Chapter Text
Dressed in maroon shorts, a race shirt with a jogging turkey on the front, and a hat that looked like the butt end of Thanksgiving dinner, Bradley Uppercrust III was a sight to behold. And thanks to his dad’s obsession with photographing everything, Max got a phone background out of it too.
Granted, he looked no better. The deal was, if Bradley had to wear the hat, he had to wear the tutu. In the beginning, the bedazzled fabric fit the event’s color scheme quite well. The old ladies who checked them in commented on how festive they all looked. Bobby giggled at the outfit, and Max made him put on the spare. Roxanne arrived last, visiting from her out of state school. She tucked Max’s tag back into the waistband, which earned her quite the dirty look from Bradley, of which Max also enjoyed.
It was all fun and games until the race began. Max and the tutu deflated after the first kilometer. At first, he regretted not taking Bradley up on his offer to train. Train for a Turkey Trot? Now that’s embarrassing. But after a kilometer and half, he considered taking up the training and the diet. Skateboarding was a full body workout, he’d always insisted, but this was something else.
At the second kilometer marker, a singular figure jogged in place. His dad and Sylvie had probably finished by now. Sylvie had gotten the old Goof into all her workout classes when they moved in together. Bobby, carried by the power of love, was probably wheezing right behind Roxanne. Was it against bro code to go after your friend’s ex? Bobby’d said, “She’s not your ex, bro. A month doesn’t count. Besides, you’re already taken.”
That he was.
Bradley resumed his forward momentum only when Max caught up. Despite the sweaty misery of jogging, a pleasantness blossomed in chest (and almost cut through the cramp!). It was just nice to be waited for.
They crossed the third kilometer together and that’s when Bradley started talking. That’s right. Talking and Running! Max’s lungs didn’t have air in them to breathe and Bradley wanted him to spend his sparse rations on words. He made him take off his headphones too. Bradley had slowed to half, maybe even a quarter of his usual running speed. Not a drop of sweat even beaded on his face. He could have placed in this Turkey Trot if he wanted to, but instead he stuck by his sweat drenched troll and isn’t that what a good boyfriend does? What choice did Max have but to indulge?
“As I was saying, mother loves it when you complement the interior, but she doesn’t know a thing about the gardens so she’s hands off. So, make sure you bring up the table cloth. Oh and the curtains. Baby Goof, are you listening?”
Oh right, they were talking about his family. “Yes, Bradley.”
“And for the love of all that is good, don’t bring up the piano. She hates the piano because granny got it through-“
Like changing the channels on an old TV, whatever he said got lost in the static. They’d been over their impending visit countless times. Max could probably give this same spiel to a third party verbatim. And if he got a detail wrong here or there, he wasn’t worried. He was great with parents!
At the finish line, his dad walked over with two disposable cups of cider. “Great goin’, boys!” He beamed down at them but when they made to reach for the cups, he scrunched his face. “Now, hold on a minute. I think this one’s the nonsweet one. No, wait. Sylvie!”
Over his shoulder, Sylvie guarded the picnic table. She pointed to her right hand, curved to hold an imaginary cup
“Is that your right or my right?” Goofy shouted back.
“Your right!”
“Right!” He handed that cup to Bradley.
“Thank you, Mr. Goof,” he said and turned back to Max. “Where was I? Oh yes, crosswords. Don’t bring them up. She gets competitive.”
Back in his room, Bradley sat on his bed with his feet propped on the air mattress. He’d showered and changed as soon as they got home and was decked in his usual preppy ensemble. He always looked terribly out of place in his childhood bedroom. The Powerline posters, the SNES, and the stack of Duck Avenger comics didn’t match the refined polo/chinos combo. Sometimes, Max wondered if people thought that too when they were together, the mismatched aesthetics of someone as cultured as Bradley to someone as average as Max.
Bradley fiddled with Ole Stuff Bear while Max dug through his suitcase. A rainbow of pastel dress shirts, fancy windbreakers, and even a cashmere sweater filled what would have only contained jerseys and hoodies. Dating a rich boy meant being gifted quite a bit of clothing, not that he ever complained. He was sure nobody in the history of the Goofs had ever even touched cashmere. He held up a long sleeve with an orange creamsicle flannel pattern.
“Linen, really?” Bradley’s withering look reminded him of his high school English teacher’s when he confessed he hadn’t read Grapes of Wrath. Bradley took control and resumed his tirade. It was then, Max realized he’d still had him tuned out. “And when you meet Sutcliffe, don’t make eye contact.”
“Sutcliffe’s the dog?” Max asked.
“No, Baby Goof, it’s my uncle.” Bradley handed him a thicker orange creamsicle flannel. “He’s, shall we say, intense. Drill sergeant.”
“Uh sure.”
Bradley passed him his black jeans. “If he asks about your gym routine, don’t tell him.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Max freed his hands to grab a fresh pair of boxers.
Bradley rescued the shirt from the balled-up mess wedged under Max’s armpit and draped it to his shoulder. “I’m serious. When I brought up skateboarding, don’t mention that either, he made fun of me the rest of his stay.”
“Alright,” he said, “Which cologne should I wear?”
Bradley scratched his chin and squinted his eyes. He looked quite boyish when he did that. “Did you bring the Accardi?”
Max saluted him with his free hand, “You got it.”
By the time Max hopped out of the shower, PJ and Pete had arrived. Tradition dictated that father and son miss the Turkey Trot because as Pete always said, “It’s too darn early!” It was one of the few times a year Max wished the ole Goofster was more like their bullish neighbor.
“You missed it. One of the floats popped,” PJ said, already parked in front of the TV. On the screen, a line of sparkly dancers spun on some city street. The pop music and commentary clashed with Sylvie’s disco music blasting from the kitchen.
“It was awesome.” Bobby added. He reached into the bucket of caramel popcorn on PJ’s lap. Max could have sworn he heard angel’s singing. Pete had this stuff imported from some bakery in Chicago and was one of the few luxuries he took pride in sharing.
“You brought the good stuff.” Max bent over, scooping his own handful. He consumed the gooey, chewy, caramel-y desert with voracity. Standing, Max’s back hit something sturdy, making him choke on all the popcorn bunched into his cheeks. Bradley watched him unimpressed.
“Ow wa ou ao?”
“Try swallowing first.”
Max held up a finger, requesting pause, now deciding to chew slower and longer than necessary. Bradley rolled his eyes. He snapped his fingers and held out his palm at PJ. The action made Max wince. He really only reverted to his snobbish persona when something was off.
“Say please,” PJ said.
“Ugh, please may I have some popcorn?” he said, delivering each word like a kidney stone.
“You may.” PJ tried for a careful pour and instead doused his hand and the couch with an avalanche. Bradley snorted while PJ and Bobby dug the popcorn back into the bucket, probably including a few stray hairs and Goof family lint in there. Max would be abstaining for the rest of Thanksgiving.
With his mouth liberated, he asked his original question, “How was your call?”
Bradley shrugged, focused on picking singular pieces of popcorn off his hand. “Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yes, Max, just fine.”
“Did you tell your mom?”
“She will know before you arrive.”
“Bradley!”
“Know what?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah, what?” PJ wanted in too.
At the same time Bradley said, “None of your business,” Max spilled their beans.
“Bradley hasn’t told his folks yet that I’m coming over for Christmas.”
“Scandalous,” PJ gasped.
“I’ve got four weeks! That’s plenty of time.” Bradley patted crumbs off his hands. “It’s no big deal.”
“He’s been putting it off since October,” Max explained.
“It just hasn’t come up.”
“I feel like it’s a pretty important bit of info. I’m meeting your parents for the first time and I don’t want to surprise them.”
“You won’t!” Bradley’s tone rose, “Like I said, they’ll know before you get there.”
“You’re a lot more worried about this than I should be.”
“Who says I’m worried?” Bradley said, fleeing to the backyard.
Max met Bobby’s eyes and even he looked nonplussed. From the moment the couple had arrived for Thanksgiving, Bradley was consumed by Christmas. It was the first holiday since they’d started dating that they planned to spend with Bradley’s family. Everyone, even Goofy who pulled Max aside to ask if Bradley was alright, could discern the burden on his shoulders. Sometimes, Max considered letting him off the hook. Especially after Bradley ran a red light, muttering about his cousin George on their way to pick up the turkey and cans of cranberry. But this was important for their relationship. It was important to Max.
How had they dated for three years and he’d never even said hello to his folks? For Pete’s sake, he didn't even know what they looked like! The whole secrecy Bradley maintained didn’t make sense to Max. Honestly, it hurt for a while. Was he hiding him because he was embarrassed? Was he not good enough? There was always some excuse he could scrounge up. Last year on the 4th of July, he mentioned his family was throwing a, and he put this in air quotes, “barbecue” which apparently translated to dry meat catering imported from Eastern Europe. Max agreed that was no way to celebrate the fourth, so they skipped it. Easter in some secluded Vermont cabin? Bradley knew Max hated camping so they spent it hiding eggs at Sylvie’s library event. Memorial Day found them enjoying Pete’s slow cooked brisket rather than going to a banquet at the White House. It’s invite-only, you understand. Halloween, St. Patty’s Day, even Cinco de Mayo wasn’t the right time for Max to meet his parents.
Then, a miracle happened. Max was home. That day all of his classes were virtual. The postman knocked on the door and had him sign for a manila envelope. A rich perfume puffed out when he opened it. On a cream cardstock with golden wreaths festooned at the header and footer, was an invitation to the Uppercrust Christmas Gathering, addressed to one Bradley Uppercrust III and to one Maxwell Goof. He’d have to correct them when he met them. Max’s first thoughts though, as he ogled the page, was how rich these people had to be to send invitations through certified mail. Then, he studied the crest embossed at the top like some medieval treatise. On a Christmas invite? Fancy! Max was no historian and could only recognize that it was two wolves in profile staring at a snake wrapped around a sword. Around it, well those were just a bunch of squiggly lines. It was ridiculous and silly and Max decided there was no way he would pass up this chance again.
That was in October. And Bradley’s hand wringing over the entire thing stretched to Thanksgiving and would no doubt continue until they were driving home from whatever estate or castle Mr. and Mrs. Uppercrust inhabited. Was it psychological torture? Sure. But Max was serious about Bradley. This was the longest relationship he’d ever had and the way they just fit together was so seamless it was scary. Having not met his parents yet seemed like a rash they avoided rather than healed. It would only grow from here the longer they let it fester.
And it wasn’t like Bradley was estranged from his folks. No, he brunched with his mother a few times a month (usually while Max was conveniently tied up in classes) and his father checked in every once in a while over the phone. So it was up to Max to facilitate this meeting of the worlds.
He followed him to the backyard where Bradley tossed a horseshoe at a post. The curve clinked into place and Pete grumbled. “Lucky shot, Brad.”
“Ignore him,” Max said.
“Already am.” Bradley stepped back to let Pete take his turn.
The old man swung his arm back and forth, testing the arc of his pitch. Bradley was smart to come out here. Max wouldn’t venture into their private matters in front of Pete of all people. He glared at his boyfriend who shrugged oh-so-innocently.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Max mouthed.
Bradley glowed. “No clue what you’re talking about, baby.”
Every time Max tried to get Bradley alone, Bradley suddenly had the inclination to join every family event that he usually turned his nose up to.
“Can’t talk, Maxie! I’m kicking your friends’ butt at Mario!”
“Can’t hear you, Baby Goof. Parcheesi is a game of concentration.”
“Must we do this over our sammies, Max? Delicious, by the way, Sylvie.”
He even sided with Goofy when he suggested arts and crafts before dinner. That’s how the gang found themselves sitting in the living room, fiddling with the box of supplies Sylvie kept for the library’s kiddie section. Sticking his hand in a pile of half broken crayons that were strangely sticky and slimy at the same time did not make Max a happy man. He pressed his marker so hard it bled through the cardstock and ruined his paper turkey’s tail.
His dad leaned over, “Gee, Maxie, you’re giving Mr. Turkey more spots than a leopard.”
“Sorry, dad.”
“Aw shucks, I say it adds character.” He gave it a friendly pat. “I already wrote down what I’m grateful for this year and lookie here. You made the list again!”
“Wow, that’s twenty-one years in a row.” He said, followed by a bland, “woo woo.”
“Aw don’t be, like that, Baby Goof,” Bradley said from across the rug. He inclined on the couches apron, below where PJ and Bobby were playing swords with baby scissors. He turned his own turkey around which he’d shaded to give a jawline and flawless cheekbones. “You’re on mine as well.” He tapped a finger at the first feather which indeed had his name in Bradley’s swirly handwriting, punctuated with a little heart.
Jerk, Max thought as he scribbled Bradley’s name on his too.
“Dinner’s ready!” Sylvie called and pandemonium ensued. Bobby and PJ burst towards the dining room. Pete, who’d been unfortunately struck with a tummy ache during arts and crafts, was suddenly cured and bounding from the bathroom.
Goofy stood, arching and twisting his back to a cacophony of cracks. “I sure ain’t getting any younger.”
“Please, Mr. Goof. Gammas never get old,” Bradley proclaimed. He offered Max a hand up, which he took. Their fingers intertwined. Max figured he’d allow this slight reconciliation.
“Aw shucks, I ain’t no Gamma no more, remember?”
Bradley wrapped his free arm around Goofy’s shoulders and herded the Goofs to dinner “Once a Gamma, always a Gamma.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Max. Neither were Gammas anymore. His dad probably forgot all about Gamma Mu Mu the moment he crossed campus lines. Bradley, on the other hand, still got a faraway look when they drove past Frat Row.
Goofy split off to help Sylvie bring out side dishes: green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce. After last year’s debacle, he was banned from cutting the turkey, leaving the duty to Pete, who was currently sharpening his special knife on a whetstone. Bobby and PJ huddled on the side table, sniffing at the three pies sitting on gingham cloth.
“I just realized I must use the little gentleman’s room, be right back!” Bradley said, squeezing Max’s hand and darting off without letting him get a word in. With everyone busy, he must have realized there was an opening for Max to resume his lecture. He’d have tonight, he supposed. Bradley couldn’t avoid him forever.
“Max, pecan is better right?” Bobby asked.
He cringed, “Pecan? What are you, eighty?”
“See? Told ya it was pumpkin,” PJ said.
“Wrong too, Peej. Everyone knows apple pie is as classic as you can get.”
The last side dish popped out of the oven: the glorious mac n’ cheese. It took its rightful place at the center of the table and most everyone was seated. Pete made little hacking motions in the air. His knife sang inches from turkey skin while he glowered at the empty spot beside Max. “Can we get this wagon train a-movin’? I’m starvin’.”
Max sighed, “I’ll get him.”
He didn’t have to go far. He found Bradley standing over their forgotten arts and crafts station, staring at a paper turkey by his feet. His chestnut hair fell from its usual perfect tuck. At first, Max thought it was his. Bradley, the ever-loving boyfriend that he was, was probably preparing his comedy material to tease him about its misshapen little body. But no, to his surprise, it was his dad’s.
Written on the feather, next to his and Sylvie’s names, was Bradley’s.
Max placed a hand on Bradley’s back and he jumped. “Huh? Sorry. Dinner ready?”
Perhaps their conversation could wait a few more days. They still had four more weeks after all. “Yeah, come on, everyone’s waiting.”