Disclaimer: Not mine, so no money for me. Didn't really want them, anyway, but they keep coming over to borrow the glue gun. I'm afraid to ask what for.
Rating: Pretty much PG-13.
Spoilers: "Switchman," "Warriors," "Remembrance," "Foreign Exchange," "S2"(both parts)
Guest beta: Due to circumstances and agreements, proofreading and other editorial work has been provided by Audrey Lynne, fellow Den inmate. Give her a big round of applause; she's here all week. Try the stroganoff.
Feedback: jassmoris@yahoo.com
Linda Stoops
December 2, 1998
"Well, that settles it. You officially have a fever of 104," Blair Sandburg announced, tilting the thermometer toward his bedridden partner.
"'S just a cold, Sandburg," Jim Ellison rasped. "I've worked through a--" A pair of sneezes cut him off, followed by a huge sniffle that brought on a coughing fit.
"Which you will give to everyone else in the department, including the people who had it before you and have only just recovered from it. No, thank you. That much grief from our fearless leader I so do not need. I'm gonna go in, pick up some of those cold cases Simon wanted us and Megan to review, teach two classes, attend one, hand in next year's tutoring schedule, then get groceries for dinner. Your meds and fluids are here on the stand, and breakfast will be up in a minute. I think poached eggs and toast are about all you can manage right now."
Jim turned his head to eye the setup on his towel-covered nightstand: aspirin and Vitamin C tablets sat beside a bowl of ice holding three bottles of water and two of orange-tangerine juice blend. Two boxes of tissues bracketed the display. "Wow, I bay ged sig bore often." He plucked three rectangles from one and cleared his nasal passages thoroughly, then glanced down to confirm there was a wastebasket near his bed and tossed the damp, crumpled ball in.
"All part of the Sandburg HMO plan. Simon needs us both back in harness for Aldrich's trial, so this is the accelerated treatment schedule. H said she got Conly to defend her."
"Damn." A spate of coughing, harsher than before, shook the detective's body.
"Yeah, no kidding. He'll use this cold to taint your testimony in cross-examination."
"Who's presiding?"
"Uhm... Prescott. No, Siemanski."
"That helps. He doesn't like--" The explanation was held off by a thunderous sneeze and a quick grab for the tissue box.
"Well, there went that sixth-grade geography quiz," his roommate teased.
"Whad? Oh, yeah, ha-ha." The nose-blowing was equally loud. "Remind me t'cough on your toothbrush later." His head dropped back onto the pillow, and he finished the previous sentence in an exhausted wheeze. "Siemanski's got no patience f'r Conly's bullshit, but he doesn' like disruptions, either." He waved a hand around to indicate his present condition, then let it drop. "Sure this's jus' a cold? Never had it this bad b'fore."
"Doctor said it's been going around for the past two weeks. You're only catching it now because you've been exposed so many times and worn your immune system down with four straight nights of stakeout and two foot chases wearing only that thin jacket."
"Why don' you -- ~cough~ -- have it? You got 'sposed same time I did."
Blair grinned, even though the other man's eyes were closed. "Clean living, man." A derisive bark countered the assertion. "I had it at the beginning of the cycle, remember? You bitched about the eucalyptus steam and the dried juice glasses. Besides, I wore layers, so I was warmer, and therefore less prone to temperature extremes."
"Yeah, whatever." Jim rolled over onto his side and pulled the covers higher. Blair laid the back of his hand on his sick friend's forehead, then the visible cheek. "Feeling chilled?"
A sleepy growl rumbled from the pillow. "No! Tired... go t'work, Dr. Kildare."
"Get some food in you first, then I'll go. Come on, sit up. This won't take long, and I'll be out of your..." Blue eyes shifted to Jim's hairline and squinted in amusement. "Out of here." Blair spun around and was pelting down the stairs before Jim could react. He'd had the eggs on low heat, giving him enough time to get his patient settled, and the toast popped up a moment ago. A quick swipe of butter on both slices, the preserve jar set on the tray, eggs scooped onto a plate, and he was on his way back up.
"C'mon, Ellison, get perpendicular. Cold medicine now, with food. Next time is in six hours, and force fluids in between." He waited, tapping his foot, while the taller man managed to shove himself into a sitting position and stare, bleary-eyed, at his caregiver.
"You're not gonna stand there and watch me eat, are you?" Jim asked while the tray was placed across his lap.
"As if. I'll be back in a few, though, and most of that better be gone."
He stepped back and was two feet from the stairs when a cold-hoarsened "Blair?" stopped him.
"Yeah?"
"Groceries. We need lettuce."
"Got it covered."
"Not iceberg."
"I know. Spoils too fast." He moved forward again.
"Romaine, maybe. Or green leaf."
"Sure, whatever."
"Chief?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Blair smiled. His friend still took a while, but acknowledging gratitude was becoming easier to voice. "You're welcome."
Jim stirred at an unexpected scent, and automatically extended his hearing. A soft buzzing blanket around his head reminded him that the white-noise generator had been turned on before Blair left, so he opened his eyes and checked his clock. One-eighteen P.M. Sandburg wasn't expected until three at the earliest, so...
He rose slowly, hand inching to the nightstand drawer while he sorted out the new smells floating up to his room. Cooking chicken, vegetables, chocolate, oatmeal, melted butter, cheese and traces of perfume and cologne that suddenly became familiar. He stopped reaching for his spare weapon and called down to the intruders.
"Dad? Sally?"
"Jimmy? How you feeling, son?" William Ellison's voice seemed a little muffled, but the footsteps approaching the bottom of the stairs cleared once Jim shut off the generator.
Jim sat up completely, feet on the floor, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes in time to see his father reach the landing. "Uh, hey, Dad. What are you and Sally doing here?"
"We're standing in for your roommate. He gave me the key and the security code when we stopped by the university, and we went to the store for supplies before coming here. Sally's in the kitchen fixing lunch."
"Hi, Jimmy! You want a slice of tomato with your grilled cheese sandwich?"
"Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks, Sally." Turning his attention back to the older man, he frowned in confusion. "Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but Blair shouldn't have imposed on you like this." Sick or not, Jim decided to introduce his well-meaning partner to the newest house rule -- no using family members against him -- when Blair got home.
"It wasn't an imposition." William sat down at the right bottom corner of the bed. "Actually, we sort of hijacked his original plan. He called last night to ask for a couple of your favorite recipes. He'd intended to stop by and pick them up today, but Sally went ahead and made the food because she knows how you like certain dishes prepared. Of course, since he wouldn't be able to make the extra trip here to drop the containers off and stick to his schedule, we offered to deliver them ourselves. Then one idea led to another, and, well, I don't think I've done this much KP since the Army." He grinned at Jim's stunned expression.
"Why?" It took four seconds for Jim to process the rudeness of the question, and he tried to salvage the moment. "Sorry, Dad, but this is kinda unexpected."
"I know, son." He sighed. "The last year -- those murders, dredging up what had happened twenty-five years ago, learning you and Stevie were working at being brothers again, then what happened to Mr. Sandburg -- made me take a hard look at what I've been avoiding for so long. I'd hoped to talk to you about it at Thanksgiving, but you had to work, so I thought, well, maybe Christmas. Then he called, and I decided to take the bull by the horns, you know?"
"Uh, okay." A sneeze punctuated the ambivalent reply.
"Geshundeit."
"Thadgs." It took two tissues to deal with the aftermath. "'Scuse me." He reached for one of the bottles and twisted off the cap. "Help yourself. Open bar."
"No, that's all... well, maybe some water. Thanks. Nice setup; everything close at hand."
"Sandburg's idea. I'm on my own for everything else, but this makes taking fluids and medicine a lot easier."
William nodded, then took several sips of water before speaking. "He -- he looks after you, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, sure. I do the same for him when he's sick. Not like this, but we've got each other's backs."
"That's not what I mean."
Jim felt the juice sour in his throat. He forced it down with an effort. "Then, what?"
His father's lips twitched, as if reluctant to shape the words, but he pressed forward. "Your senses. It's his work at college, isn't it? Studying people with heightened senses?"
"How do you know that?" His jaw tensed out of habit.
"Well, you introduced us -- sort of -- in the woods. When I asked him what he did, he said he was an anthropology student. He wouldn't say much more than that he was working with you. Later on, I, uh, called Rainier and asked someone in his department."
"You had no right to do that," Jim growled, pushing off of the mattress to put distance between himself and William. Disorientation from standing too quickly made the room spin, and he felt a pair of cool hands take him by the arm and shoulder and gently pull him back down.
"Sit down, son, please. I'm sorry; I really am. It just seemed so strange that someone like him -- a college student -- would be allowed to ride alongside a detective for so long, that I thought there must have been something else going on."
"Like what?"
"I wasn't sure. I thought maybe it had to do with your time in Peru. That he was getting information on what you went through down there."
"That's still classified, Dad."
"Lunch is ready!" Sally's voice chimed from below, the bright tone clearly forced. Sound carried all too well in the loft, Jim thought.
"We'll be right down," William answered, getting to his feet.
"No, that's all right. I'll bring it up. Jimmy needs to stay in bed." The rattle of dinnerware sliding on a tray began to shift from the island toward the stairs.
"Actually, Sally, I have to come down, anyway. Been up here all morning, and I gotta wash my hands, y'know?" Jim rose more carefully this time and scooped up his gray robe.
"Okay." The tray stopped at the table and unshipped its load.
Jim made his way carefully down the steps, William keeping pace behind him. They parted at the table and Jim continued to the bathroom. He went through his usual ministrations with an effort, since the lingering fever played merry hell on his coordination. It also gave him time to plan responses to his father's next questions. The relationship they were trying to rebuild in the last year hadn't progressed much past the foundation-laying stage, and he didn't want hasty words tearing that down before the concrete had a chance to settle.
However, William Ellison had trespassed into dangerous territory, and Jim was determined to let the man know where the boundaries were.
Two places were laid at the table when he emerged, and his father occupied the furthest one from the kitchen. Not wanting to resume the previous conversation at the moment, Jim turned his attention to the Ellison housekeeper. "This looks great, Sally. Just like old times."
Sally Wong beamed as she scooped ping-pong sized balls of dough from a bowl onto a papered baking sheet. "Thank you. I noticed you laid out your kitchen very close to the one back home, so it was easy to find what I needed. Does Mr. Sandburg cook?"
Jim rolled his eyes and grinned. "Oh, yeah, but don't ask me about some of the dishes. He's brought home things that look like something out of a sci-fi movie. He had turtle meat in there last month."
"Ooh! For soup?"
"No, I think he was trying for Jamaican barbecue. Some of the guys from work ate it." He picked up the triangled half of a sandwich and bit into it. The bread crunched between his teeth as warm Colby cheese oozed from the sides; the two slices of tomato offered a satisfying resistance. She'd set out cups and a pot of green tea, and he could feel the hot water and the content of the leaves opening his sinuses before he'd taken the first sip. A stray notion that Sally may have also known about his abilities and had planned their meals to take that into account flitted through his mind, but he set that aside as a bit too paranoid, even for him.
The two men said nothing as they worked through the sandwiches and chicken noodle soup made with linguini, the way Jim liked it. Having the "blue elephant in the room" issue of Jim's senses and Blair's involvement with them hovering over the table, however, made the meal a little less enjoyable. William appeared to deduce this, and waited until Jim finished his second oatmeal chocolate chip cookie before resuming the conversation.
"I wouldn't think you'd discuss a classified mission with a civilian, Jim. I assumed he was wanting to know about your experiences with the natives. It's his job to study people like that, isn't it?"
"Yeah, Dad. He studies 'people like that'." Jim didn't bother to mute the sarcasm.
"I didn't mean it as an insult, son. Please don't twist my words."
"Okay, sorry. So, what led you to think--" he flicked a glance at Sally's location and lowered his voice "--that he's helping me with my senses?"
His father noticed the look toward the kitchen, and his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. "It's all right, Jimmy. She knows. Why do you think your clothes always got washed in a separate load, with a milder detergent?"
"They... they did?" He tried to remember seeing laundry being done during his childhood, but could recall nothing specific.
Sally laughed and came to refill the teapot. "Boys never notice their clothes until things are dirty enough to stand up by themselves. I saw you got a rash sometimes after I used the regular soap, so I changed. I thought it was an allergy." The smile faded as she paused by Jim's chair. "I didn't know about the rest until much later, but I always knew you were a special boy." She leaned over and placed a kiss on the top of his head, then went back to the kitchen.
"And before you say it, yes, I admit I had another word for 'special'," his father confessed, his voice weary with regret. "But I'll give my reasons for that later. After talking with someone from Rainier, I looked up what he'd written to confirm my impression that he was after information on the people you'd lived with.
"When I saw his thesis on ancient Sentinels, I didn't know what to think. My first instinct was to call and warn you, that he might be taking advantage of you without your knowledge, using you..."
"Like a lab rat," Jim filled in. "You don't know how many times I've thrown that at him, Pop. But all the tests he's talked me into have helped in some way. It's like I told you that other day: what I have may be a burden sometimes, but it's also a gift. Sandburg helped me see that."
William nodded. "I remembered, once I tried to figure out what to say to you. He did for you what I should have done. But when you insisted you'd seen Mick Foster in the woods, so far away, all I could think of was Cynthia. I got so scared, I had to make sure no one found out what you were."
Jim froze, cup stalled halfway to his mouth. The name had no meaning for him, yet it was important enough to his father to force his son to hide his abilities and let an innocent man die in prison. He set the cup down with care, suppressing the desire to slam it onto the saucer. He could barely summon the air to push the words out, but he managed. "Who. Is. Cynthia?"
William took a long slow breath, his gaze intent on his own cup. "A cousin. Cynthia Ellison was Uncle Ted's middle child. She kept saying she could hear voices no one else could, see things a long way away. Her brothers teased her. Hell, we all did. We thought she was making things up to get attention. I... I think the word 'freak' was used more than once. Her parents sent her to a doctor. Sent her to several. They couldn't find anything physically wrong with her, so they put it down to hallucinations. 'Schizophrenia' was the word they used."
"Oh, God, they didn't..." Jim murmured, his lunch curdling in his stomach.
The older man shrugged apologetically. "Spruce Hills Psychiatric Hospital, in Tacoma. It was a nice, well-kept facility. She was getting cared for there."
"And it was far enough away that the neighbors didn't find out." Jim's lip curled as he lifted the cup once more, hoping the tea would settle his digestion and nerves.
"This was the forties, Jimmy. It could have been much worse. Some places were little more than prisons."
Jim's response was a non-committal grunt, then, "So, what, did they drug her until the senses went away, or did they go right to shock treatment?" Anger was draining his reserves, but it kept the queasiness at bay.
"Ah, no, they didn't get that far. The drugs either made her disoriented, or she 'went away' for hours."
"Damn, that was a zone-out. She got focused on one sense, and lost track of everything else. Sandburg showed me how to split awareness, so that it barely happens anymore, and he's there to bring me out when it does."
"Then I thank God for what he's taught you, and I wish she'd had someone like him. Maybe she'd still be here."
The nausea was making a return performance as the implication of the words settled in. "How did she--?"
"They... they weren't sure if she was trying to escape from the roof and slipped... or whether she couldn't take it anymore. The staff found her lying on the pavement near the building one morning."
Jim breathed deeply through his nose and fought the icy roiling in the pit of his stomach. "Her parents told the kids about it?"
"No, God, no, but you know how kids hear things. One of her brothers told us after the funeral. Maddy had nightmares for a couple of weeks; thinking back on it, I'm surprised we all didn't have them."
Jim nodded, remembering how easily upset his aunt got about some topics. He forced himself to set aside the thought of what Cynthia had gone through, the torture of uncontrollable senses and the ignorance of well-meaning parents and doctors, feeling the dizziness and turmoil fade bit by bit. This trick had helped him in the jungle during those first weeks, when the memories became too much. He had been proud of that coping maneuver then, and later on when the crime scenes were particularly brutal. A deep, cleansing breath restored calm for now, and he asked, "Where's she buried?"
"Next to her mother, at their family plot in Olympia. I'll get directions, if you want to visit."
"Yeah, thanks. Have -- did you ever talk to Uncle Ted about me? Any of her brothers?"
"Well, see, I thought it would be better if I talked to you first, since you know more about this. I didn't just want to bring it up without something more to say to them. You two would know what to say... whether it's safe to discuss it outside our branch of the family..."
Jim sighed. "Right." As much as he wanted to spare anyone else Cynthia's fate or his problems, there was the larger issue of security against a world that would see Sentinels as a curiosity, commodity, or threat. He needed to think about this, and he needed to talk to Sandburg. At the moment, however, he was too tired and ill to plan any further than bringing his medicine downstairs and sleeping on the couch. "Lemme discuss this with Sandburg, and I'll let you know. Let's just change the subject, okay? I'm not up for any more heavy family drama right now." He rubbed his forehead, then reached for the teapot.
They talked of more mundane things for a while, Sally contributing while she finished the dishes. William insisted on bringing down "the juice bar" and moving it -- the ice freshened -- to the coffee table. Jim made token protests over the cleaning and help with relocation, then gave in. If fussing over him made them feel better, he wasn't going to deprive them of the pleasure. Blair would be along in an hour or so, anyway, to assume those duties.
December 13, 1998
The click of the candle lighter caught Jim's ear, and he stopped his descent from the bedroom, waiting respectfully for the prayer to begin. He watched Blair touch flame to the "service" candle and speak in an almost singing cadence.
"Blessed are you, Lord, our God, king of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the candles of Hanukkah. Amen."
"Amen," Jim echoed softly. This was the second year that his partner openly observed the holiday in the apartment. When Blair moved in, he hadn't owned the ritual candelabra, and didn't think there was much point in celebrating a minor family holiday by himself. By the seventh day, Jim asked about it, and was told the reason. His response was, "If we have a Christmas tree up, and that's my holiday, why can't we have a menorah for yours?"
Blair couldn't fault that sort of logic, and he picked up the nine-branched candleholder after the first of the year. It was the size of a toaster and made of red stoneware, the last of the store's selection within his budget. It fulfilled its function, however, and that was what mattered.
"Blessed are you, Lord, our God, king of the universe, who performed miracles for our ancestors in those days at this time. Amen."
"Amen."
There was a reverent pause, and Blair continued to the prayer that was only given on the first night of the holiday. "Blessed are you, Lord, our God, king of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season."
Both men said "Amen" together as the first candle on the small hanukkiah was lit. Blair stepped back from the table near the balcony doors, and Jim finished descending the stairs.
"So, we get to eat now?" the detective asked with a grin.
Blair rolled his eyes, putting the lighter in its usual drawer. "Yes, we get to eat now, although Hanukkah does have other meanings besides celebratory foods."
Jim interrupted with a raised hand, forestalling a lecture. "I know, I know, I looked it up. However, any holiday that includes -- correction, requires -- fried foods on the menu gets my vote as a good holiday."
"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" the younger man chuckled on his way to the kitchen. "Though I figured you'd prefer Passover. All that cleaning, y'know."
"Well, hey, spring cleaning is spring cleaning. I'd take a pass on Purim, though. Too much noise."
"Oh, yeah."
Dinner was a pan-cultural mix, since Blair liked to pull from various cuisines for special occasions: sauteed orange roughy and slices of winter squash over basmati rice and almond slivers, latkes with onion and crimini mushrooms and a Danish ale Jim had picked up the week before. Jim made jokes about having KP flashbacks from his Army days while he peeled potatoes for the traditional holiday dish, and ended up in the bathroom dousing his eyes in cold water when he inhaled onion fumes.
"Well, I told you to put 'em in the freezer, but did you listen? Noooo," Blair chided as he finished the task and stirred the vegetables and matzoh meal together while the water heated for the rice.
"Yeah, yeah... bite me, Sandburg," Jim grumbled, splashing water and forcing his sense of touch down so it didn't feel like needles of ice were scratching his face. He emerged almost six minutes later, patting his eyes with a soft towel.
"Better?"
"I'll live." He tested the readiness of the hot oil, then began to form thin patties. While five sizzled in the pan, he made five more, then turned the first batch with the casual air of a short-order cook flipping eggs.
Banter during dinner preparations was sporadic, and more so when they finally sat down to eat. It wasn't until the table was cleared and the dishes were being washed that Jim broached the subject. "Hey, Chief, you remember the other day when my father and Sally stopped by?"
"Yeah, you were down with the cold, and they brought all that food. I washed and put the last of the containers in the crate, so the next time you're in the neighborhood..."
"Right, right, but that's not what I'm talking about." He hesitated, expecting another bounce to conclusions from the younger man, but all he got was a quizzical silence. "Dad... Dad had some things to say while he was here. First of all, he looked into why you're riding with me." He didn't want to know whether the news would set Blair off, so he kept hearing and smell at the lower settings.
"Oookaaayy. None of that's gotten back to me, so that may be a good thing or a bad thing. Did he say what he found out?"
"He went to the library and ran across your undergrad paper on Sentinels. I think it sort of made up his mind about you."
Jim didn't need heightened senses to pick up the suspicion in Blair's "What did he decide?"
"That you're looking out for me. To be honest, he thought you might have been exploiting me for your research..."
"Jim, you know that's the last thing..."
"I know, I know. That's what I told him. He figured it out himself while he was working on what to tell me about why he made me deny my abilities after Bud died."
"I thought he already told you that, and it was before he met me." Blair stood, dripping dish and soapy rag in mid-wipe, his brow puckered slightly in thought.
"Apparently there was more. It... it seems I wasn't the first in the family to have heightened senses."
Blair's eyes widened, but his voice was calm. "Go on."
"Back in the forties, Dad had a cousin. Her name was Cynthia..."
December 24, 1998
Jim pushed the last leg of the wire tripod into the firm earth, then hung the small pine wreath with its red velvet bow on the hook and stepped back from the granite marker over Cynthia Ellison's grave. Falling into the automatic "parade rest" stance -- feet apart, hands clasped above the upper ridge of the pelvis -- he read the simple inscription of "Beloved Daughter... Taken Too Soon" underneath the name and dates of birth and death, and wondered if grief and shame had kept her parents from saying more.
A movement at his left interrupted further pondering as Blair knelt to lay a smooth white agate pebble at the base of the headstone. He'd explained the tradition on the way to the cemetery: how the annual bolstering of funeral cairns by Jewish families for their dead had evolved into a presentation of one stone at the grave each year. He then announced that, while Cynthia was not a relative, her status as a possible Sentinel made her a member of the larger tribal entity of northwestern Washington State, which was close enough.
Jim decided that was as good a reason as any, although he hadn't quite figured out how to word it to his great-uncle and cousins when they sat down to discuss That Topic after the holidays. His father had smoothed the path for him and Blair with that branch of the family, but dredging up old secrets and laying out new concerns was not going to be easy. To his relief, Blair had promised not to ask about conducting tests on the next two generations, fully understanding the need for discretion. So far as William could tell them, none of Ted's and Gloria's other children or grandchildren showed any glimmer of hyper-acute senses. Jim hoped that meant the traits only appeared in one branch at a time, sparing Steven and his new family, but knowing the Ellison luck on this subject couldn't be that simple.
He became aware of a string of foreign words being uttered by his companion, and glanced over with a questioning look when Blair finished his recitation. "What was that?"
"A elder in an area of Nepal taught me that prayer. It's said at the funeral of their village guardian. Part of it reassures the departing spirit that another will take his place and continue to protect their people."
"Oh." He had no response to that beyond a hesitant, "Thank you."
"I thought it might be appropriate, considering..." He left the rest hanging, the tone in his voice uncertain now.
"Yeah, it is. And after all, you being Shaman of the Great City, who else should do it?" That title, coming from Blair's mouth semi-jokingly not long ago, didn't seem so silly now, even though Jim brought it up with a faint smile.
That seemed to ease Blair's concern at having offended Jim in some way, because his mouth upturned as well. "True. So, uhm, what do you want to do next?"
Jim checked his watch. "Well, unless you had something in town you wanted to see while we're here, we could just head back home, grab something on the way for dinner. Maybe pick up a movie or two, since there's nothing on but reruns and Christmas specials."
"Sounds like a plan. We still opening one present tonight?"
"What do you think?" It was one of the few traditions he'd kept from his childhood, since it reminded him of happier times, when their family was still together. His brother continued the practice as well.
Blair grinned. "Cool."
Hours later, after the fast-food chicken meal had been consumed and a spaghetti Western began running its end credits, Jim shut off the tape and headed for the decorated tree and its two small piles of wrapped gifts. "Okay, Chief, intermission time. You get the popcorn started, and we'll do the present thing."
"And what'll you be doing, while I'm slaving over a hot popper?" When it came to popcorn at home, they went for the old-fashioned method, since Blair swore that it was more healthy than the microwave variety. Jim couldn't confirm that, but he knew that he and what passed for "buttery flavoring" on the nuked corn did not get along.
"Rattling presents, what else?"
"Given up on the subtle approach, eh?"
"Hey, you're the one who taught me to identify things by sound."
"So, it's my fault?"
"Yup." Jim sorted through the boxes for tags addressed to him, grinning at the raspberry blown at him from the kitchen. He was still choosing among three candidates when Blair came up behind him and snatched a square package that Jim recognized as one he'd wrapped. "Just like that? No studying each one, trying to figure out what it is?"
"Did that on Tuesday, while you were down in the basement digging up that punch bowl Joel wanted to borrow."
"Ah." Finally deciding on one from Blair, mostly because it didn't rattle, and it felt somewhat like a book, he put the runners-up back on the floor and set the winner on the coffee table. His roommate settled into the armchair, box on his lap. On an unspoken signal, they tore off the respective wrappings.
Jim blinked at the cover of the spiral-bound, soft-cover cookbook, the words "Ellison Family Recipes" in large, dark blue lettering across the picture of an index card file box surrounded by foods and kitchen utensils. He flipped it open to a random page, and saw a neatly printed copy of his grandmother's meat loaf recipe. The last time he'd had home-cooked meat loaf was when Carolyn tried to make it one night. The reminiscence was not a good one. "Chief? Is this why you went to my father's for recipes the other day?"
"Not at first, but Sally had so many in a box and a folder, that the idea just sprang from there. Figured you might like something of family traditions this year. I also had copies made for your dad, Steven and Sally, so I guess you could say that's a limited edition cookbook. Uhm, about this?" He laid a hand on the now-revealed box announcing a menorah inside. "Did something happen to my menorah?"
"No, nothing happened. I thought... well, I noticed one night you could barely see the light from the street."
"Since we're on the third floor, I'm not surprised."
"I know that, Sandburg. It's just that I remembered reading somewhere that it symbolizes a welcoming light to those lost in the dark, and... well, I got to thinking about..."
"Lost souls?"
"Yeah." His mind cast back, as it had in the Judaica gift shop, to faces and names of those taken from the world in one way or another, before their time and without their consent. The parade reminded him of the horde of ghosts flying by Scrooge's window, forever barred from any shred of happiness or hope of salvation, and his tribal guardian instincts rebelled at the image. "I thought a taller one would help."
"And less likely to break if the loft gets invaded again." Blair grinned teasingly as he pulled the styrofoam block from the box and began to pick at the tape. "I think the popcorn's about done."
Jim laid the book down and went to rescue their evening snack. He dumped the pan's snowy contents into the nearby bowl, grabbed the cheddar-flavored popcorn salt and a pair of sodas from the refrigerator and hauled everything back to the living room in one trip. Blair had freed the antiqued bronze hanukkiah from its packing and was studying the nine dancing human figures that formed the holders, a glow of wonder on his face.
"Jim, this is... just great. The picture on the front doesn't do it justice." He stroked the individual holders, as if committing the details to tactile as well as visual memory, then laughed. "It's certainly an anthropologist's menorah."
"It is, that." The simple, exuberant style of the figures had drawn him to the piece, but he hadn't chosen it as a reflection of his friend's career choice. At least, he hadn't done it consciously, now that he considered it. "So, do you like it?"
"'Like it'? This is so beyond 'like', man. This is the coolest holiday thing I've gotten in years." The joyful expression muted slightly as Blair's gaze flickered toward the coffee table. "So, is that cookbook okay?"
Jim's pleased smile spread a little further. "It's more than okay, Chief. In fact," he added with a hint of mischievous glee, "I think you're gonna regret ragging me about fast food, once I get started using this book."
"So, disgusting eating habits are another Ellison tradition?"
The mock look of apprehension was too much of a challenge for Jim to ignore. Putting on a nonchalant air of menace, Jim popped in the next tape and resumed his seat. He clicked "PLAY" on the VCR remote and turned up the volume to unenhanced-normal levels, then rumbled, "Be afraid. Be very afraid."
Blair's reply came a few seconds later: a crooked grin, a faint snort and, as he scooped up a handful of popcorn, a drawled, "Not much of a threat, coming from a man who turns up his nose at witchetty grubs."
"Jell-O salad, with shredded carrots, raisins and multi-colored mini-marshmallows."
"Yuck."
"I rest my case."
The End