Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view. —Obi-Wan Kenobi
The box was narrow and long, and even though I knew it contained Trevor’s present, it reminded me of a coffin. But it was Christmas Eve, and I couldn’t let such a morbid image distract me. Our house had sprigs of mistletoe over key entryways, a modest holly wreath on the front door and one string of elegant white lights around the eaves and down the drainpipe. Our neighbors had inflatable Santas and snow globes, trees wrapped in red and white foil, thousands of multi-colored lights — but this was our first house, a rental, and our first Christmas as a married couple. If we lacked anything by comparison, the ornamented houses on our street simply reminded us of what could be achieved by a life dedicated to family and civic beautification. A coffin didn’t fit.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked my mother, who brought the package with her from Milwaukee so I didn’t have to risk Trevor discovering and opening it with the other mail.
“I’d like to help with some of it,” she said. “It was so expensive. Three hundred and fifteen dollars for a toy light-sword?” My mother’s forehead wrinkled, the way it did when she wasn’t sure if she had all her facts right.
“Collectible — it’s a collectible, not a toy. It was made using actual film props as models — the same weight, grip, details, everything. And no, you can’t help pay for it. I’ve been saving up for this, and it wouldn’t mean as much if I let you.”
Saving up didn’t quite cover it. I had sacrificed my morning coffee for two months. Not, as a charity had asked me, for world hunger. No, this was for a Darth Vader replica lightsaber for my husband. At Halloween I didn’t even buy my third-grade class any candy. I think I was the only teacher at school that didn’t. I justified this slight by telling myself that I would bring the lightsaber to a show and tell sometime in the spring. As long as I took it on a day when Trevor was working, he would never have to know.
He was going to love the present. Ever since we started dating he had been a sword collector — the katana, the machete, the rapier, the claymore. We had a wall of swords in our guest room, and I could picture the perfect place to hang the lightsaber, above the others. He didn’t have any blades from “Star Wars” yet, which we considered our movies — the way some couples have songs or dances. But we didn’t sing and we didn’t dance — we loved science fiction. I started writing the check to my mother, but was interrupted by the hollow rattle of the doorbell.
My older brother’s family, ideal material for any proper Christmas newsletter, tromped through the door, wiping a little slush off their boots, unbuttoning jackets and pulling off gloves. Thin, distinguished Ian, the public relations rep. The only one in our family who could properly be described as attractive. His petite, stylish wife, Elizabeth, with auburn hair cut pixie short. Their children, sweet Peter, aged eight, and round-faced Cecilia, aged two.
They had just then bought a new house with a heated pool, right outside of Minneapolis. Who buys a house with a pool in Minnesota? The new house was my in. Of course Ian and Elizabeth couldn’t be expected to host Christmas with all of the boxes to unpack. This is how we all ended up in Spring Hill, Wisconsin on Christmas Eve instead of Minneapolis.
I hugged everyone, making sure to whisper to Peter that there were cookies on the kitchen table. I’m the cool aunt.
“That’s a beautiful wreath on the front door,” said Elizabeth. “Where did you get it?”
“We made them at school.” I was proud of my wreath, and had thought it simple, but more elegant than any of the others made by teachers or students.
“Lovely,” my mother said, picking up Cecilia and making her smile by gently pressing her nose.
Ian took a quick lap around the house, annoyingly poking his head everywhere. “Where’s Trevor?”
“He’s working today in the Cavern gift shop,” I said. “We’ll see him later.”
“He works so hard.” My mother said, looking directly at Ian.
Ian stared back, his raised eyebrows incredulous.
They didn’t stop my mother. “It’s so nice that we can be with Trevor, even if he is working. But shouldn’t we be leaving if we want to make the cave tour?”
Peter emerged from the kitchen, munching on a chocolate chip cookie, looking worried that he might soon lose it.
We filled Ian and Elizabeth’s mini-van, complete with dual video screens and a navigation system. Ian refused to take any directions from me, but spoke the address into the box, as if he was feeding it. I didn’t mind so much.
During the drive, I realized I’d been waiting for a while, ever since he was born, really, to ask Peter the question that I think says as much about a person’s personality as any of those tests: What is the saddest part in all of the Star Wars movies? For example, if the person answers, “When Chewbacca howls at Han Solo getting frozen in carbonite,” that person is clearly a dog lover.
“Hey,” I said to Peter. “Have you seen all of the ‘Star Wars’ yet?”
“Not the last old one.”
“’Return of the Jedi’! You have to see ‘Return of the Jedi’! I think we have an activity for tonight.” I always sought out these little moments with Peter, hoping to influence him toward valuing family. Just in case Cecilia turns out to be an unpopular person, I want Peter to be the supportive big brother. Still, I probably should have waited until we were at home, and just slipped the film in.
“Please dad,” said Peter.
“We’ll see what happens,” Ian said. “If we have time.”
“Think about what the saddest moment in ‘Star Wars’ is, everyone, and after Peter watches the last one, we’ll all share ours. It’s a great personality test.”
Ian took his eyes off the road just long enough to give me a concerned, disturbed look. Elizabeth seemed confused.
“He’s only eight, dear,” my mother said.
“Exactly,” I said, as if no other explanation was required. Peter’s answer might not be great at first, but that’s OK. Changes to the answer are allowable, and I wanted to track his progress. Even if none of them cared, they couldn’t keep me from thinking about it.
The saddest part in all of the “Star Wars” films is not when the Ewoks die, or if you’re the cynical type, when they first appear on screen. It’s not when Anakin gives himself over to the dark side and begins his grim makeover into Darth Vader, or when he kills his mentor, Obi-Wan Kenobi, in a sparky lightsaber battle, or even when, after a life of evil and a small, absolute act of repentance, he dies in Luke’s arms, his raspy breathing barely giving him enough oxygen to keep his eyes open. I’ve ruled all of these out as too obvious. The very saddest moment must be more elusive, slippery. The most original answer I’ve ever received was from Trevor.
The nav system, effective in replacing me so far, guided us to the parking lot of Crystal Cave. This was where I took Trevor on our second date. It was in the middle of the tour, when we had descended to the very bottom of the cave, that he gave me his answer. He started to smile then, his drowsy-eyed smile he does when he’s self-satisfied, and I thought he was going to say something deliberately shallow like, “When Leia is released from Jabba’s palace and doesn’t get to wear the metal bikini anymore.”
Instead, he spoke slowly, as if it were the most measureless question in the world and required acute mental energy. He looked out at the crystals, white and grey and almost sparkling. “The saddest moment in ‘Star Wars’ is the moment when Luke finds out that Leia is really his sister.”
Our group exited the van and walked over to the beige gift shop and visitor’s center. Crystal Cavern is the closest thing Spring Hill has to a state park, and it’s still the biggest attraction in town, even though it opened almost thirty years ago. Trevor was restocking the highest shelf when we walked in, which he can do without a stepladder. His long, straight ponytail hung down his back, dividing his wide shoulders. He’s the only person I’ve ever known that can pick me up and spin me around, and every time he does I feel like the subject of a Baroque portrait rather than a dumpy third-grade teacher who sometimes shops in the men’s section because it’s easier to find clothes that fit.
He turned around and came over to me, kissed my forehead. “Glad you came,” he said.
“How’s it been today,” I asked.
“Busy.”
My mother waited until our greeting was over, then hugged Trevor, her head not even reaching his armpit.
He patted her back with one hand, and looked around the room, maybe making sure his boss wasn’t writing him up.
“Good to see you,” Ian said, moving in to shake hands with Trevor. “How’s the air up there?”
“This is a nice area,” Elizabeth said. “We’re excited to be in Spring Hill this year.”
Trevor took their hands, and gave high fives to Peter and Cecilia. His eyes turned to the growing line at the registers. “I should probably get back to work,” he said. “Your tour will be starting soon, anyway.”
* * *
We wandered out and stood together before the cave entrance, a large, solitary outcropping of grey rock that sank mysteriously into the ground. The tour guide attracted attention by stretching out her arms and waving them in elliptical, gathering motions that resembled an exercise class for seniors. When the small crowd knotted together, the guide began. “Crystal Cave is eighty-one feet deep and over a thousand feet long.”
I turned to Peter, grabbed his hand and whispered, “Are you as excited as I am?”
Peter just did this half-nod, which could either mean “yes” or “I have no idea,” depending on the context.
I was pretty sure he meant yes, he was excited.
Ian and Elizabeth were both engaged in wiping Cecilia’s mouth clean from the last remains of the cookies that had kept her occupied for most of the drive.
My mother stood behind them, smiling. I swear, she is never really happy anymore unless she’s with Peter and Cecilia. She’d be perfectly content to spend Christmas with just the two of them.
We walked into the cave, the mouth starting wide and narrowing into a smaller, descending passageway with railings on either side. Little track lights were attached to the walls, illuminating both the crystals and the path. The tour guide told us patiently about the formation of stalactites and stalagmites, that take decades to form — and it was good for me to think of something that takes so long to become beautiful — unlike things that were always that way, Ian and Elizabeth, for example. The gorgeous producing more gorgeous.
The passage leveled off and widened into a large cavern, and we could hear water trickling into the underground lake. This was the midpoint of the tour, the bottom of the cave, and the guide was about to initiate total darkness. “You’ll like this part,” I said, sort of to everyone, although I guess maybe subconsciously I was thinking of Trevor.
On our first tour, I didn’t get a chance to think about his answer to the saddest “Star Wars” moment right away, because he delivered it just before the tour guide gave the climatic “Now I’m going to show you what one minute of total darkness looks like,” and flipped off the built-in overhead lights and the small bulb on her miner’s helmet. It only took Trevor about two seconds before his hands snuggled up to my hips and got warmer still by venturing underneath my shirt. Then they were on my breasts. Total license in total darkness.
Now the lights went out, and it felt weird to be thinking of Trevor touching me while inches away from my family. “Don’t be scared,” I said to Peter or Cecilia, or whoever. I found Peter’s hand in the dark.
“It’s like we’re floating in space,” Peter said.
That’s when I knew I had him. We would go home and watch “Return of the Jedi.” He would leave, after Christmas, thinking what a cool aunt I was, and about all the ways and days he could come back and visit me.
When the lights came on during the first tour, I had pulled Trevor close inside my jacket, so it wasn’t obvious what he was doing. Being so much taller, he had to bend down toward me, and our foreheads bumped. He only laughed, and thankfully disengaged himself without attracting too much attention. On the way out, I was smiling, nearly giggling, and the white and grey crystals seemed to shine brighter, each ridge and crevice more reflective, perhaps because we were viewing them in contrast to total darkness.
Now the lights came on again, and we walked back up the tunnels, out the grey stone mouth, and into the grey sunlight, all the way to the grey mini-van. While Ian and Elizabeth got the kids settled in the car, my mother and I went back inside the gift shop to say goodbye to Trevor. The line was still long at the register. The fake, cloth rocks were popular, along with the real crystals, and the Spring Hill, Home of Crystal Cavern t-shirts. We waved at Trevor so he would know we were leaving.
He looked at us and raised his long arm in farewell.
* * *
Maybe this makes me sound slutty, but Trevor’s physical attention, on our second date, when we hadn’t even kissed yet, was exhilarating. I’m not saying I didn’t have mixed feelings about it — just that it wasn’t purely negative. Frontal fondles are pretty rare for me — not rare enough for that to be the first time, but rare enough for paranoia that it could have been the last, paranoia that the number of men left in the world that found me physically attractive was so small that the chance of meeting one was about as likely as finding a stormtrooper in a snowstorm. It’s easier just to sit and wait for one of them to find you. In high school there was one boyfriend — if a few dates and fondling sessions in the backseat of a Ford Festiva count as a boyfriend. In college there was one boyfriend — a slob named Steve who would typically forget we had made plans — and for years after Steve nothing nothing nothing until Trevor and his large, strong hands.
Yes, Trevor and I met on the Internet, but so what? This is a digital age, and my busy work schedule kept me from meeting many new people. No, he didn’t want to get married at first. How many men do? But none of that is important.
We arrived at home, and everyone was in a good mood. Sitting around the kitchen table, we decorated sugar cookies together, even going so far as to have a best-dressed gingerbread man contest. My mother was the judge, and we all tried to impress her. Ian’s man was predictably flashy — frosting applied too thickly, lots of sugary glitter, red hots for eyes. Elizabeth’s used frosting only on the hands and feet, creating boots and gloves — a move that used the gingerbread’s natural color for much of its outfit. I thought mine was better than either of theirs — I made a spelunking gingerman, with spiked shoes and one of those Austrian mountaineering hats with the poof at the top of it. All three of us lost, though — our judge gave a tie for first place to Peter and Cecilia, whose cookies looked like a complete mess.
“Who gets third place?” Ian asked, as if it were the funniest joke.
“Mine,” said my mother.
Trevor came home from work and I made everyone leave their cookies on the table, so that he could judge them.
“Which do you like best?” I asked.
He took in all of the details, the subtleties, before saying, “The one with the elf hat is pretty cool. Eeither that or the one with the gloves.”
“Did you not see the glitter?” asked Ian.
I smiled and kissed Trevor. “Good choice.”
It was late, and we still had presents to wrap and put underneath the tree. We left the kitchen dirty, and gathered up the bows and wrapping paper, ribbon and tape, in the living room. After Peter and Cecilia were put to bed in the spare room (Peter twice), I sneaked out to the garage to wrap Trevor’s present, making sure my mother was watching the door. Ian and Elizabeth were out there, arranging the presents for the kids.
“What did you get him?” asked Ian.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “Don’t let Trevor hear you. I got him a replica lightsaber — for his sword collection.”
“How old is he?” Ian was laughing until Elizabeth said, “Last year you wanted the stuffed Coke polar bear, remember?”
I spent a long time choosing the paper, and even longer running red ribbon along scissors, to give it just the right amount of curl. When it was done, the long, narrow box no longer looked anything like a coffin, and I was proud of it. It was the last present I had to wrap, and when I finished, I went into the spare room to make up the queen bed for Ian and Elizabeth. We had moved the swords temporarily into the garage, and the entry wall looked bare. I turned on a little lamp near the bed, and looked down at Peter and Cecilia. I hoped they were dreaming about space, or maybe Santa flying through space. I twisted the lamp off and went out to the living room, where my mother was pulling out the sofa bed. Ian and Elizabeth were finishing the kids’ stockings, and arguing about where to hang them, since we didn’t have a fireplace or a mantle.
“Good night,” I said, leaving them to solve it, and going back into our bedroom to find Trevor.
He was already in bed, and looked tired, his drowsy eyes no more than thin slits.
“Are you all ready for tomorrow?” I asked as I pulled off my clothes and put on my pajamas.
“Yeah. I got your present. I just put it underneath the tree five minutes ago,” he said. “You’re going to love it.”
“I’m not telling where your present is,” I said, sitting down on the bed and getting under the covers. “You’d go and try and figure out what it is.”
“Maybe.” His large, strong hands traveled under the covers and under my pajamas. His fingers, just as useful, moved across my body, up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, press, press — as if he had memorized the code that unlocked me, just as he memorized the codes to countless video games. He had always been better at cheat codes than actually playing the games — and I was no different. My last sensible words of the night were forced out between small breaths.
“Don’t wake — the chil — dren.”
* * *
Christmas morning never comes early enough for Peter, and he was in our room, jumping on our bed before seven, which wasn’t ideal for Trevor.
I just smiled at Peter, remembering my vow of influence.
“You’re ready early,” Trevor said, in his deep, half-awake voice, before starting to tickle Peter. We were all laughing, even when Trevor picked Peter up and started swinging him around, the way he might with me, but Peter wasn’t used to it, the velocity, Trevor’s strength.
Peter started crying.
“Trevor!” I said. “Stop!”
Finally Trevor put him down, after a couple more haphazard circuits, and stood motionless, his arms at his sides, his eyes unexpressive — the observer unable to intervene. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”
I cradled Peter until he stopped crying. “It’s OK,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
Eventually we wandered out to the kitchen, and I started frying some eggs for breakfast — which I never finished, because Peter quickly recovered and got everyone into the living room within fifteen minutes. We slashed through packages. I found Trevor’s present to me, a small, rectangular envelope wrapped without much skill. The corners were mismatched, and in one place the white backing of the paper was showing.
“Oh, honey!” said my mother, when Elizabeth opened a pair of diamond earrings from Ian. My mother was beaming, while Ian shrugged, like hey, maybe I should have gotten the matching necklace too.
“I love you so much,” said Elizabeth. I think they embraced then, but I was too busy squinting. I glanced over at Trevor, and he looked so bored that he was about ready to fall asleep, and I loved him for it.
A couple of times my fingers played across his present for me, teasing the paper. At the end, only Trevor and I had presents left to open. He had waited there patiently, like me. The kids were comfortably playing with their toys — Peter a plastic robot with a sword, and Cecilia a stuffed Coke polar bear, purchased, no doubt, by Ian so he could play with it when she was asleep
“You go first,” Trevor said.
Even though it was small, I took a long time opening it, tearing corners off one at a time. Peter dashed over with his robot, and ripped through both the paper and the envelope — exposing two tickets to the Midwest Comics Convention.
“Peter,” said Elizabeth. “Say you’re sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I said, laughing. We were all kind of laughing, which was good because I needed something to divert attention from the flush of my face. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go to the convention — Trevor and I had talked about it. It just wasn’t the right time and place — almost as if Trevor had stuck his hands under my shirt again, right there in front of the whole family.
“Thanks,” I said to Trevor, quickly getting up and handing him his present. “Merry Christmas.”
“Wait,” Ian said. “What did you get?”
Trevor answered for me. “Tickets to the comics convention coming up in Minneapolis next month.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “That sounds like fun.”
I was saved by Trevor opening his present faster than Peter with his robot, and when he had the lightsaber out of the box, he demonstrated how it turned on, a glowing red stick, how it replicated the sounds from the movie whenever it touched something. He came over to me and gave me a hug, kissed my forehead.
“Thanks, baby. I’m going to test it outside, OK?”
“Yeah,” I said, “of course. And when you’re done, we can all play cards or something.”
Trevor went outside, and I headed into the kitchen, where I could observe him through the window. He knew how to handle a sword. We went to the premiere of the last “Lord of the Rings” movie, and he and his friend entertained the whole crowd in the entrance line — all the dwarves and wizards and hobbits — with lunges, parries, thrusts, and a complicated maneuver where they exchanged swords in the air. They distilled the anticipation of the masses into ringing applause. I overheard two girls that night, blond waifs costumed as elf princesses, commenting on the swordfight. “They’re good,” one said to the other. “Do you think they’re single?”
* * *
If Trevor knew I watched him through the window, he gave no sign. He pulled up the hood of his grey sweatshirt, so his face was mostly concealed and took the Jedi posture, a half crouch with both arms raising the blade above his head. He began slashing and spinning with the lightsaber, displaying surprising rhythm for someone his size. The red blade shone bright, creating a patterned light show in our front yard. The rays from the lightsaber danced out and faded into the thousands of colored lights on our street.
I only wished I could see his eyes so I could figure out what he was fighting. I walked out to the front steps and he stopped for a moment.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you want to try it?”
“No. I just want you to know that you’re good.”
* * *
I walked back inside, and it was only a few minutes later when he trudged in too, and I met him at the door. His face was tense, and a bit too self-conscious.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
He pushed past me, and went toward the back bedroom. Since he wasn’t holding the lightsaber, I went outside and found it in the front bushes, the tip sheared off somehow, along with my wreath, which had been torn in half. I tried not to cry as I went back inside. Yes, he had been like this before, and I thought he probably just needed a few minutes to unwind. No, I didn’t know how long it would last.
It was nap time for Cecilia, and we got out a card game while we waited for the ham to finish cooking, and it surprised me because everyone seemed to enjoy it — even Peter.
I went back to look for Trevor in the bedroom, and he was lying on his side on the bed, staring into the wall. I sat down next to him.
“The card game is a lot of fun — why don’t you come play with us?”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, and when he did it was in a low, guttural tone. “It’s broken.”
“Hey,” I said, touching his head. “It’s alright, maybe we can get it fixed. But come play.” I stayed with him for a couple of minutes, and his eyes remained flat, primordial.
“Fine,” I said, my voice rising. “Don’t.”
He never came out, not when we sent my mother with her coaxing, Ian with his man-to-man, not even for Peter and his begging.
* * *
We were still working on all of the side dishes when Elizabeth came up to me, put her arm around my back. “Why don’t you go watch the film with Peter? He was just asking about it again. We can handle the rest of the dinner preparations.”
“Really?” I said. “That’s so nice of you.”
I would have felt guilty, except that this was the chance I’d been waiting for. I sat down with Peter on the couch, thinking how surprisingly easy it had been to convince Ian and Elizabeth to let us watch it.
“What do you think was the saddest part of the movie?” I whispered to him, as the credits were rolling. I thought it would be easier to restrict his choices to just one film.
He looked up at me as if he were trying to figure out if there was an answer I expected. “When the Ewok dies.”
“Oh,” I said, “That’s a good one,” even though I felt a little disappointed.
Watching the film again, Trevor’s saddest moment felt more precise. I thought I knew now, even if I didn’t in Crystal Cave, why the saddest moment in “Star Wars” is when Luke finds out that Leia is his sister. I used to think it was sad because it was when Luke discovers that he’s not the only special one that can save the galaxy. Leia could do it too—and maybe better — and he’s supposed to love her no matter what, even if she’s a pretentious idiot. I thought maybe Trevor was giving subtle psychological commentary on the relationship with one of his brothers. The bonds to his family wore out and then snapped completely when he left North Dakota to move here and marry me.
But I think for Trevor it’s different. If his sibling rivalry consisted of anything, it was making sure he had attained the no-longer-single status of everyone else. But that doesn’t describe his saddest “Star Wars” moment. No, it’s more personal — it’s when Luke realizes what role he is playing in these movies — that he is a weird combination of hero and sidekick. He is not the leading man in the story — there is no princess for him, and in the end he is off by himself, smiling at ghosts, while Han and Leia embrace. It’s frustrated desire. It’s working at a gift shop in a small town, trying to be promoted to tour guide. It’s not knowing what to want or do, but knowing this isn’t it. In the end, maybe it’s a life with me.
* * *
Trevor must have smelled the ham, or maybe my mother’s cheesy potatoes, because right when we were sitting down, he came out from the bedroom. His face still looked tense, and as he sat down, he kept his eyes on his plate.
I continued my pretense, and we all started eating, without talking much. Trevor ate so fast that he was almost done in five minutes, but Ian couldn’t keep quiet.
“Have a good nap?”
“Hey,” My mother said. My mother, the eternal optimist, asserted herself for the first time that day. “Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s been working hard. Trevor’s been working really hard. Let’s try and just enjoy this meal.”
But Trevor was already getting up and going out the front door.
We heard his car pull out of the driveway.
* * *
After Trevor left, we all ate as if we wanted Christmas to be over as soon as possible. On their way out, everyone hugged me, and Ian (yes, Ian) held me for several seconds.
I didn’t know what to do, I just held him back, my head resting on his chest.
“If you ever need anything,” he said, stopping for a second before continuing. “If anything ever happens, call me.”
“Come back soon,” I said, looking directly at Peter.
My mother was the last to leave, and when she did it was just a broken lightsaber, a broken wreath, and me.
* * *
Once I tried learning French because I wanted to understand all of those old songs by Charles Trenet. I bought one of those learn a language in two easy weeks books. When I showed it to Trevor he laughed and said, “What do you need that for?” He never liked French much, or Charles Trenet. He’d say, “I’ll stick to Metallica, thanks.”
Still, I listened to the CD that came with the book on my way to work: “Je m’appelle Louisa,” I’d say, or “Quelle heure est-il? Il est deux heure.” But once I found out that “la mer” was only “the sea,” and that “voyez,” the word Charles Trenet chants as if it’s the most magical word in the world, was only “see,” I stopped trying to learn French and threw the book away. It wasn’t because of Trevor. For all I knew, Charles Trenet was just as sad singing those songs as I felt listening to them, but learning the words made him seem happier, more content, and I didn’t want that. I wanted someone to share in my inexact melancholy. Sometimes it’s better not to know.
I could try and explain Trevor, explain why I thought I loved him, why I sat down to call the company that sent us the replica lightsaber of Darth Vader, and demanded that they be more careful with their shipping, that they had better send us a product that wasn’t broken, that they had almost ruined Christmas. I don’t know if I want to explain it, or if it would satisfy anyone.
Besides, I’m better at explaining things that don’t apply directly to me: for example, when I told Peter why Luke Skywalker has to fight his dad at the end of “Return of the Jedi,” and what that means in terms of them loving each other. We were sitting on the couch and Peter was staring at me, his mouth slightly open, the way it gets when he is really paying attention. I don’t think he really ever believed Yoda or Obi-Wan when they told Luke that Darth Vader was Luke’s father.
“Darth Vader just forgot that he loved his son,” I told Peter. “But Luke never gave up on his father, even though he had to fight with him. In the end he helped Darth Vader remember.”
“Will my dad ever forget to love me?” Peter asked.
This was my opportunity for influence. I rolled my tongue around yy’s and ee’s and ss’es. My teeth couldn’t wait to tear into those letters. I pictured Peter running away from home, on a quest to get to his favorite aunt’s house, carefully rolling up his Anakin poster before slipping out the backdoor. “No,” I said. “Not your dad. Not ever.”
* * *
When Trevor came back it was late and I pretended to be asleep in bed. I had nailed the destroyed wreath to our bedroom door. I wanted him to remember. He went into the bathroom without pausing, and I heard him turn on the shower. He always has to crouch down in the shower, because he’s so tall, and I pictured him then, bent over, waiting, vulnerable.
I rolled out of bed and in two steps was at the bathroom door. I couldn’t pretend forever, couldn’t just expect change without confrontation. “Can we talk? I wasn’t happy with how Christmas went.”
He didn’t say anything. The water was hot by then and he forgot to turn on the fan, to keep the mirror from fogging up. This was to my advantage, since he couldn’t just act as if he didn’t hear me. Still, it pissed me off. Strange how the big things can be born in silence, but the little things are what start the furies.
I pounded on the door. “Let me in, I have to go,” I lied. I thought for a second that I had gotten through, that he was sliding the curtain over and walking to the door.
“No,” he said, and I heard him turn the water all the way up, so that it must have been hammering on his back, neck, shoulders. Crouched there, under the showerhead, he must have felt something, must have been expecting me to keep reaching out — but all I wanted right then was to tear him into quarters and send the parts, on expensive NASA shuttles, to the four corners of the galaxy.
“You’re so fucking hard to love.” I yelled at him. I kicked the door to emphasize this point. “It’s a toy, it’s a shitty, shiny, toy.” The company had promised to replace the lightsaber, but I didn’t mention it. I scratched at the door with the nail of my right pointer, the only perfect nail I had at the time, until a narrow swath of paint peeled off, scarring the frame. Eventually, though, I went back to bed. I didn’t tell him that he should sleep on the couch because a part of me, my whole body, really, wanted him to steal under the covers, apologize apologize apologize, and then nuzzle till the New Year. This was Christmas. This was our first Christmas.
I fell asleep before he emerged, steeled against the world, a hulking, naked mass, probably still wet, dripping water on the blue tile floor, across the thin grey carpet, all the way to the bedside, where the last few drops that fell on me as he crawled into bed were the only link between us.
The next morning when I woke up Trevor was already out of bed. He sat playing something on the Xbox, his eyes still half closed with sleep, but his strong fingers worked the control pad with practiced rhythm. The joystick up, down, slower, then faster, and for a second his eyes opened all the way, but he never turned his head to look at me.
I went and sat down next to Trevor on the couch. At last he turned and stretched one arm out, dropped it down on my thigh and squeezed. It was like drifting off to sleep while driving on a country road, with sunlight coming in through the windshield. My head jerked up, but I couldn’t remember if the sun was rising or setting, and all I wanted to do was stop at the side of the road, get out, and feel the sun.
