For Gary Bedell
and all the good memories...
Chapter 1
Michael and I rode the old elevator to the fifth floor of the prewar building.
“You get a lot of Christmas cards,” I said, looking at the colorful collection of envelopes he was opening.
“Hanukkah cards, please,” he said.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He handed me an ornate card featuring a blue dreidel accented with silver markings. “Cassie, look at this one,” Michael said. “It’s strange.” I looked at it briefly.
“What’s strange about it?” I asked. I followed him into his apartment and we sat at the kitchen table.
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said. “Except…”
I could see he was getting agitated. “What is it, Michael?”
“The name. It’s what I used to call my imaginary sister, Kristen. But she doesn’t exist. I made her up.”
I opened the card and looked at the signature again. It was signed in an old-fashioned cursive: Kristen Simone.
Our eyes met over the card. “Then who do you think this is this from?” I asked.
The envelope had no return address and the cancellation was smeared so it was impossible to tell where it had been processed. We studied the handwriting.
“I got nothing,” he said. “Just the heebie-jeebies.”
“Can you ask your mom?” I said. “Maybe you have a relative named Kristen that you’ve forgotten.”
“It’s kind of a delicate subject with her,” he said. “I went through a period when I insisted that Kris come everywhere with me, and my parents eventually made me go to a therapist because they thought I was obsessed and that it was abnormal.”
“What did the therapist think?” I asked.
“He told them to sign me up for sports. So I started wrestling.” He crossed his arms and studied the card sitting on the coffee table.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.
“The therapist told me that I was homosexual. I had no idea what that meant. He said that if I wanted to survive, I should take up a nice sport and try to fit in.” He shook his head violently. “I was only eight. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about…but he scared the crap out of me, so I agreed to it. He also told me that if I had an imaginary friend at my age, I’d probably be diagnosed as schizophrenic and institutionalized by the time I was twenty.”
“Holy crap. Did you tell anyone about this?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Small town psychiatry at its finest,” I said. “Does anybody else know about Kristen?”
“Of course. Do you think I let her go so easily?” He smiled. “When I went to college, and I finally came out, I used to call myself Kristen. One weekend, I came home with a boyfriend intending to break the news to my parents. For a joke, I had a t-shirt made with the name Kristen on it.”
“Ooooh,” I laughed. “How did that go over?”
“Not so well,” he said. “The joke was on me, actually. When I got to the house, I found my father hanging in the attic. My mother hadn’t gotten home from work yet. So I had to tell her.”
“Oh, my God, Michael,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think he knew the ‘big news’ I was coming home to share, and he wasn’t interested in hearing it. And there I was, wearing that damned shirt. My boyfriend took off. Left me there to deal with it all. What a mess. So, no, I can’t ask my mother about Kristen.”
“Who would be so cruel as to send you this card? Not that guy?”
“No, if he’s even still around, which I doubt, why would he do something like that? No, I can’t see why anyone would,” he said.
“All right, let’s be logical about this. As far as you know, the only people who know about Kristen are who? You, your mother, the therapist, the bad boyfriend, and who else?” I asked.
“There are the guys from my dorm at college, but they all called me Kris, not Kristen. I doubt any of them knew the Kristen connection. So, I don’t know,” he said.
“Will you ask your mom about it when you go home for the holiday?” I asked.
“I don’t think I can,” he said. “She’s come a long way since then, but the holidays are a difficult time and we tread lightly around them.”
“I see. I didn’t realize that your dad had committed suicide. You told me he died of a heart attack. Don’t get me wrong, I completely understand why you’d prefer not to talk about it,” I said. We sat quietly for a minute, each in our own thoughts.
“My mother left us the week before Christmas, when I was around eight, so my father tends to downplay the holidays as well,” I said. “You know, why bother with all the commercial crap? We like to celebrate the Fourth of July more. We go all out: sparklers, flags, Statue of Liberty hats, hot dogs on the grill. Very wholesome.”
“That’s a good idea. My mom is a good Passover Seder kind of person,” he said. “We stick with the big Jewish food holidays, stay away from the gift-related celebrations. Those seem more American, anyway, you know?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry, Michael,” I said. I touched his arm.
His face lit up. “You know, it would really help if you came home with me for a few days,” he said. “You could drive. We could go get chowder at Legal Seafood. And see the Christmas lights everywhere. What do you say?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“What are you doing for the holidays?” he asked. “Your dad’s still not talking to you?”
“No. Radio silence.” I paused. “Maybe I’ll go get a cat.”
“That’s a long time to be mad,” he said. “You guys were so close.”
“I know,” I said. “Maybe I should get two cats.”
“No, you are not getting two cats,” he said. “Your dad will come around. And who knows, that cop friend of yours might show up again. You never know. The holidays have a way of softening people up. So you don’t want to become a cat lady. Not just yet. Give it another six months or so.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I said.
“Or how about a dog?” he asked. “What’s wrong with a dog? It’s a good way to meet men, walking a dog.”
“But then you have to walk them, in all kinds of weather, and pick up their poop—while it’s still warm” I said. “I’m not sure that I’m constitutionally able to do that.”
“Maybe we can rent one for a weekend
