I reluctantly packed while Billy worked on moving furniture for the piano delivery. The good part about having a limited wardrobe in Duluth was that picking outfits was easy. As I worked through my closet, the options dizzied my mind.

"How's it going?" Billy asked as he flopped onto my bed.

"Good." I sighed as I threw a stack of jeans into a box.

"Why are you putting books in your suitcase? Can't you ship them?" Billy asked as he inspected my work.

"Well, those happen to be for Jackson. I told him I'd bring my top five books if he'd share his with me. Did you know he's read the salt book?"

"Who do you think gave him the salt book?" Billy absently shot as he thumbed through the books. "This one is for me, right?" He asked as he flopped back on the bed and flipped through a book on the Portland fire.

"Yes, dear," I teased as I tossed another stack of clothes into the box. "How long do you think it will take for all this to get to Duluth?" I pondered aloud.

"With the holidays, probably a week or so." Distraction still pulled Billy from me as his eyes glided over the book before him.

"So, I'll need to plan outfits for Christmas and New Year's Eve," I considered as I slid through the dresses in my closet. "I was planning on wearing this one tonight," I added as I pulled out a green velvet dress.

Billy's eyes flickered up as he murmured a, "mmhmm."

"Or do you think green is too obvious? Maybe I should wear this one?" I offered as I pulled out a midnight blue dress.

"Yeah, that would work," he mumbled without looking up from the book.

"Or maybe this," I added, pulling out a lace slip.

"That's nice, too," he added.

"Billy Collins!"

"What? What did I do?" His eyes snapped to me.

"Did you come in here to help or come in here because you're bored?" I shot at him.

"I don't understand the question. I was bored, so I came in here to help," he offered as he set his book aside.

"This is you helping? This is where Viv gets it," I noted.

"Okay, okay. Dresses for tonight; go." He settled his gaze on me.

"I was thinking the green velvet because, you know, Christmas," I offered as I held it up.

"Mmhmm, I like it. What was the other option?"

"Oh, so you weren't paying attention," I teased as I held up the slip.

"That's not an outside-the-house dress," Billy shot as he eyed the lace slip.

"It is, but it's a slip. So, I will safely tuck it beneath something more demure," I explained.

"Demure," he murmured to himself.

"You love helping me with my fashion choices," I laughed.

"I love helping you with anything," he automatically shot back. "Do you mind if I finish the letters?"

"Of course not; I gave them to you."

With a tender kiss on my forehead, Billy slipped out of the room with the box of letters. I tried to distract myself by packing to avoid the content of the letters. The letters from that last decade must be near. They started apologetically, but as time slipped away and the loneliness slipped in, anger took hold of me. It was the same anger that drove me to Duluth in a fiery rage that Billy may have been sending me the albums. As stacks of jeans and shoes filled up box after box, the focus on Billy dwindled, and my mind shifted to my dad.

Christmas Eve was my favorite holiday. My dad and I would play countless chess games and talk about anything and everything that meandered into our minds. We'd spend just as much time bickering on the geography of Portland as we would on whatever book we were both reading. Bob Dylan or The Beatles would spin in the background. As the sun set in the afternoon, my dad would lay on a thick layer of false compliments on my wrapping skills. Despite my terrible skills and hatred of wrapping, I'd always cave and wrap his presents while he'd flip between various seven-inch records at a dizzying speed. One minute would be Chuck Berry, then Alabama Shakes before slipping back to Johnny Cash. As each song spun, his eyes would flicker to me to gauge my response to the music.

"Not in a Blue Suede Shoes mood?" He asked one holiday.

"I like it, but this is Elvis. I prefer Carl Perkins," I noted.

He nodded and flicked through a few more albums while I poorly wrapped a fish spatula for my mother. I expected a song he knew I'd like next. He'd need to redeem his self-perceived misstep. I felt the warmth of a smile on my cheeks as 2+2=? spun.

"Never could resist Bob Seger System," he noted.

"Mmhmm, I didn't know this was a seven-inch," I mused.

"Just reissued. A friend passed it along to me," he murmured as he searched for his following selection, and I set to work wrapping a kettle for my sister.

The memory hung heavy on my mind. Billy was the friend; I knew that now. I popped my headphones into my ears and dialed Timmy to suppress the mounting urge to scream at all I had missed or maybe cry for the same reason.

"Hey, sis," he answered.

"Hey, sis," I half-heartedly teased back.

"This is fun," he murmured. "So, how are you feeling? Is it worth wishing you a merry Christmas?"

"No," I choked on the word.

"Shit, Lil, where's Billy?" His words came fast with panic.

"He's here, I just... I can't..."

"What do you need? What can I do?" Tim pleaded.

"I just, I hate this: that he's gone, that his death brought me back to Duluth. I hate... that his death brought everything else I love back to me." I let out a heavy sigh. "I hate everything."

"Me? Do you hate me, Lil?"

"No, of course not," I admitted, but my mind still spun on the sludge of plunging sadness that was threatening to down me.

"What about egg creams? Do you hate egg creams now?"

"No," but I didn't hear his words.

"Oh, what about The Sonics? You suddenly hate The Sonics?"

"Of course not," I grumbled with mounting annoyance.

"Doesn't sound like you hate everything," he offered.

"You know what I mean."

"I do," he sighed.

"You never talk about your parents. I know nothing about them," I absently added.

"They passed away when I was little, car accident."

"Oh, Timmy, I'm so sorry." His tragedy suddenly pulled from my gloom and laser-focused me on Timmy.

"I went to live with my aunt, but we are very different people. She's very," he paused as he thought of the best word to describe her, "rigid."

"Wow, I don't see you growing up around rigid," I noted.

"Mmhmm, why do you think I spent so much time at Billy's? Mary is more of a mom to me than anyone. Billy's dad too. He was a lot like Billy; strict, focused, but only because he cared."

"My dad wasn't strict," I laughed.

"What was your dad like?" Timmy casually asked. I knew he was hoping I wouldn't crumble at the question.

"Oh, he was the best. He was unusual and loved it," came tumbling out of me. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was talk about my dad. "You remind me of him. He collected truly terrible jokes that he absolutely loved to inflict on people," I smiled.

"Hey, I have the best jokes," Tim argued.

"Oh, sweetie, I love you, but your jokes are so bad."

"Not nice, Lil. Tell me one of your dad's jokes."

"Why did Sally put dirt in Jane's mouth?"

"Why?" Tim's voice was overly eager for the punchline.

"Because it was open," I said in a deadpan voice, and Tim dissolved on the other end of the phone. "Why did Tom push John?" I continued.

Tim barely managed a "why" between laughter.

"Because Michael wasn't there that day."

"How can you say these with such a straight face?" Tim asked as he gasped for breath.

"Because they're terrible," I offered.

"Your dad was a genius," Tim declared.

"Was he? One time he came across a lady selling Mexican jumping beans," I began.

"Wait, is this another joke?"

"No, this happened in my childhood," I answered. "So, he brings these beans home like freaking Jack from Jack and the Beanstalk, and he plants two. He waters one with regular old water and the other with tequila."

"Tequila? Why on earth would he water it with tequila?" Tim prodded.

"Because my dad's mind was a strange and, to many people, an off-putting place. Anyway, so after about two months of diligently watering these plants, he has two growing. One was healthy and vibrant, with a couple of pods growing. The second is sickly and thin. It was this weird shade of muddy green, but it had one anemic bean pod with one lone bean inside."

"Well, yeah, of course," Tim murmured.

"Yeah, well, my dad was ecstatic," I laughed.

"What?" My laugh pulled a chuckle from Tim.

"Because he was convinced that he had invented a Mexican stumbling bean," I sigh.

Tim couldn't speak; all I could hear was roaring laughter on the phone. After a solid minute, he managed, "I can't, Lil. It hurts to laugh this hard."

"Mmhmm, so that was my dad," I finished with a smile.

"I heard that," he offered after he fully composed himself.

"Heard what?"

"I heard that smile," he noted.

He was right; I was smiling. "Thanks, Timmy."

"Hey, Lil?"

"Yeah?"

"Billy is there for you. Please, please, please let him in. I'll always be here too, but all that poor bastard has ever wanted was to be there for you."

"Thanks, Timmy."

"Mexican stumbling beans... made my day, Lil. Merry Christmas Eve."

"Merry Christmas Eve, Timmy."