Grumble Monkey and the Department Store Elf (8 page)

“What if I had only built a snowman…,” he whispered.

“What?” Kit asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, and closed his mind to such memories or possibilities.

Because that wasn’t the way it was going to go. He’d made up his mind. He’d set everything in motion. Talked to his lawyer—who had no idea what he was really up to. Made the decision on who would run the gallery. If his parents didn’t decide to sell it, that is. Or worse, dissolve it.

The thought made Nick tremble.

“You okay?” Kit gave him a little shake.

“Yes. Fine,” he replied.

And speaking of the subject of art….

“Kit. I looked at your work upstairs. You’re good.”

“Ah, shucks,” Kit asked, cheeks flashing red. “You’re just being nice.”

“Grumble monkeys can’t be nice,” Nick countered.

“Oh, but Grumble Monkey changed in the end.”

“I think it’s too late for me to change,” Nick said. And meant it.

Until an inner voice asked:
Is it? Is it too late
?

Yes. Of course it is.

“It’s never too late.”

Ah, but the wheels are in motion.
“Not for you, Kit. For you, it’s just beginning. Your work. Your art. I think you should have a show.”

Kit gave him a dazzling smile. “I had a show in my dorm. Each month they choose two students and they feature them in the lounge on the—”

“In New York.”

Kit’s eyes near bugged out of his head. “
New York
?”

Nick nodded. “I thought I’d make some calls tomorrow—”

“But tomorrow’s Christmas—”

“—and see if I can at least get a few of my contemporaries to look at your portfolio. I’m betting someone will jump at a chance to represent you.”

“You mean it?” Kit jumped up, nearly spilling his remaining eggnog. “Seriously?”

Nick nodded, feeling good again at Kit’s enthusiastic reaction to his words. “Serious as a heart attack.”

“Boy oh boy and ¡
ay, caramba
!” Kit let out a high squeal and did a little jig. “I can’t believe it!” He threw himself back onto the couch next to Nick. “I can’t believe it! New York? Like, I-want-to-be-a-part-of it New York, New York?”

“Yes.” Nick grinned. He couldn’t help it.

Kit sighed happily. “Wow oh wow oh wow….”

Then, before Nick knew it had happened, Kit slumped over onto him, head back on Nick’s shoulder, body totally reclined against him. It was the most intimate Nick had been with another man in at least two years. It sent a shock throughout his entire body.

Just as quickly, Kit sat up and looked at him with those pretty blue eyes. “Nick! Why make phone calls? Why don’t
you
do a show for me in
your
gallery?”

Nick stiffened, forced himself to relax. If Kit hadn’t sat up, he would have noticed Nick’s reaction to the words. “I…. I’m not going back to New York, Kit.”

“You’re not?”

Nick gave a single shake of his head. “No.”

“Then do a show in San Francisco. I can come and finally see how gay it is. It’s gotta be gayer than Terra’s Gate!”

But of course that wouldn’t work, would it? Not at all. And he couldn’t really tell this naïve boy, could he? “We’ll see” was what Nick decided to say.

“Hey!” Kit jumped to his feet again. “Want to see what I’m getting my family for Christmas?”

“Ah….”
Not really
, he thought. “Sure.” To be polite.

“It’s
art
work!
My
art!” Kit gave a little hop.

Art?

“Now why didn’t you say so? Sure.” Now Nick didn’t have to pretend to be interested. He was definitely curious to see more of Kit’s art.

Kit rushed to the Christmas tree and pulled out a cardboard box, about two feet by three and maybe an inch thick, from the chaos of presents. “I haven’t wrapped any of it yet. I was going to do that tonight. I mailed it so none of it would get damaged, you know? I even paid to have it insured.”

“Sure,” Nick said. He did know. It was a smart idea.

“I’m glad I did! Can you imagine what might have happened to it in this weather?”

Kit put the package on the couch and rushed out of the room, only to reappear a moment later with a kitchen knife. He carefully opened the box and then pulled out a series of plastic-wrapped and matted pieces of art. He sat next to Nick and leaned into him, the art in their laps.

The first was about the size of the box. It was a family portrait, probably Kit’s, although he didn’t see the young man in the grouping—no, wait. He did. This wasn’t a recent representation, Nick saw that now. Because pretty much in the middle of the group of people was a boy about ten who was surely Kit. He was adorable. But more, the picture was exquisite. A watercolor, very warm, with lots of yellow and orange, but still realistic and
filled
with emotions. Everyone was smiling and love poured from their faces as well as the page.

“This one is for Mom and Dad.”

Of course it was. It was perfect. Just what a perfect set of parents would want. Nick looked at their faces, saw the unbelievable Brady Bunch feel. Could it be real?

Somehow, Nick believed it was.

And the picture really was stunning. Nick wanted to touch it. It literally
looked
warm. And the textures. He knew the paper would be nearly smooth. But the hair, the fabric of the father’s flannel shirt, the paneling in the background. How had Kit done it? Realism plus. Nick had never been a fan of realism. Why spend that much time when you could just take a photograph? But this? This was some kind of ultra-realism.

Too soon, Kit moved the picture to the back and revealed the next.

This one was a pseudo-realistic painting, mixed media—the background washed-out watercolors and almost impressionistic, the foreground a male figure done in acrylics, laid on thickly, as with a palette knife. The young man was leaping in the air, arm and fingers poised over his head as he made a graceful jump shot.

“Your brother?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kit said, obviously pleased.

The next picture was pure impressionism. This one done in oils on canvas board of a field of purple. Nick found he couldn’t help but think about the famous line from Alice Walker—something about God getting pissed off if you saw a field of purple flowers and didn’t notice it.

For some reason Nick felt like crying. He couldn’t explain it, but it was more than the colors, more than the texture of the thick paint…. Despite the impressionist style, Nick could almost see the flowers moving in the breeze. Once again, he was struck by the thought:
How did Kit do this? It’s like the painting by Caravaggio of John the Baptist—the one where his eyes follow you around the room.

Love had painted this picture.

“The Color Purple,” Nick said.

“Yes!” squealed Kit. “Me and some friends took a weekend trip last year, and I saw this and
had
to paint it. All I could think of was how Ambrosia would love it. Not just because purple is her favorite color, but she loves the movie. Especially the line about—”

“God getting pissed if you don’t notice the color purple?”

Kit wiggled excitedly next to Nick, hands waving animatedly through the air. “Yes! Yes yes yes!” And quite suddenly, he leaned in and kissed Nick on the cheek.

Nick almost gasped. His skin tingled where Kit’s sweet lips had touched him.

Hell! What is going on with me?

Kit turned to the next picture. It was a hummingbird. Yes. But Nick nearly gasped. It reminded him at once of Seurat. It was as if Kit had found some tiny little unnoticed piece of the famous painting
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
. Using dots of paint, which might seem an almost confusing mess if you looked too close, Kit had somehow managed to create a work where the bird almost seemed to move before Nick’s eyes. And he knew if he stood back, it would look even more real. In fact that is what he did. Nick stood up, walked away—

“What are you doing…?”

And let out a long happy sigh. From just a few feet away, the dots merged together into a stunning whole and indeed, the picture seemed to vibrate.

“Do you think Valentine will like it?” Kit asked.

“I know she will,” Nick said. What he’d wanted to say was that she would be crazy not to. Somehow with all this glowing emotion, Nick was inspired to say the kinder words instead.

Finally, two pictures matted together. It was all Nick could do not to laugh. Then he just gave in and let it out.

The character in each panel could be no one else but Grumble Monkey. In the first, the comical animal’s oversized head bore a face with a most cantankerous grouchiness that just poured out of the picture. The second one was of the same monkey, transformed—smiling, laughing, dancing. They were marvelous.

“Oh, Kit! I love them! Kit, have you ever thought of illustrating your mother’s story? Writing a children’s book with her? You’d sell a million copies.” Nick pointed at the monkey. “Who could resist this guy?”

“You really think so?” Kit looked at him, his face filled with hope and excitement.

“I do, Kit,” he said. And meant it.
Really
meant it.

Then, to Nick’s total surprise, Kit leaned in and kissed him again.

This time on the mouth.

Nick’s eyes went wide, and then with a sigh, they drifted slowly closed, and he almost cried out when Kit pulled away.

Now I know how those lips feel
.

Soft and so, so sweet
.

Later, Nick stared up through the dark at the ceiling of Kit’s room. Kit’s room and Kit’s bed. But Nick was alone. After that kiss—
oh, that kiss!
—Kit had been so obviously embarrassed he’d suggested it was time for them to turn in. For one blazing instant, Nick thought the young man was suggesting they go to bed together. But alas, that was not to be.

And as Nick stared at that ceiling, he wondered why he even wanted such a thing. Hadn’t he thought that Kit was “faggy”?

Suddenly, Nick hated himself for even thinking such a thing. But more, that he’d used such a word. It was an ugly word. It was a word filled with hate and prejudice and excuses to do horrible things to people who were different. It was a word used to hurt. It was like spitting on someone. Why, oh why, would he use such a word? What was wrong with him?

Tears sprang to Nick’s eyes once again. Kit had a way of doing that. Kit made him feel so many things. Frustration. Impatience. Shame. But also wonder. Dare he say it? Hope?

Oh, but taking that boy to bed would have been such a mistake. It would have been
far
worse than promising he would give Kit a show. It would have been a promise he could not keep. Sex would have been far worse. Sex was not something this boy gave away freely. Nick could tell that, the same way he had known Kit was gay. Kit
loved
freely—that, Nick knew. He didn’t think Kit knew how to hate. But sex? No. If Nick had sex with Kit, the department-store elf would have taken it as a promise and hoped for more.

The reason Nick was sleeping—or trying to—in Kit’s room was because the boy thought it wouldn’t be right for him to sleep in any other bed. “It’s okay for
me
to sleep in my brother or sisters’ beds. But it seems—I don’t know—icky?—to give you their bed.”

“Because you’re family,” Nick had said.

“Yes,” Kit replied. “Once more, you get it. I love how you
get
me, Nick. So many people don’t.”

And hell, those words had hit him. Hit Nick hard.

Because he hadn’t understood Kit. Not at first. At first, Kit had all but disgusted him. Had represented all Nick had abhorred.

But now?

Oh God!

Now Nick—lying in Kit’s bed and staring at the ceiling—could only see that what he’d hated in Kit
and
Spence (
Oh, Spin! Where are you now?
) were all the things he’d been afraid to be himself. Things he couldn’t be.

The things his parents hated.

God!
Why would I be afraid to be what they hated?

Nick had taken his grandmother’s money, and he’d done something they would hate. Started an art gallery. Could he have done anything
more
gay?

But then Nick had made it a success!

Why, he had shown John McAllister. And Paul McCarthy. And photographs by Thomas Ruff! He’d made a shitload of money too. He had a Bentley Flying Spur. He had Gucci glasses and suits by Armani and Yves Saint Laurent. He wore shoes by Ralph Lauren. There was a Rolex on his wrist. Oh, how they must hate that! And he loved and hated that at the same time.

Because all he wanted his parents to do was be proud of him. Proud like Kit’s parents were of their gay, their
very
gay, son.

Nick sat up in bed. “I’m still trying to win their approval!” he cried aloud. Even when he’d done something they would hate, when he became so successful, shouldn’t they be impressed?

Hell! He’d been trying all this time to impress people who had kicked him out of their lives! What would have been wrong with him accepting the love that had been offered freely?

God! Would it have hurt him to go to a fucking gay pride? To dance to Cyndi Lauper? To hold Spencer’s hand in public? Nick hadn’t done it because the faces of his mother and father were always hanging just over his shoulder. Two people who had rejected him. Why did he care what they thought? Why couldn’t he instead have cared what Spencer thought of him?

Nick burst into tears.

And then, just at his most vulnerable second in his life, the bedroom door opened. Just a crack.

“Nick?”

Kit. Oh, of course it was.

“Nick? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he said, trying not to let Kit hear the tears.

Let him hear them, you fucking idiot! And fuck your parents
.

“No! No, Kit. I’m not okay.”

An instant later, Kit was in the room and in the bed and in his arms. This time it was Nick’s time to cry and his time to be held. And while a part of him wanted to push Kit away—the part that was his parents and their world—the other part wanted,
needed
Kit.