Hazard and Somerset by Gregory Ashe (books to read to improve english txt) 📕

Inside Noah and Rebeca’s house, Christmas music came on, an a cappella version of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,” with lots of cooing and extra beats and instrumental imitations that made Hazard think a dead composer in Merry Olde Englande was spinning in his or her grave.

“It’s not that bad,” Somers said.

Hazard laughed again, another white explosion of breath.

“Can I say one thing?” Somers said.

“Have I ever been able to stop you?”

“One teensy, weensy thing.”

“God, as long as you promise never to say teensy weensy again.”

“One microscopic thing,” Somers said, holding forefinger and thumb an inch apart, “this big, that’s all, I promise.”

“Before I brain you with a Christmas angel or whatever the hell I can grab first.”

“So, I don’t disagree with the points you make about the Santa story. If you take it literally—and, yeah, I know kids do—it can say all sorts of things that we don’t want it to. The importance of material objects. Value placed on socially-approved behavior instead of being a good person. Easy conflation of the poor with the bad—they must be bad kids, right, because they didn’t get anything for Christmas. And, of course, the fact that parents are lying to their kids. I get it, Ree, all of it.”

Then Somers was silent, snuggling into Hazard’s shoulder, the smell of pineapple and pear and Rioja blooming in the dead winter air.

“But?” Hazard said.

“But it’s also kind of wonderful, the idea that someone does something good, taking presents to kids all around the world. It’s magical that he can do it all in a night, that he brings what you want and leaves it under the tree, that he doesn’t ask for anything in return. I know our concept of childhood is a Victorian construct—you made me watch that damn documentary two times—but it still lasts a really short time. Adults are so jaded, so . . . unhappy. And there’s something incredible about how deeply kids feel everything at that age: hope, happiness, joy, wonder.”

They stood there maybe two minutes longer, until the song inside changed to “Veni, Veni, Emmanuel,” properly in the original Latin, and then Hazard turned Somers’s head up with one finger and kissed him, the taste of Spanish summers on his lips. When he broke away, he said, “I still feel wonder.”

Somers smiled, made a big O with his mouth, and pointed a finger at himself, half mocking, half glowing.

Another kiss, this one on the cheek, and Hazard said, “Don’t let it give you a big head.”

V

DECEMBER 24

MONDAY

6:37 PM

I’M ONLY DOING IT under certain conditions,” Hazard said.

“Oh,” Noah said; he and Rebeca were sitting at the table, fresh glasses of sangria in hand. “Great.” Then he grunted and shot a glare at his wife. “I mean, great!”

“What conditions?” Rebeca asked.

“I’m not wearing the wig.”

“You can’t not wear the wig, Santa—” One of the smaller, sturdier boys bowling-balled past them, and Noah grimaced until his son was out of earshot. “Santa has white hair. Long, flowing, luscious locks.”

“No wig,” Hazard said.

“We’ll just pull the cap down,” Somers said.

“It’ll be fine,” Rebeca said.

“Number two,” Hazard said.

Noah groaned.

“I get equal time for my point of view,” Hazard said. “That means explaining the neo-capitalist appropriation of the Santa Claus myth, as well as all the previous iterations in all their varying forms of cultural embeddedness, back to the historical Saint Nicholas.”

“Uhh,” Noah said, glancing at Rebeca.

“Do the kids have to sit still for this?” Rebeca said. “It’s not that we don’t want you to, but they might have a little trouble staying focused.”

Robbie and the middle boy, whose name Hazard couldn’t remember, sprinted through the kitchen, shooting Nerf guns at each other. One of the projectiles missed its intended target, the foam missile slapping Hazard’s cheek.

“They can get up and move around,” Somers said. “He just wants to have a chance to explain.”

“If any of them are interested,” Hazard said.

Noah made a noise that sounded like a laugh, and then he yelped, bending down to rub his leg under the table while shooting another glare at Rebeca.

“Third,” Hazard said.

“Why did we buy this house?” Noah asked. “We could have bought another house. We could have had neighbors who didn’t want to undermine centuries of good old-fashioned capitalism on Christmas Eve.”

“I want to pull off the fake beard and show them it’s me.”

“No,” Rebeca said.

“No,” Noah said. “Oh. That’s what you said.”

“Why not?” Hazard said. “You can tell them what parents tell kids all the time: that’s not the real, real Santa, but he’s one of Santa’s helpers, he’ll make sure the real Santa—uh, hi there.”

“Hey Ricky,” Noah said. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Wait a minute,” the kid said, holding up one finger like he was giving them a lecture. He couldn’t have been older than eight, Hazard thought, but he looked like he might take the lot of them to the woodshed. “You’re talking about Santa.”

Upstairs, something very heavy thudded, and the whole house shook. Then raucous laughter filtered down.

“That’s right,” Rebeca said. “He’s coming tonight.”

“I knew it,” Ricky squealed before zipping away. “Guys, he’s coming, he’s really coming tonight.”

Somers made a little noise in his throat, and Hazard shot him a look.

“No,” Hazard said. “Not a word.”

Miming, Somers zipped his lips.

“See?” Noah said. “Isn’t it cute?”

“I said not a word.”

“Yeah, but I’m not your boyfriend.”

“They really are excited, Emery,” Rebeca said. “I think the younger kids would be really confused if you took off the beard. It’s hard enough trying to explain the mall Santas; I don’t think we can convince them that Mr. Hazard is moonlighting with the elves.”

“If we’re going to have equal time—” Hazard began.

“The beard is negotiable,” Somers said.

“No, the beard is not negotiable.”

“It’s totally negotiable,” Somers said, rapping on the table. “Emery will wear the beard and not take it off while the children are watching—”

“I absolutely will take the beard off. It’s important to unmask the deception voluntarily and to control the narrative.”

“—but in return, you send us home with a