Getting along

He also had his own rules, stubborn and unwavering ones. That showed in other ways, too, such as not allowing anyone into Camp Crystal Lake or letting anyone touch his hood. Those counted as two ironclad rules. Now there were new ones, rules I had given him, wrapped in soft cotton.

He had to eat three meals and two snacks a day, wash the dishes after meals, scrub the house once a week, wipe Mrs. Pamela's cheeks at seven thirty every morning, then light the fireplace at eight. Breakfast, lunch, a snack, dinner, another snack, with cartoons or trips out to chop wood scattered in between. He stayed out an especially long time. I guessed that included patrolling, because his clothes were always filthy when he came back.

He rarely asked for anything, because he simply never communicated with me. I knew he could not speak, but he did not express himself in even the most basic ways. I had guessed at least ninety percent of his preferences. Food, for instance: he disliked anything spicy or bitter, and anything too sour was out, too. He loved meat and sweets.

A child's tastes, easy enough to guess. He also liked snacks, but only sweet ones. I put a candy jar by the door, filled with chocolates, peanut candy, milk candy, and all sorts of other sweets. After I told him about it, he would take a piece every day when he went out.

Then there was bathing. He was very obedient, as I had said before. If I told him to undress, he did, but once his clothes were off, he turned his back. If I walked around to face him, he covered himself down there tightly with both hands. Oh, he had a surprisingly strong sense of modesty.

I bought him plenty of clothes, enough to fill the large six-door wardrobe in his room. He wore only sweaters and work clothes, but he always wore work clothes outside, possibly with a jacket over them.

He wore only boots, but he could not tie his laces. He did not wear hats, but he always wore gloves. I had gotten him masks that were at least a little better than the thing on his face, but he refused those, too, and still wore that burlap sack with a hole poked in it. He did take it off when I could not see him, because I required him to wash his face and brush his teeth after his nightly bath.

Today was Christmas, a proper Christmas. Snow had been falling nonstop outside since last night, and the fire indoors was blazing. God knew how Jason had found so much dry firewood deep in the snow-covered mountains, but he was also what worried me now. He had suddenly run out that morning without even eating breakfast.

I had not touched a bite either. I looked at the dining table. I had made nothing particularly special today: gingerbread men, fruitcake, iced cookies, corn pancakes, ham, fried eggs, and roasted sausages. I had even made hot chocolate especially for him. At most, it was a little more festive than usual.

Did he dislike Christmas?

I thought it over. Jason's family had not been well off before. After escaping her alcoholic, abusive husband, Mrs. Pamela had supported herself and her son entirely on her income from cooking at the camp. It had not been much, only just enough to cover their expenses. Had something about this brought back bad memories?

Then we would stop celebrating it. I was not that fond of Christmas anyway.

But soon, Jason came back, bringing a Christmas tree he had carefully selected. It was not very big, but its shape was very even.

But a Christmas tree had to be a pine or a fir, and the nearest pine grove was at least ten kilometers away. When I watched Jason trying to hang the gingerbread men on it, I understood.

He liked celebrating Christmas, but he had little sense of time. Perhaps seeing the gingerbread men that morning had made him realize it was Christmas.

Lunch was roast turkey packed full of breadcrumbs, onions, and chopped apples, its skin roasted golden and crisp, with potatoes, asparagus, and peas on the side; beef stew with potatoes and tomatoes; mashed potatoes topped with gravy; roasted sweet potatoes; and a cabbage and carrot salad. Dessert was, of course, a great big apple pie.

After dinner, Jason brought Mrs. Pamela downstairs. I had adjusted well to this. After all, I even bought Mrs. Pamela clothes and changed her sheets. Sometimes, if Jason agreed, I would brush her hair, too.

For the first time, he sought me out with a purpose. He tugged on my arm, bringing me to sit with him and Mrs. Pamela beneath the Christmas tree. What did children look forward to most on Christmas night? There was no need to guess.

He had carefully decorated the tree with gingerbread men, red globe lights from who knew where, and some shiny candy wrappers.

I had never celebrated Christmas. I had spent the first twelve years of my life in China, where people celebrated New Year, which was very different from Christmas.

But I had been quite poor then, too. My mother had left after I was born, and my father had raised me alone. That man believed her departure had something to do with my birth, but he had at least managed to raise me, so I would not judge him too much.

But exhaustion and longing broke that man when I was twelve. Even before he died, he was still thinking of my mother, then angrily demanding why I had come into his life and caused the mother she loved so deeply to leave.

But everyone knew that children from poor families grew up especially fast. From the scraps of conversation between adults, from the looks people around us gave my father and me, tinged with a mixture of pity and disdain, my mother had left because she despised my father for being poor and getting nowhere. Still, I believed my father. He said my mother had left because of work and because she hated me. Children were always more inclined to believe their parents.

The police were forced to contact my mother, and, surprisingly, reached her through the phone number she had left when she went abroad. At twelve, I was forced to leave alone for another country. The plane landed in a country with a culture completely different from the one I had grown up with, and an entirely different language. In the United States back then, bullying and discriminating against an Asian who could barely speak English was perfectly normal.

In that home-yes, my mother had long since remarried, to a small-time businessman-I endured that family's bullying, and my mother did not welcome me either. Only when I showed my talents, in studying and business, did I earn a place with my mother, but that was all.

Though I hated to admit it, I really did crave familial affection like a moth drawn to a flame. If earning my mother's affection required excellence, then I would excel. If his vision of his beloved son did not include college, then I would resolutely start a company.

That was one of the few experiences in the first several decades of my life that had felt fairly good. I felt my mother's love. The pretense and insincerity were so obvious, yet back then, even if heaven itself had issued a decree, I would still have believed my mother loved me.

Then I had a car accident and became disabled. He turned me into a madman through a cult. Only then did I clearly realize that this was not love. A mother would not love her son because he could bring him glory. A mother would not love her son because he gave up his dreams for her. I had never been loved. Sadly, I realized that very late.

Through my dealings with people, I came to understand that only self-interest would never betray you, and only benefits would keep people committed.

Then we would use each other. If that was a necessary principle of human relationships, it was far more reliable than love, was it not? I looked at Jason.

My gift to Jason was a little bear, a handmade bear fashioned from old brown plush fabric and buttons from an old coat.

Yes. I was willing to put more thought into this. I was not stingy with this kind of love. Among the records of a university's charitable outreach, there was a photograph of Jason, kept in a dusty university journal. In that photograph, Jason huddled in a corner wearing a damaged rabbit mask, holding just such a bear in his arms. He seemed to treasure it.

He did now, too. I had gone to great lengths to find people to research that bear's materials. For the buttons alone, I had spent over a hundred thousand dollars restarting a production line that had been completely shut down, all for two cheap buttons no longer being made.

Jason froze. At the sight of the bear, he suddenly became cautious, as though his whole body had curled in on itself. He removed his gloves and carefully cupped the little bear in his hands. It stood in stark contrast to his rough, scar-covered hands, yet somehow faintly matched them.

I could feel his attitude changing, becoming more cherishing, toward me. I could not quite explain how I could tell. Perhaps it was his gaze, perhaps the air about him, perhaps... but I deserved this. I had given, and I wanted to receive in return.

Mrs. Pamela's gift was a pair of pearl studs in a black velvet box, again based on a photograph. I had considered finding the original earrings, but they had long since disappeared without a trace.

In Jason's earliest memories, his mother had owned these earrings. They had been among her few pieces of jewelry, or perhaps her only jewelry, but she had been forced to sell them to make ends meet.

The way Jason looked at me changed completely. I did not care what place he had given me before, but at least now, I was important, indispensable, and irreplaceable.

Then the second step would begin. I would implant a psychological anchor in him.

"Do you like it?" I asked softly.

With someone like Jason, more words were useless. Doing more was what truly mattered.

The man before him had classically East Asian features, inherited from his mother, gentle and beautiful, yet with a hint of sharpness to his brows and eyes. His brows were faint, like the outlines of distant mountains blurred by morning mist. Whenever he looked at someone, there was always a faint, casually gentle smile in his eyes.

Jason had been enticed, both visually and psychologically. But he could not express it. Overwhelming joy gathered in his heart, like countless butterflies beating their wings inside his chest, waiting to burst out.

"Do you like it, Jason?" he asked again.