Snowed In With Daddy

Bonus Chapter: Christmas Morning

by Jace Wilder

Six months later. Christmas morning in the cabin. Three men in flannel. Two dogs on the rugs. One balsam tree in the corner. And three brushed-gold rings under the wrapping paper. Merry Christmas, brat. Merry Christmas, steady. Merry Christmas, Daddy.

It is — Christ — it is four-twelve in the morning when brat starts kicking me.

He is not, technically, kicking me. He is vibrating. He is, at four-twelve in the morning on a Christmas morning in late December in the cabin in Hollis Creek, vibrating his entire body against my left side under the comforter with the controlled hysteria of a five-year-old who has been told, multiple times, in several different voices, that he cannot get out of bed before six-thirty, and who is, on principle, going to test that line by lying very still and shaking only the parts of him that are not technically bed-leaving.

I keep my eyes closed. I do not move. I breathe slow.

He kicks again. Not a kick. A — a flex. Of the calf. Against my shin.

Steady, on my right side, half-asleep, says into my collarbone — “Sir.“

“Yeah.” “…he’s awake.” “Mm.” “He’s been awake for an hour.” “Mm.” “I have been listening to him not move for an hour, sir.” “Mm.” “He is going to die if we don’t release him.” A pause. “Sir.” “Yeah.”

“I think I am going to die if we don’t release him.”

I huff. I huff into the dark.

Brat — who has heard the huff — Christ — brat has heard the huff and his entire body, against my left side, has frozen in the way a small woodland animal freezes when it sees a hawk.

He says, very quiet — “Daddy.” “Brat.” “Daddy. Daddy.” “It’s not six-thirty.” “Daddy.” “It’s four-twelve, brat.” “Daddy.” “You agreed.” “…yes, sir.” “Mm.” A pause. “Daddy.” “Yeah.” “Daddy. Daddy.“

“What.”

“It’s Christmas.” I — I — I open one eye. I look at him.

In the very faint pre-dawn glow that the snow outside is throwing back through the loft gable — a particular kind of December dark, the dark that is not really dark because the snow on the back deck is acting as a giant white reflector — I can see his face.

His eyes — Christ — his green eyes are enormous. He is, on the pillow next to mine, holding it in.

He is twenty-six years old and he is, on Christmas morning, a five-year-old.

I huff again. I — I — I lift my arm. I — Christ — I cannot resist this man. “Six,” I say. “…?”

“Six o’clock. Not six-thirty. Six. Then coffee. Then presents.”

“…Daddy.” “That’s an hour and forty-eight minutes, brat. Sleep more.” “…Daddy.” “Brat.” “…Daddy.” “What.” “…can I — can I come closer.” I lift the arm.

He — Christ — he comes in like a cat. He gets all the way against my side, his head on my shoulder, his arm across my chest, his leg thrown over mine, and he — he settles, the way a kid settles when he has been told yes about something he was sure was going to be no.

He whispers — “Thank you, Daddy.” “Mm.” A pause. He whispers — “I love you, Daddy.” “…I love you, son.” A pause. “…can — can Margaret come up.” “Brat.” “Daddy. She’s crying.” “She is not crying. She is asleep.”

“…can Margaret come up anyway.“

I — Christ. I — okay. “…yeah, son.” “…?” “Yeah.” “MARGARET!” “Brat.“

“…yes, sir, sorry, sir, sorry —” Whisper-shouted now: “Margaret. Margaret. Margaret — Margaret, sweet girl, come up, baby, come up, c’mere, come on —“

There is, downstairs, the sound of one (1) small dog hitting the floor in a hurry.

There is, downstairs, the sound of one (1) old dog grumbling.

There is, on the loft stairs, the sound of one (1) eight-month-old half-collie clambering up on her too-long legs.

Margaret comes up.

Margaret is, in eight months, no longer a puppy. She is — Christ — she is forty-five pounds of brindle leg and big ears and an inexplicable belief that she is still small enough to fit on a person’s chest. She comes up the loft stairs, locates brat in the dim, picks her way across all three of us with the delicacy of a circus animal walking a tightrope, and lays down on top of brat’s stomach.

Brat — fuck — brat yelps. “Margaret.” “…?”

“Margaret. You weigh — you weigh forty-five pounds, baby —”

“Mm,” I say. “Daddy, she’s on my organs —” “Mm.” “Daddy, can you —” “No.” “Daddy.” “You called her up here, brat.” “…yes, sir.”

Steady, on my right, asleep against my throat — “Children.“

I huff.

We doze.

We doze the four of us — brat with Margaret on his chest, me in the middle, steady on my right with one hand over Margaret’s flank where she is folded over brat — until the sky in the gable goes from black-with-snow-glow to gray-with-snow-glow, and then, around five-forty, brat’s vibrating intensifies again, and at five-fifty-eight he can no longer keep it in, and at five-fifty-nine I open my eyes and say, low —

“Brat.” “…yes.” “It’s six.” “…?” “Up. Coffee. Presents.” “OH MY GOD.” He is out of the bed.

He is out of the bed with Margaret tumbling off him onto the comforter and Ruth — who has come up the loft stairs at some point I missed, the way Ruth comes up in the middle of the night now without asking — looking up at him with the face of a senator considering a bad bill.

He is at the loft stairs. He turns. He says — “Daddy. Steady. Up. UP. Coffee. Presents.” He goes down. We hear him on the stairs. We hear him in the kitchen.

We hear the woodstove door open. We hear him feed it. We hear him — Christ — we hear him put on a record. White Christmas. Bing Crosby. From the small turntable I bought in the fall and put on a shelf over the bookcase.

I look at steady. Steady, eyes still closed, says — “Sir.” “Yeah.” “It is six in the morning on Christmas Day.” “Yes.” “And your husband is downstairs putting on Bing Crosby.” A pause. “…yes.” He opens his eyes.

He looks at me.

He says, very quiet, with the smallest amount of laugh in it — “Sir, this is the best Christmas I have had in fifteen years.”

I — Christ. I close my eyes. “…yeah, son.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “Mm.”

We come down.

We come down in flannels and pajama pants and bare feet, the both of us, and Ruth and Margaret follow us down, and at the bottom of the stairs the cabin is — the cabin is —

The cabin is the cabin in Christmas.

Brat has, since November, been systematically doing this. He has — I had not, at fifty years old, fully appreciated — he has been decorating. The cabin has, in stages, accumulated: a balsam wreath on the front door (week of Thanksgiving); a string of warm-white lights along the porch eave (first week of December); a small balsam fir in the corner of the living area, real, that brat and I cut at the back forty in a snowstorm three weeks ago and dragged home on a sled with Ruth riding on top of it (December tenth); the tree decorated, in stages, over the next two weeks, with: ornaments brat ordered from a specific small artisan in Vermont, glass icicles that came in a parcel from Sarah, a small wooden snowshoe brat had me carve in the workshop because “Daddy. Daddy, I want one of your things on the tree, I want one of your things,” — and a popcorn-and-cranberry chain that brat made himself, over three nights, on the couch, while watching Hallmark movies on his laptop.

This morning, the tree is lit.

It is six in the morning and brat has, in the eight minutes I gave him, lit the tree, lit the porch lights, turned on the kitchen lamp at the lowest setting, and lit two pillar candles on the kitchen table.

He is, when I come down the stairs, in front of the woodstove with his hands on his hips, in his flannel and his Christmas-themed flannel pajama pants — yes, brat owns Christmas flannel pajama pants — looking at the tree.

He is — Christ — he is crying. A little.

Just at the corners of his eyes. He is twenty-six years old and he is crying at his own Christmas tree at six in the morning on Christmas Day, and Margaret is on his foot, and Ruth is on her bed by the stove, and the cabin smells like pine and woodsmoke and the coffee I can hear starting to brew in the press he has, somehow, already, started.

I cross to him. I put my hand on the back of his neck. He leans his head against my shoulder. He says, very small — “Daddy.” “Yeah, son.” “It’s Christmas.” “Yeah, son.” “Daddy. Look at the tree.“

“Yeah, son.”

“You — you got me a tree.” “…yeah, brat.” “You got me a tree.” “You got us a tree, son.” “…yeah.” “You and steady got us a tree.” He sniffs. He says, into my shoulder — “Yeah.“

Steady comes up beside me.

He puts one hand at the small of brat’s back and the other on my hip, easy, the way he stands beside us now — the way he has, in ten months in this cabin, learned to stand — and he kisses brat on the temple.

“Hi, baby.” “Hi.” “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, baby.” Steady, looking at me — “Merry Christmas, sir.” “Merry Christmas, son.” “Mm.” We stand in front of the tree for a long minute.

The lights are warm-white. They blink slow. The popcorn-and-cranberry chain is uneven the way a hand-made one is uneven. The little wooden snowshoe is crooked because brat hung it himself and brat does not hang things straight. There is, at the very top, a star brat ordered from the same Vermont woman as the ornaments — six-pointed, brass, with a small light inside that is, this morning, lit.

I — I — I close my eyes for a beat.

I — Christ. I have not had a Christmas tree in this cabin since 2014.

I have not had — anything — in this cabin since 2014.

We do coffee.

Steady, on the couch, with his coffee. Brat, at his feet on the rug with Margaret across his thighs and his coffee in both hands. Ruth on the rug beside Margaret. Me in the chair by the stove, Pendleton over my legs, my coffee in my hand.

We do coffee for an hour. We do coffee while it gets light outside.

We do coffee while the snow on the back deck — there is, this Christmas, an enormous amount of snow; the storm that came through Wednesday night dumped fourteen inches and the little wing yesterday added five more, and the cabin is, this morning, a postcard — turns from gray to pearl to gold as the sun comes up over the south ridge.

We do coffee until brat — vibrating again — says, very quiet —

“Daddy.” “Yeah.” “…can we?” “Yeah, son.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “…oh my god.”

There are, under the tree, three piles.

There are three piles because brat has, over the last month, been engineering a system. The system: each of us picks one present for each of us, plus one family present that goes under the tree marked FROM ALL OF US, which is purely brat’s bit and which we have all played along with for a month with the patience of saints.

There are also, under the tree, two flat bones in red foil for Ruth and Margaret.

The dogs do not know what is in the bones. The dogs are about to find out.

Brat — sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the tree, Margaret in his lap, Ruth at his hip, his coffee on the floor beside him — has the face of a man about to officiate.

He says — “Okay. Okay. Okay. Order. Daddy first.” “Brat —”

“Daddy first. Then steady. Then me. Then dogs. Then family. Then more Daddy. Then more steady. Then more me. Then —”

“Brat.” “Daddy?” “Just give me my present, brat.” He grins. He hands me the present.

The first present from brat to me is — Christ. It is a hardback first edition of A Sand County Almanac.

A — a — first edition. From 1949. With the original dust jacket. In a small archival sleeve.

I — I open the sleeve. I open the cover. I look at the inside.

I look up at him. “Brat.” “Yes.” “…brat.” “Yeah, Daddy.” “You — you bought me a first edition.” “…yeah.” “Brat.” “Yeah.” “This is — son, this is —” “I know.” “Brat.” “Daddy.” “How — how did you find —”

He shrugs. He is, sitting on the rug, a little pink. “I — I — I have a Substack now. I — I have a budget for things, Daddy. I — I asked the Vermont book guy. He — he found her. Daddy. You said you had the 1967 edition. I — I wanted you to have an earlier one. I wanted you to have the original.“

I — I — I put the book down on my thigh. I lean forward. I get my arm around the back of his head. I pull him in. I kiss the top of his head. I say, against his hair — “Brat.” “…yeah.” “Thank you, son.”

“…yeah.”

“Thank you.” “…yeah, Daddy.”

The first present from brat to steady is — Christ. It is a custom-bound photo album.

A real one. Leather. Hand-stitched. Inside, on heavy paper, are — okay. They are photos. From this year. From the year that began in February.

The first photo is — Christ — the first photo is brat and Jude on Henry’s snowmobile, the morning they left the cabin. Henry’s snowmobile. Brat in the parka. Steady behind him with the EMT. Both of them looking at the cabin. I had not known anyone took a photo of that. Henry, apparently, took it. Henry, apparently, sent it to Sarah. Sarah sent it to brat.

The second photo is the truck pulling into the lot the day brat came back. Brat took it.

The third photo is the overlook in March, all three of us, taken on a phone propped on a rock. We are standing in a row in our coats. We are smiling.

The album goes through the year.

Steady — Christ — steady has, by the third page, gone quiet.

By the fifth page, his eyes are wet. By the eighth page, he closes the book. He puts it on his lap. He looks at brat. He says, very quiet — “Baby.” “…yeah.” “Baby. Baby.” “…yeah.” “…how — how long have you been —”

“Eight months.”

“Eight months, Finn.” “…yeah.” “…oh, baby.”

He puts the album down. He gets off the couch. He gets on the rug with brat. He gets brat in his arms.

They hold. They hold for a minute. Margaret tries to get on top of them. She succeeds.

The first present from steady to me is — Christ — okay. It is a small wooden box.

Hand-made. Steady has been, in his quiet moments in the workshop in the back of the mudroom this fall, learning. He has, with my tools, with my supervision, with — for the last two months — no supervision, been learning to make small wooden things. He has made — to date — a cutting board, a small spoon, a small box for brat’s ear plugs, and now this.

I open the box. Inside the box is — Christ. A pair of wool socks. But — okay. They are not just wool socks.

They are, on closer inspection, a pair of socks that he has knitted himself.

I — I look at him. He is, on the rug, the color of a beet. “Steady.” “Yes, sir.” “…you knitted me socks.” “…yes, sir.” “You — steady. Steady. Steady. When did you —”

“I — I — I learned in October, sir. From — from Marsha at the diner. She — she has been teaching me for a month.”

“You — Marsha?” “…yes, sir.” “Marsha-from-the-Greek-chorus-Marsha.” “…yes, sir.” “Has been teaching my husband to knit.” “…yes, sir.” I — I — I have to put my hand over my mouth for a second. I take it off.

“Steady.”

“Yes, sir.”

“These are — these are the most beautiful pair of wool socks I have ever owned.”

“…they’re a little uneven, sir.” “They are — they are exactly even.” “They are not, sir.” “They are exactly even.” “Yes, sir.” “Mm. Come here, son.” He comes.

I get him in my lap on the chair. I press my mouth to the top of his head. I say, against his hair — “Thank you.“

He says, very quiet — “I love you, sir.” “…I love you, son.” “Mm.”

The first present from me to brat is — Christ. I — I — I have been working on this for six months.

I have been working on it since the August conversation on the slab.

I open the closet at the foot of the loft stairs. I take out, from the back of the closet — wrapped in butcher paper, tied with a piece of red yarn — a flat, large, light parcel.

I bring it to the rug. I set it on brat’s lap. I say — “Open it.” He opens it.

It is — okay. It is, when he gets the paper off, a — a frame.

A photograph in a frame.

The photograph is — Christ — the photograph is a black-and-white print of the cabin in late winter. Snow on the porch. Smoke from the chimney. Ruth on the porch step. Two pairs of snowshoes leaning against the railing. The light a particular gold, the way it goes in March around four in the afternoon when the sun starts to come down behind the south ridge.

The photograph is taken from the bend in the road.

The photograph is taken from — exactly — the angle brat saw the cabin from when he came back up the road in March.

It is matted, framed, signed in pencil at the bottom by the photographer — a man in town named Owen who I have known since we were seven, who is, in his off-time, an actual photographer of some local fame.

I had Owen come up in March on the day brat came back.

I had Owen, hidden in the trees at the bend, take the photograph.

I had — for nine months — the print sitting in the workshop waiting.

Brat — Christ — brat looks at the frame. He looks up at me. He says — very, very small — “Daddy.” “Yeah.” “This is — this is —” “Yeah.” “This is — the day I came back.” “Yeah, son.” “Daddy, you took a picture of the day I came back.“

“…yeah.”

“…oh my god.” “Brat.” “Daddy.” “Hang it where you want it, son.” “…oh my god.“

He — he gets up. He comes to me. He gets in my lap on the chair, shoving steady, who is also in my lap — the chair is — okay, the chair is, this morning, holding both of them at once, which is fine — and he gets his arms around my neck and he buries his face against my throat and he sobs.

A small, real, joyful sob. He sobs for thirty seconds. He says, against my throat, wet — “I love you, Daddy.” “I love you, son.” “…oh my god.” “Mm.”

The dogs get their bones. They take the bones to their respective rugs. They settle. The cabin is quiet for a beat.

We do family present last.

Family present is a small thing on the rug under the tree, tagged FROM ALL OF US, and brat — when we get to it — looks at me.

He looks at steady. He looks at me. His face is — Christ — his face has gone nervous. He says, very quiet — “Daddy.” “Yeah.” “I — I — I want to —” “Brat.” “Yeah.” “What.” “…this one — this one isn’t from all of us.”

“…?”

“It’s from me. And — and from Jude. To — to you.” “…brat.” “Yeah.” “What.” “Open it.” I look at steady.

Steady is — Christ — steady is also nervous. He has gone, on the rug, very still. His hand is at the back of his own neck.

I — I — I look at the small wrapped thing. It is a small wrapped thing. I pick it up. I unwrap it. It is — it is a small velvet box. A — a — a jewelry box. I look at them.

Brat — voice tight, face wet, smile-on-the-edge — “Open it, Daddy.”

I open it. Inside the box are — — okay. Two rings.

Two plain gold bands. Brushed. Heavy. His and his — two of them, identical, sitting in the velvet.

I — I — I sit on the rug with the box in my hand and I look at the rings and I — I —

“Brat.” “Yeah.” “Steady.” “Yes, sir.” “…what is —” “They’re — they’re commitment rings, Daddy.” “…?”

“Not — not — not — legal. Not yet. The legal stuff is — is happening in the spring, with Theo. We have the papers. We — we are going to be the three of us on the deed. Like we said. But — but, Daddy. Sir. We — Jude and I — we wanted — we wanted to have rings. For each other. And — for you. Because — because — Daddy. We wanted to wear them. We — we wanted to wear them every day. Even before the legal part. Even before — even before any of the — the paperwork. We — we — we just — wanted to wear them.“

I — Christ. I — I — I — okay. I take the box. I — I — I look at the two rings. I say, very small — “Brat.” “Yes, sir.” “There’s — there’s two.” “…yeah.” “Why are there two.”

“…because — Daddy. Because — because steady and I have — have ours already.”

“…?” “…look in the box, Daddy. In the box.” I look in the box.

I — I — there is, on the inside of the lid of the velvet box, a small note.

The note says — in brat’s handwriting —

these two are for you and steady. ours are on us already. — yours, brat.

I look up. Brat — Christ — brat lifts his left hand. There is a ring on his ring finger. A plain gold band. Brushed. Heavy. Steady — Christ — steady lifts his left hand. There is a ring on his ring finger.

The same ring.

I — I — I — “Boys.” “Yeah.” “Yeah, sir.” “You — you have been wearing these.” “Since November, Daddy.” “…?”

“…we — we have been wearing them since November. Both of us. We — we put them on each other in the kitchen on a Tuesday night. We — we have been waiting to give you yours.”

“…brat.” “…yeah.” “…steady.” “…yes, sir.” “You — you put them on each other in November.” “Yes.” “…and you have been waiting to give me mine.” “…yes, Daddy.” “For Christmas.” “…yes.” I — I — I — I —

I sit on the rug.

I sit on the rug for a long, long second. I — I — I take a breath. I take another. I look at the ring in the box. I take it out. I — I — I look at it in my palm. I look at brat. I look at steady. I say — voice rough, very rough — “Boys.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Daddy.” “Put it on me.” A pause. “…?”

“…son. I — I am asking. Put it on me. I — I — I cannot do it. My hands. Put it on me.“

Brat — fuck — brat is up. He is across the rug in one motion. He is in my lap. He takes the ring out of my hand. He takes my left hand.

Steady — fuck — steady is also up. He is on my other side. His hand is over brat’s hand. His other hand is on the back of my neck.

The two of them — together — slide the ring onto my left ring finger.

It fits. It — Christ — it fits. I — I — I close my eyes. I — I let it happen.

I let — I let — I let the moment be the moment. I let brat in my lap. I let steady’s hand at the back of my neck. I let the ring on my finger. I let the cabin around us. I let the tree behind us. I let the dogs on the rugs. I let the pillar candles. I let Bing Crosby — White Christmas has cycled through and is starting again, the way records do — going on the turntable. I let the snow outside. I let the woodstove. I let everything in the cabin — every single thing in the cabin — be what it is.

Which is — what. Which is — home. I — I — I open my eyes.

Brat — in my lap, watching my face — says, very small — “Daddy.”

“Yeah, son.” “…now you do steady’s.” I — yes. I take the second ring out of the box. I look at steady. He extends his hand.

I — I — I — I — I slide the second ring onto steady’s right ring finger.

He has, on his left, the ring brat gave him. He has, now, on his right, the ring I gave him.

Two rings. Two men. His and his. He looks at his hand. He looks at me. He says, very quiet — “Sir.” “Yeah.” “…thank you.” “…I love you, son.” “…I love you, sir.”

We sit on the rug. The three of us. For a long, long time. Margaret comes over and lies across all three of our laps. Ruth, from her bed, sighs.

Outside, the sun comes up properly over the south ridge. The cabin fills with gold light. The tree, in the corner, with the brass star at the top, glows.

Bing Crosby finishes again. The room is silent.

Brat — in my lap, head on my chest, hand on my left hand — says, very small —

“Daddy.” “Yeah, son.” “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, son.”

Steady, against my other shoulder, hand over our hands — “Merry Christmas, sir.”

“Merry Christmas, son.” “Mm.” A pause. Brat — “Daddy.” “Yeah.” “Are you — are you okay?” “…yeah, son.” “You — you did the thing.” “What thing.” “The eye thing. The — the —” I — I huff. Wet. “Yeah, son.”

“Are you crying, Daddy?”

“Mm. A little.” “…in a good way?” “In the only way, son.” “…oh, Daddy.” “Mm.” He puts his face against my chest. He says, very small — “I love you.” “I love you, son.” “…all of you.” “Both of you.” “…yeah.”

“Yeah.”

We get up, eventually.

We get up because the cabin is going to get hungry, and because brat — once he has stopped being a five-year-old at the tree — is going to remember that he is making Christmas breakfast, and because steady — once the moment passes — is going to want to be useful, the way steady is.

I get up out of the chair with brat slung against my hip. I carry him to the kitchen. I set him on the counter. I kiss him on the forehead. I say, low — “Cook, son.” He says, “Yes, Daddy.” Steady gets the coffee.

I — I — I, for the first time in eleven years, on Christmas Day, in my own cabin, with two men I love and two dogs and a tree and a fire and a record on the turntable and a brand new gold band on my left ring finger —

I cook.

I cook bacon and biscuits and a hash and four eggs each. I do it with my husband on the counter beside me chattering about the day and my husband at the table doing the coffee, and the cabin holds, and the storm doesn’t come because there is no storm today, just sun on snow, and the day is — Christ —

The day is the day. The day is all the day I have. The day is all the day I want.

We eat.

We open the rest of the presents at the table because brat insists.

We do dishes together at nine.

We get back in our pajamas and we get on the couch and we watch — at brat’s insistence — White Christmas, the movie, the entire thing, with Margaret on steady’s lap and Ruth on mine and brat between us on the couch, head on my shoulder.

In the afternoon we walk to the overlook in snowshoes.

It is — Christ — it is the first Christmas I have walked to the overlook since I was eleven years old and went up there with my father in 1985.

We do not, this time, do anything on the rock. The rock is buried under three feet of snow.

We just stand at the edge. Brat at my left. Steady at my right. The bowl of the High Peaks. The afternoon sun. The snow. I look down at brat’s left hand. I look down at steady’s right hand. I look at my own left hand.

Three brushed gold bands.

I — I — I hold both their hands. I look at the bowl.

I — I — I let myself say, out loud, what I have been saying to myself since the kitchen this morning —

“This is the best Christmas of my life, boys.” A pause. Brat, very small — “…yeah, Daddy.” Steady — “Yeah, sir.” “Mm.” “…yeah.”

We hike back at four.

The cabin has, when we come down the path, the porch lights on a timer and the kitchen lamp glowing and the tree visible in the front window, and Margaret has, when we come up the porch, jumped at the door with her front paws on it because she has been alone for an hour and this is unacceptable.

We come in. We strip off our coats. Brat starts the kettle. Steady feeds the stove.

I — I — I sit in the chair by the stove with my left hand on my knee and my new ring catching the light.

I look at it. I — I — I do not, even now, fully believe. I — I — I let myself, for one second, believe.

Christmas dinner is, at brat’s request — and over my mild protest — a full Christmas dinner. Roast (a small one, a six-pounder, from Henry’s brother’s farm). Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Roasted carrots and parsnips. Yorkshire pudding, which brat — bless him — attempted for the first time and which came out, against all odds, correct. A small green salad. Two bottles of wine, one a Pinot, one a red brat picked up in Lake Placid in November and saved.

We eat at the table at six. The candles are lit. The tree, behind us, is lit. We — Christ — we toast. Brat lifts his glass. He says — “To us.” I lift mine. Steady lifts his. We say — together — “To us.“

We drink.

We do dishes at eight. We get back in our pajamas at eight-thirty. We get on the couch with the dogs at eight-forty.

We — Christ — we play cribbage, the three of us, with the new board brat ordered. I beat them four games to two. Brat accuses me of cheating. I tell him — for the record, brat, I am not cheating; you just have a bad memory for which suits have come. He pouts. Steady, who has won twice, kisses his forehead and says — “Brat, you’ll get him next year.”

Next year. I — I — I look at steady when he says it. He looks at me. He smiles. I — I — I — I look at the tree.

I — I — I think — yeah, son. Next year. And the year after that. And the year after that.

We go up at ten-thirty. We go up with the dogs. We get in the bed.

Brat is in the middle. I am on his right. Steady is on his left. Ruth at our feet. Margaret on Brat’s chest, half-collapsed, half-asleep already.

Brat — face turned up to the rafters — says, very quiet — “Daddy.” “Yeah, son.” “I — I — I —” “Yeah.” “Daddy. Daddy. This was —” “Yeah, son.” “This was — this was — this was the best day, Daddy.”

“Yeah, son.”

“Yeah?” “Yeah.” “Mm.” Steady, on the other side — “Sir.” “Yeah.” “…mm.” “Yeah.” A pause. “…Daddy.” “Yeah.” “Tell us — tell us a thing.” “…?”

“Tell us a thing about — about Christmas. From — from when you were a kid. Or — or with Marian. Just — just one. Just one, Daddy. Tell us a thing.“

I — I — I — I think. I think for a long second.

I think about — Christ — I think about the thing I have not, in eleven years, told anyone.

I tell them.

I tell them about Christmas of ’95 — the first Christmas Marian and I had in this cabin, when we were both twenty-six, when the cabin was half-finished and the loft did not have a railing yet and we slept on a mattress on the floor of the kitchen because the woodstove was the only heat source. I tell them about how we strung white lights on the front porch with a single extension cord run from the generator, and how the generator died at nine on Christmas Eve, and how we sat on the floor in the kitchen with a kerosene lamp and ate cold turkey sandwiches and laughed and laughed and laughed because what else were we going to do, and how Marian said, with her head on my shoulder at midnight on the kitchen floor — “Gid. We’re going to have so many Christmases here.“

I tell them how she was right and how she was wrong. I tell them how we had nineteen. I tell them how the twentieth she did not make.

I tell them how I have not put up a tree in this cabin since — since the year before the twentieth.

I tell them this whole thing. Slow. In the dark. With brat under one of my arms and steady under the other and the dogs on our feet.

When I am done, neither of them speaks for a long second. Then brat — tear in his voice — says, very small — “…thank you for telling us, Daddy.” Steady — quiet — “Sir.” “Yeah.” “She would be glad.” “…yeah, son.”

“She would be glad.”

“…yeah.” “Mm.” A long, long pause. I press my mouth to the top of brat’s head. I press my mouth to the top of steady’s head. I say, against the dark — “Goodnight, boys.” “Goodnight, Daddy.” “Goodnight, sir.”

I sleep.

I sleep with the gold band on my left hand and brat’s arm across my chest and steady’s hand on my heart and the dogs at our feet and the cabin around us holding and the snow outside and the tree downstairs, dark now, the lights off until tomorrow morning, and the porch lights on the timer going off at midnight, and I —

I sleep the sleep of a man who has come home and stayed home and gets to keep coming home, on a Christmas night in a cabin in Hollis Creek, with two men he loves, and I dream — for the first time in a long time — and the dream is, I will think later, of nothing at all.

It is just the cabin. It is just the cabin holding. It is just — home. And in the dream the cabin holds. And in the dream the cabin holds. And in the dream the cabin holds.

— Jace Wilder

Loved Snowed In With Daddy?

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