrooms. To that he added chopped celery, onions and fresh chestnut meats and put it all into a sauce pan with drawn butter to saute. He hoped Jim wasn't allergic to celery. He hoped Lee would forgive him. He hoped Lange. He put smokey bacon in another pan and peeled pearl onions. He would saute them later in the morning, then fold in the snapped fresh green beans just before dinner. It was still morning, and he was already exhausted.

In the diner, Lee was about to open a number ten can of cranberry sauce. Cranberry sauce was scary enough coming from a small can. He turned his head to the side, leaned back and opened it. He ventured a look. This mass of gelatinous goo looked entirely too overwhelming, and he decided he would have no trouble forgoing it when the time to eat arose. As the morning progressed, the smell of turkey roasting permeated Lee's nose and caressed the skin at the nape of his neck in a very pleasant way. That reminded him of tradition and annoyed him.

Peter boiled a pot of red-skinned potatoes. His whole house began dancing with the essence of roasting turkey. By noon, the dance had spilled out onto the sidewalk, and when it hit the cool, crisp air it exploded into a ballet. Passers by slowed to watch a number or two, then hurried on in order to resist the compulsion for self-invitation. Peter had to sit on the couch with a cup of coffee. Then he got up, poured himself another one and sat down with that.

Twain unlocked the front door at exactly one o'clock. Lee served the first turkey dinner at one-oh-seven. The first order went to the guy in the John Deere™ hat. The second to the guy in the fedora. The fourth to the guy with the beard. The third plate went to an old woman who sat in a booth in the corner wearing a fur coat and too much jewelry who ordered with a strong Hungarian accent. Each plate looked exactly like the last: a scoop of mashed potatoes with steaming gravy pressed into it, a scoop of dressing covered with slices of white and dark meat, a generous portion of tepid canned green beans, gelatinous cranberry sauce in a side bowl and a warmed dinner roll on a side plate with two pats of butter. For dessert, there was a choice of store-bought pumpkin or pecan pie. Not mince meat.

"Mince meat is a stupid pie," Twain said when Lee asked about it.

Each slice of pie had a scoop of the homemade ice cream beautifully melting on top. Lee turned the knob on the batter-encrusted AM radio until the sounds of a football game enhanced the Thanksgiving atmosphere in the diner. All it needed to be complete was pea casserole. Blech.

When Jim arrived in the late afternoon, Peter let out a small scream. He was nowhere near ready, and his whole body was dripping with sweat. Even the backs of his knees. He had planned on taking a nice, long, hot shower and putting on some alluring clothing. Or, perhaps, a short shower and putting on something dry. Maybe he could take a quick sponge bath before opening up the door. Dirty, wet Peter opened the door. Jim stood in the doorway with a bag of mixed nuts and a bottle of Chianti. (No Silence of the Lambs jokes, Steve. What? I'm being good. It's Thanksgiving. Gobble gobble. Good.) Peter looked at the wicker-basket covered bottle and stumbled for a moment. He hated Chianti. It reminded him of every average Italian restaurant with red gingham tablecloths, candles in red tinted round glass, red sauce from a can and red-faced waiters with bulbous red noses that he had ever been to. And he had been to several. He breathed in and smiled. He would drink a glass of Chianti for Jim. They both fumbled a half hand-shake, half arm-patting hug, then Jim laughed and told Peter he was flour from head to foot. Peter felt more like dough than flour. Then Jim stopped breathing. Then he started breathing in a whole new way.

"What are you cooking?" he asked. "I don't think I've ever smelled anything so... what's the word?"

"Just stick with 'good'," Peter said, glad that Jim was smelling the food and not him.

"Good then. So good in my whole life."

"Thank you. I try to dress simply."

"Huh?" Jim said.

"Um," Peter said, noticing how nice Jim's hair was. "Want a beer?"

"Yeah. Wow. The place looks great."

Sons of Private Eyes noticed things like that. Peter smiled. Then he felt the damp shirt against his back. He really wanted to take a shower, but didn't want to be rude. But not taking a shower would also be rude, and would get ruder as the day went on. He finally decided one short rude was better than an all day rude, said he needed to clean up, and apologized several times. Jim said he should go ahead and settled into the couch with his beer and put a game on the television. As Peter squished down the hall, he wondered if football games were going to be an image system for their relationship. There could be worse things, he thought. He could like Joan Crawford. Or Rod McKuen, God forbid.

Lee put down the nth Thanksgiving plate in front of the nth patron and thought for the nth time about Beverly and Excalibur and pea casserole (blech squared) with oysters and the Jerk. That's supposed to be my family, he thought. That's supposed to be my tradition, he thought more loudly.

"That's supposed to be my pea casserole!" he said out loud, and plunked a dirty plate into the bus bin. Then he realized he'd said it out loud and turned sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed. They had. Then they went back to their food as if nothing had happened. What an odd town, he thought. Blech.

Twain put a plate on the serving window, then came out front. He sauntered over to the little platform in the corner, pulled the microphone out and stood behind it. All of the patrons present stopped eating, some mid bite, some with their forks halfway to their mouths, and watched. Twain cleared his throat. Twice.

"The transparent glass is the fanfare," he said. "And yet, I see the pane. Streaks, streaks. He runs and is not fond of open prairies. Use the horse, Duke."

He stepped off the platform and the patrons resumed their movements as if they hadn't been interrupted. In the early evening, Twain asked if Lee could handle the diner by himself for a few minutes. There had been a steady stream of people all day, mostly single guys with hats and dirty fingernails and five o'clock shadows and dry skin (stop, Steve) and work boots, but it had never been more than half full. The customers were easy going and undemanding, carrying on pleasant conversations. Lee assured him he could handle it. Twain went in back, put together several dinners in round foil containers, set them into a large cardboard box and left. Lee wondered if he was ever going to ask Twain anything at all about anything at all. Ever.

Jim sat down at the little dining table and Peter poured him some of the Chianti. (Hello, Clarice. Do you ever scare yourself, Steve? Once. Go do it again.) The table was set with a pale orange linen tablecloth and candles. Genesis wafted in from the living room, mingling with the aromas spilling out of the oven and the pots on the stove top. Somehow, Peter was again covered in flour. It made him look like a young Frosty the Snowman. Or an old Marilyn Monroe. This wasn't like Thanksgiving with the guys, Jim thought. Not even Thanksgiving with Dad. Even the plates all match.

They started with a small salad. Then Peter took out the turkey, carved it and served. The plates were overflowing: mushroom dressing; thick, velvety homemade gravy with pieces of turkey floating in it flooding over generous opalescent slices of tender, juicy turkey and smooth, fluffy, creamy, hot mashed potatoes. The green beans were still crisp, but the onions were soft and translucent. Jim had never seen anything like this in his life. The cranberry sauce he had always had had always come out of a can, had always been shaped like a can and had always tasted like a sweet, sweet can. This stuff was tart and sweet and bitter and had some sort of little red berries in it. It was really good. I'm going to like being gay, he thought. Then he picked up some of the mashed potatoes and stopped. He gave Peter a "there are skins in the mashed potatoes" look. Peter gave him a "just try them" look. He did.

His eyes slowly widened.

"Wow."

"I whip them with butter, a little cream, garlic..." Peter started, then looked at the bemused expression on Jim's face. "I'm glad you like them."

Peter sipped the Chianti. Sitting felt good. Sitting across from Jim felt really good, but sitting down felt good. He didn't even mind the Chianti. Much. He savored a dollop of the potatoes himself. (We sure talk about food a lot, don't we? Well? We're both half Italian. It's genetic.)

When the last diner left the diner, Twain locked the door behind him, then served up two dinners and set them on the counter. He opened a couple of bottles of imported beer and poured them into frosty mugs. He and Lee ate in glorious silence. A tradition Lee could stand behind.

Lee drove down the long gravel driveway shortly after eight. Old tree branches covered it in a tunnel-like canopy that finally opened up onto a huge front yard that was full of cars of every description, age and social bearing parked haphazardly. They seemed to be gathered in conversational groups, enjoying their own party in the light seeping out of all the windows of the two-story farm house that bounced with the vibration of music, laughter and the smell of food. (Okay, Geoff. Let's not describe every hunk of food at the party. Okay, I guess.)

Lee parked his car in a pleasant grouping of SUV's that seemed to have something in common to talk about and knocked on the front door. A tall, ruddy man with shockingly white hair and a face that looked like it had never held a frown, opened the door. He was holding a plate of meat. (Geoff... I'm sorry. I like food.)

"Come on in," the ruddy man bellowed. "I'm Patrick."

"Um. Thanks. Lee."

Patrick grasped Lee's hand with a gentle paw that engulfed it and made him feel like he was five, and standing at a street corner with his father, then stepped back so Lee could move by him. The front room was filled with people. People standing, people sitting. People dancing. People who needed people. People eating. Lots of people eating. People eating lots of food. And they were all talking. At once. The music was loud and festive. Something big band. Lee's first instinct was to flee. Then he realized that he could observe here without having to participate. No one would notice him at all.

"Lee!" someone shouted. "I'm so glad you came. Hey, everybody, this is Lee!"

"Hi, Lee!" they all said, then returned to their conversations, which now seemed, if possible, even cheerier.

Abby encompassed him with a hug, then asked if he had eaten.

"Yeah, at Twain's," he said and handed her the board games. She wore a sweatshirt that said "I'm Stupid and I Vote."

"Hey, everybody, Lee brought Sorry!"

Lee turned the color of a fire hydrant. A little dog with matted hair and a ribbon on the top of its head noticed him and he quickly changed the subject. Abby led him into the kitchen (Geoff, no more food), pointed out the tub of beer and wine, the ice in the sink, and the table almost groaning with farm fresh victuals. Lee turned around and Abby was gone. He wandered from room to room looking at the people. There were sixteen different conversations in every room and everyone was involved in at least two of them.

The house was as much alive as all the people in it. Inside the doorway to the pantry there were lines drawn with heights, ages and names next to them going from about two feet from the floor to almost all the way to the top. The highest line was listed as "Uncle Patrick, Age 52, 6'9"." He must have been standing on his tip-toes, Lee thought. Unless there are two Uncle Patricks. There was a small hole in the wall in the bathroom that exposed plaster and lath construction. No sheet rock for this house. No, sir. This was a house of generations of joy. It was the kind of house he and Beverly would never have had. The kind they never would have visited. He started to feel calm for the first time in weeks. Fuck Of Mice and Men. Fuck Beverly. Fuck the Jerk. They can all have each other. He laughed at the mental image of the Jerk and Beverly starring in Of Mice and Men.

Peter sat on the couch with a glass of Cabernet. Jim sat comfortably slumped in the chair with a beer. Jim's breath was labored.

"That was a lot of food," he said with a huge grin and a yawn. "I don't think I've ever had so much ever in my life. It was really good, though. Really, really, really good."

"I have homemade pumpkin pie," Peter said.

It never dawned on Jim that you could actually make homemade pumpkin pie. As far as he was concerned, pumpkin pie came fully formed from a box like Athena from Zeus's forehead. Okay, so he had never heard of either of them, but it makes the point, and the writers need to feel well-read after all that description of food. The homemade pie sounded really intriguing, but the thought of anything else entering his system made Jim's esophagus contract, and he politely refused with an apology. Peter said it was okay, but a pinching disappointment formed in his stomach next to the green beans and bits of bacon.

Jim's eyes fluttered a bit, and he put the beer down and folded his hands across his stomach which actually looked a bit bulging. Within moments he was sleeping. Peter watched his chest rise and fall for a while, wondering if Jim was already that bored with him. Of course, there is all that tryptophan that's supposed to be in turkey that's supposed to be a natural sedative. But he didn't even try to stay awake. This is the shortest relationship in history. But he really liked my food, and he feels comfortable enough with me to fall asleep in my living room. But I worked so hard. And I rented Charade. And I made pie. And I'm so tired. My God, I'm exhausted. What if he wakes up and I'm asleep? Can I stay awake? What if we both sleep through the night? What if I ruined my friendship with Lee for nothing? What if I die before I wake? What if I don't? Shut up, Peter! Just shut up. Jesus! Just stop. He closed his eyes and joined Jim in grateful sleep. Cliche was sleeping on his back, with his little paws in the air, his little belly full of turkey skin, pleasantly dreaming of Athena and Zeus.

The noise in the house had settled a bit. Lee sat back in a chair in the corner of the living room sardonically observing this incredible mix of people, comfortably relaxed, sipping his beer. Abby breezed into the room and started organizing a game of charades. Lee instantly hoped he looked invisible. He and Beverly had never played charades. They had never played anything but Yahtzee. He'd had an ordered life. He awoke every morning, showered, dressed in a suit that was the same as he had worn the day before, kissed Beverly goodbye, worked, came home. He'd have a cocktail, eat dinner, watch some television and go to bed. Sometimes they'd have sex, but otherwise, one day was just like the last one and the next one. He suddenly missed it all. No charades. Abby's mother, who was more "slightly larger than average" than Abby, had dark skin, smooth, long black hair that was starting toward gray and wore a blouse with cloth that looked almost hand-spun, slapped him on the shoulder cheerily and said he would be on her team.

"Um, thanks, Mrs. Holiday," Lee said, then, so it didn't sound so impolite, forced a smile and added, "Thanks so much for having me over."

"Of course, Dear," she said, seeming surprised that it even needed to be mentioned. "Everyone's welcome here. Come on, let's play."

One slim young man had "The Magnificent Seven." Uncle Patrick guessed it in what seemed to Lee an inordinately short amount of time. A plump older woman with curly red hair acted out "Revolution Number Nine." The whole gathering of family and friends were involved. Lee knew that he would eventually have to stand in the middle of the room and move his body in such a way that someone would guess a meaning. A middle aged black man mimed "Return to Gilligan's Island." An unnaturally skinny kid got "Fiddler on the Roof." Someone started singing a song from the musical. Everyone joined in. Except Lee. He felt the room moving toward him. A pale-skinned, tow-headed mother of six danced through "Dante's Inferno." The room seemed to close in on Lee. He tried to act small. His underarms got sticky. It had been such a pleasant evening until then, but now he wished he were in his little dark attic, eating little pungent Vienna Wieners, drinking a little weak beer, sitting on his little green couch and listening to his little scratchy radio.

"Your turn, Lee," Abby said with a big grin.

He made himself stand, and shuffled into the center of the room. Someone handed him a little slip of paper. He looked at it, then looked up, lost. Count, he thought. Count the syllables.

"The Invisible Man!" Abby shouted, and Lee nodded once, dropped the paper and slunk back to his chair.

"How did you get that?" Mr. Holiday shouted, then laughed his contagious laugh and Lee thanked Zeus that everyone was now focusing on her. He looked at her and she smiled that wonderful smile at him. He smiled back, surprised that it embarrassed him and he had to turn away. He actually enjoyed the rest of the game.

Peter awoke first. A few seconds later, Jim's eyes fluttered open.

"Sorry about that," he said as he sat up fully. "What time is it?"

It was ten twenty-three.

"I rented a movie," Peter said.

"Cool. Can I have some of that pie?"

Peter assured him he could and glowed all the way to the kitchen and back. Jim had never heard of Charade, but he knew who Cary Grant was.

"Judy, Judy, Judy," Jim said with a smile. He sounded like Goober, but the smile was contagious and Peter laughed out loud.

They sat comfortably next to each other on the couch, Jim drinking a beer, Peter with his wine. Jim actually seemed to be enjoying the movie. Not just the spy stuff, either. He actually asked Peter to pause it during one of the mushy scenes so he wouldn't miss anything when he went to the bathroom. A third of the way through the movie, Peter brought out the Canadian and two glasses. Halfway through the movie, Jim set his glass down and lunged for Peter. Peter was really, really, really surprised. Pleasantly, pleasantly, pleasantly surprised.

Abby walked Lee out to his car. It was after midnight, but more than half the cars were still there, basking in the chilly air. The sky was dark with little flecks of snow. The moon was spending its holiday in Miami.

"I really enjoyed myself," he said to her. "You have a great family."

"Thanks," Abby said.

"How many of those people were your brothers and sisters?"

Abby had to think about that. "Let's see. John, Luke, Matthew. Then they got tired of Biblical names. Mary. She's the one who got Dante's Inferno. Nathan, Sabrina, Jason, Josh and Tammy. No twins or triplets, thank God. I don't think I forgot anyone."

"Where do you fit in?"

"Somewhere in the lower middle third. I wasn't the spoiled one."

"Well, you have a great family."

"Thanks."

"Good party."

"Thanks."

"Good food," Lee said.

"I made the scalloped potatoes."

"So you said."

"Mom grew the pumpkins for the pie."

"So you said."

"Dad killed the turkeys."

"Oh. Um." He smiled. "I really should get going, I have to work in the morning. I had a really good time."

"Thanks, I did, too."

She hugged him goodbye. He hugged her back, and gently kissed her on the cheek. She turned her face and gently kissed him on the lips. It slowly turned into something distinct from a goodnight kiss. Neither one pulled away. When they finally separated, there was a moment of pleasant embarrassment, then Abby pulled her hair behind her ear. It sprang back as soon as her hand left it. Lee put his hands in his pocket. They looked at each other's face. He pulled out his keys, but didn't turn to go. She turned and bounced back toward the house, then turned back once to wave and ran inside.

Lee watched the door for a long time. He got into his car and watched the lights in all the windows of the house move and shift. Even the house seemed to be telling him good night. He leaned down to turn on the heater, but realized he already felt really warm. His hands were dry, and his heart danced under his ribs. He started the car, turned on the lights and backed around to the driveway. The fine, light snow flickered in his headlights in rhythm to his chest. What a beautiful evening, he thought.

Peter awoke up in his light, airy room. The first thing he saw was the clock, which said six forty-two. The next thing he saw was Jim, fully dressed, sitting in the chair.

Lee awoke to light streaming into the attic from the one small window high on the wall above him. The first thing he noticed was that he could still feel Abby's kiss on his lips. The next thing he noticed was that he felt rested in a way he hadn't in weeks. Months.