Christmas Tales - Brandon Witt Page 0,22

or third day. Then they were devoured each morning as I stood at the kitchen window drinking my coffee and at night as I drank my tea. They might have been good. I didn’t really taste them. Though, there was no relief or relaxation with them, so they definitely weren’t from his magic recipe.

Travis’s words kept echoing in my mind. Just one man….

There were no more service vans.

Every so often Raymond drove off in the Winnebago but always returned by the evening.

A few times he noticed me as I took care of the birds. He waved a huge, exaggerated wave. I couldn’t tell from the distance, but I’d have placed money on there being a huge shit-eating grin on his face to match.

Games.

I was past fantasizing about Raymond Webber. Well, except for about fifteen minutes a day. The rest of the time was spent in loathing and despising.

Apparently, like uncle, like nephew.

Though I’d never masturbated to the thoughts of Old Man Webber naked.

* * *

The brownies were gone. The daily chores done. Soon, it would be sunset, and I’d go out and shut up the birds for the night.

I used the time to make my mother’s gingerbread recipe. It was the one tradition I kept alive. It made a massive amount of cookies. A third of the batter was for actual cookies. The rest became a gingerbread farm. I used the same metal templates my father had made over forty years before. The barn was always exactly the same. The farmers, fences, cows, and birds never changed. I’d forced myself to go into town the day before to get peppermints, gumdrops, and red-hots. I’d spend several evenings decorating it, and then it would sit on the dresser in the living room, in the middle of the family pictures until Valentine’s Day, when I’d bust it into a million pieces and give the birds a treat.

I’d just finished the dough and was wrapping it up to place in the refrigerator to cool when a noise disrupted the peaceful silence of the kitchen. For a moment, I couldn’t think what it could be. Then it stopped abruptly, and I realized. It had been a car. Someone was there.

All this new shit. Again, I was thrown off. I couldn’t come up with the last time someone had just shown up at my house.

Hurriedly, I washed and dried my hands and bustled to the front door. This time, I didn’t flinch when Raymond stood on the other side, his hand raised to knock.

His eyes widened. “You are terrifyingly good at that. It’s a little off-putting.”

I glanced behind him. The Winnebago was parked in the driveway. So close to my house, the thing looked even bigger than usual. I turned my glare on him. “It’s not even as cold today as normal. You’re too good to walk across snow now?” Even as I spoke, I realized that my irritation at him driving made absolutely no sense. Embarrassed, I turned back around and stomped off, and I still couldn’t make my voice sound normal. “Probably here for your pan. It’s clean and by the sink. I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t need my pan.” Raymond’s tone was hesitant.

There was the click of the door closing.

I didn’t look back at him. “Well, you’re here for some reason. I’ll just get it.”

He was standing by the table when I came back in and shoved the pan toward him. “Here you go.” I was getting angrier by the moment. And more embarrassed. “They were good. Thank you.”

Raymond took the pan, reaching for it carefully, like I might have turned it into a bomb or something. “I’m glad you liked them.” He motioned over his shoulder. “I actually have something for….” He studied me with a narrow gaze. “You’re mad at me. Why?”

I flinched that time. Raymond and his stupid bluntness. “I’m not mad at you. Quit projecting.”

He laughed, and his lips curved into that smile, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those actually looked concerned. “Well, my man, if this isn’t you mad, give me a warning before the anger arrives. I, for sure, want to be over the state line.”

My man.

My man.

Just throwing that out all casual and like it didn’t mean anything.

The fucker.

Turned out, when I’m angry enough, I can be as blunt as Mr. Off-Grid, No-Pants Webber. “Just quit playing the fucking games already. It’s obnoxious and a little cruel, to be honest. At least your uncle made his distaste for me apparent. I didn’t