Something Like Thunder (30 page)

“No!” he said hurriedly. “Wait, do you want me to turn around? I can leave the room.”

“Only if you want,” Sheila said easily. “Some people have a problem with breastfeeding, so I tend to ask. Not that I care about the answer.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Go for it. What could be more natural? Hell, I might have a little for him if you’re running low.” He squeezed at one of his pecs, and she laughed. “So did you choose the name?”

“Your brother did. Why?”

“It’s just… Uh.”

“Nerdy like an aardvark in glasses? I know, but when you grow up with a name like Dwight, I suppose you lose perspective.” She adjusted the baby so he’d be more comfortable. “I like to think of him as a little king.”

“When he gets old enough,” Nathaniel said, “I’ll have to make him a pint-sized version of Excalibur.”

He glanced down at Arthur and noticed again how small and frail he was. An old fear stirred in his stomach. “How are you and Dwight doing?”

“Fine. Starting out is never easy and babies are expensive, so money is tight. We manage. Your parents have been wonderful, thank goodness, because mine are useless.”

“Oh. Is that where you just came from?”

“No!” Sheila laughed humorlessly. “Hanging out in a smoky bar isn’t my idea of a pleasant Christmas Eve. They’ll probably still be there in the morning too.”

Nathaniel felt uncomfortable with her candor, but he supposed they were family now. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I got used to it while growing up, but not enough to accept their lifestyle as normal. Or acceptable. How’s college?”

“Stressful,” he answered distractedly. “So you and Dwight are getting along okay?”

“Yes! You’re obsessed.” Sheila cocked her head. “You asked something similar at our wedding.”

He shrugged, trying to play it off as nothing. “Just looking after my sister-in-law. My brother can be a pain in the butt sometimes.”

She continued watching him, as if he was being transparent. “I know he was rough on you when you were little. He told me.”

Nathaniel clenched his jaw a few times. “Yeah?”

“Yes. And he regrets it. Give him a chance. You’d be surprised how much he’s grown up. Even in just the last year.”

Nathaniel looked toward the kitchen. His father had once asked him for a second chance. Nathaniel had given it grudgingly, but it seemed to have paid off. His parents’ relationship was better now. Maybe he could do the same for his brother.

The front door opened again. His mother came in looking disheveled. “Three different stores were out of eggnog!” she declared. She held up a carton. “And I made it four!”

Nathaniel and Sheila laughed together. Heath appeared from the kitchen with his son in tow, and the evening became a whirl of noisy conversation and abundant food. Nathaniel struggled to remember the last time they felt like a real family. Tonight they could have had their own sitcom on television—the innocuous adventures of a picture-perfect family enjoying the holidays together.

This made him long for Caesar. Everything was going so well that maybe holiday magic would be enough to keep their relationship safe, even in this old battleground. As the evening wore on, Sheila retired with the baby. Then his mother and father. Although Nathaniel never would have let it happen before, he found himself alone on the couch with his brother, each of them taking swigs of beer while watching National Lampoon’s
Christmas Vacation
.

“I swear I have every single line of this movie memorized,” Dwight said, proving it by speaking aloud with Cousin Eddie.

Nathaniel tried doing the same for the next, botching it and causing them both to laugh. “I guess I’m rusty,” he said. They snorted again, because the line he had gotten wrong belonged to a character named Rusty.

They finished their beers at the same time, like synchronized drinkers. Dwight swiped Nathaniel’s empty bottle and stood. “Another round?”

“Yeah, okay.” He ignored the television, watching his brother leave the room. People could change. He just never thought it would happen. Sheila must be a miracle-worker.

Dwight returned with two cold bottles, handing him one and toppling onto the couch. They focused on the screen until the movie reached one of the boring heartwarming scenes.

“It’s really cool that you’re making something of yourself,” Dwight said. “Mom can’t shut up about it.”

A warning light went off in his head, but Nathaniel told himself he didn’t need it anymore. “I’m just studying. Look at you! Family man! Supporting your wife and son.”

“Sheila earns more than I do,” Dwight said, “which makes maternity leave a fucking nightmare. I told her it would be smarter if I stayed home to take care of the kid.”

“I really like him,” Nathaniel said, trying to steer the conversation toward the positive. “Arthur’s going to be an amazing man. I can tell.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

Dwight put an arm around Nathaniel’s shoulders, but with the couch in the way, it ended up more around his neck. He pulled Nathaniel closer, squeezing tightly, which wasn’t very comfortable. He ended by roughing up his hair and patting him on the side of the head. None of this was gentle, but they were guys and they had been drinking. Nathaniel took another swig, then another, knowing the credits were close and wishing they would hurry the fuck up. The moment they rolled, he stood.

“I’m going to crash. You should too if you want Santa to show up.”

Dwight didn’t laugh. He just looked at Nathaniel as if he were being stupid, which he supposed he was for still standing there. He raised his beer, mumbled good night, and headed for his room. Once inside it, he locked the door. Then he sat on his bed, telling himself not to worry. It wasn’t necessary. Nothing had happened. Just a rough but affectionate gesture. Right? He made sure the door was locked, despite being certain. Then he turned off the light and got beneath the covers, still wearing his jeans and T-shirt. He lay facing the door, listening to the sounds of the house. Occasionally his eyes would start to close, but he’d feel a jolt of fear again and they would open wide.

-tap tap tap-

Nathaniel jerked upright. Dwight was at his window! Wasn’t he? Seemed weird that he wouldn’t try the door first. He had never come through the window before. Nathaniel swung out of bed, peering through the dark.

“Hurry up,” a voice hissed. “I’m freezing my candy cane off out here!”

Nathaniel grinned wildly and went to the window, opening it and knocking the screen out of the way. Then he practically dragged Caesar inside.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, not caring about the answer.

Caesar nodded to the bedside clock. Five minutes past midnight. “Merry Christmas,” he said a little tentatively. “You’re not mad?”

Nathaniel grabbed his hand and guided it to a certain area of his body. “Does this answer your question?”

Later, when they were wrapped in each other’s arms, Nathaniel considered how much he had worried about them being together here. Houston had seemed threatening enough, but now, in a room that normally harbored so many bad memories, Nathaniel felt safe. And happy.

* * * * *

“Where are you going?”

Nathaniel paused on his way to the front door, glancing at the kitchen where Caesar and Rebecca stood. Lately they had been spending more time together and not always to study. He wasn’t disturbed by their friendship, but when they spoke in perfect unison—
that
was a little creepy.

“I’m heading out to the lecture,” he answered.

“But it’s Saturday,” Rebecca complained.

“So?” Nathaniel checked his watch and sighed. “I thought you were tutoring him.”

Caesar looked to her hopefully. “Can we? I have a paper due on Monday that I’m totally screwed on.”

“But it’s Saturday!” Rebecca repeated. “Please don’t make it a boring one.”

“Come to the lecture,” Nathaniel said. “It won’t be boring. Did you read the flyer?”

“I thought you were joking. It’s some business thing, right?”

“Flyer,” Nathaniel said pointedly.

“Fine.” Rebecca dragged her feet on the way into the living room—Caesar following like a duckling—and picked up the single sheet of paper from the coffee table. “Marcello Maltese? Sounds like a circus performer.”

“He’s a media tycoon. Mostly photography, but I’ve done some digging, and he’s got a production company on the side. As in movies.”

Rebecca and Caesar both responded with the same disinterested expression.

Nathaniel glared. “It’s just my dream. No big deal. I guess we could get drunk and play pool instead.”

“Okay!” Rebecca said. Then she rolled her eyes. “Go to your lecture. Caesar and I will crash a party or something.”

Caesar grimaced. “I really need help with that paper. Seriously.”

Rebecca sighed in resignation.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Nathaniel said. “Hot date, just me and you. We’ll leave the brat at home.”

“Hey!” Caesar complained.

Nathaniel didn’t have time for more banter, wanting to arrive early to the lecture hall to secure a seat up front. After a round of hugs and kisses, he headed out. He reached the hall early enough that not only did he get his seat, but he grew bored while waiting for the lecture to start. He began to regret his decision. Hanging out at a pool hall sounded like fun. Then the lights dimmed, and a thin figure walked across the stage to the podium. A spotlight switched on, illuminating a guy who might have been a student. His brown hair was styled neatly to the side, his glasses thin gold frames. He stood in silence, eyes sweeping across the audience. Then he spoke.

“Salesmen understand the importance of making a good impression, but for true success, all that matters is making a memorable impression. Ladies and gentlemen, Marcello Maltese.”

The lights were switched off completely. Nathaniel could barely make out the thin man retreating to the black curtains at the back of the stage. Then music blared, the sort of jazzy horns that might introduce the Academy Awards. At the same time, from the side of the stage, flashes went off in a frenzy, as if paparazzi were waiting in the wings, their cameras illuminating a rotund man with short graying hair who gracefully strode to the podium. Then he raised his hands. All at once the music and camera flashes stopped and the normal overhead lights returned.

“Who am I?” he asked in a pleasantly husky voice, holding up a finger to stop any reply. “Not just my name, but what am I known for? No doubt some here tonight were dragged along by a friend, or were looking to escape their tiresome roommate. Let’s hear from you.” Someone must have raised their hand, because Marcello pointed to the audience. “Very well, who am I?”

“I don’t know, but you must be important!”

“That’s precisely what I would have you believe. And for the record, I’m only important to those who stand to make money off me. Tonight that includes you, because if you listen carefully to what I have to say, you might find my success contagious. Now then, the rest of you. Who am I?”

He raised his hands like a conductor, most of the students saying his name in unison. “Marcello Maltese!”

The man grinned in response. “Now that’s an introduction you’re unlikely to forget!”

Nathaniel felt amused, but hoped there was more to the evening than just show.

“Let me pose another question to you,” Marcello said. “I promise I won’t place the entirety of the evening’s entertainment on your shoulders, but allow me to put forth a scenario. The best hamburgers in the world can be found in Denmark, in a small town forty miles outside of Copenhagen. There a former farmhouse functions as a restaurant, but the farm remains, sustaining free-grazing cattle and produce that will decorate the burger. The thinly sliced bell peppers, the leaves of rocket, the soft seeds of mustard—all of it quite literally made on location. Every item needed for these exceptional hamburgers is grown or raised or milled right there on the farm. Culinary giants in every food industry have made pilgrimages to this farm and returned forever changed by the experience. There is, I assure you, no better burger in the entire world. Much skill and effort is required, but I’m certain all the hard work is worth it. After all, what could be better than being the best? That’s the riddle you must solve. What is more important than reputation?”

The audience was silent.

“The question wasn’t rhetorical,” Marcello said. “This isn’t a lecture, it’s a conversation. Now then, what is more important than reputation?”

Nathaniel, feeling ridiculous, raised his hand as if in a classroom.

Marcello noticed him and nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Recognition.”

Marcello appeared interested but not completely satisfied. “Recognition?”

“Yeah. Brand recognition is more important than reputation.”

“Well done! That is absolutely correct. We’ve all heard of McDonald’s. We’ve all stuffed their miserable greasy offerings down our throats in an effort to banish hangovers. All of us have entered their establishments on more than one occasion and will likely do so again. And yet they spend millions of dollars on marketing every year. Why? So that future generations will continue to treat them as a household name or—better yet—to take over the language we use, replacing common nouns with registered trademarks: Band-Aid, Kleenex, Q-Tips, Coke.”