The pine scent of the tree’s needles should evoke some feeling in me; some hazy memory of a happy childhood that time has faded, leaving just an involuntary smile when recalled. Like the expression that’s so evident on Clark’s face, in his determination to haul this six-foot pine through the kitchen to the Kent living room. But it’s a dedication that’s lost on me.

I’m familiar with the ritual and mythology of the season, but it’s not something I internalize. My gifts are a matter of habit, purchased with the help of a personal shopper, and wrapped before they leave the store. I just tell her to make sure they make a statement. What they are is as big of a surprise to me as it is to the recipient. There hasn’t been much joy for the season in the Luthor household for quite some time. Just another square on the calendar.

And a tree?

We have one, but it’s not living. It’s an albino replica, plastic, dyed white in the factory. A symbol of the American ideal made in another country, and sold back to us. The housekeeper always assembles it every December 21st, and takes it down promptly at 8:15 on the 26th per Lional’s instructions. And also according to his wishes, it’s always decorated the same: clear lights, blue bulbs. Sanitized, with the soul sucked out of it. Souls are something we Luthors know something about destroying.

Luthor Christmases are ostentatious statements that in no way resemble the flushed cheeks, or the strain of Clark’s biceps as he steers the trunk through the doorway. And as for the path of pine needles scattered across the linoleum of Martha Kent’s floor? Lionel doesn’t even approve of tinsel on the Luthor tree because it looks too ‘messy’.

I try to readjust my grip as pine needles dig uncomfortably into my palms. At the same time, my foot slides on a deadly combination of floor wax and pre mulch. Slick like glass. “This is a lot easier when you put the pieces together out of a box.” I manage to stop my skate and push away visions of lying trapped beneath the trunk in my hand.

Would Kent save me this time too?

Clark steers his way past the kitchen chairs, remarkably well for someone walking backwards, and looks up with a scornful half grin on his face. “That’s cheating.”

“Well don’t tell anyone, I’d hate to sully the Luthor good name.”// It must be hard to be that idealistic.//

We’re past the table and chairs, nearly to the threshold of the doorway. Clark is ignoring the cynical slant of my previous words. “My mom and dad are going to be so surprised.”

“I’d have thought you’d do this together as a family project. Isn’t that the Walton way?” I often throw these little barbs at him, not maliciously; I just want to see that smile.

His bottom lip stretches as dimples appear, and he nods to the blanket thrown on top of the carpet, indicating that’s where we’re headed. I let him drop his end first.



“Yeah, but they’ve gone into the city, they won’t be home until late tonight.” He brushes off his jeans as I try to appear nonchalant, watching his fingers rub against the warn denim, and wish someone could make me understand this obsession I have with Clark.

It’s easy to see everything in his face, everything that’s missing from my own life. I’m painfully reminded of our differences, the contrast of the Kent parents with a mother whose face is getting harder to remember with every year, and a father who is a stranger to me. With Clark, there’s this magical sense of childlike wonder for what is to me, just another day in December. This is my Christmas legacy.

Everything is so apparent: the assurance of parental pride and love, mixed with a dose of alienation, and that old standby-teen angst. But he’s not such a simple equation, there’s an emerging sensuality that he has no idea of how to deal with at this age. He’s a powder keg that’s going to explode one of these days. But he’ll have a mother and father to offer support and love, whereas I had Lionel throwing money until he smothered all of my problems.

Even my *sins* couldn’t breath under his control. But he couldn’t get rid of everything; we’re still trying to bury the smoldering remains. It all comes up all too easily if we just stir the ashes. They’re always there in the end.

Clark bends over, bracing the trunk with the sole of one boot. He drags a hacksaw across it vertically, trying to take off an inch thick cross section. His words are forced out with his exertion, coming out with each upward bend of his elbow. “I can’t believe you don’t have a real tree, that’s so…”

“Cosmopolitan?” I offer, trying to stifle the urge to ask him if he shouldn’t take his shirt off. But the image of him with the plaid flannel tied around his waist, muscles bunching and stretching as he puts himself into his work, reminds me why that’s not a good idea.

“I was going to say sad.” The disc of wood falls to the blanket, and he stands up again, leans the hacksaw out of the way.

“Well you have your traditions, we have ours.” I shrug. Of course, he wouldn’t understand the minefield of politics and protocol that define a day in the Luthor clan, I’ve had years of immersion, and I’m still learning.

He manages to surprise me with his next words, “I got you a present.”

Clark wouldn’t know the first thing about trying to curry favor or keeping up appearances. Any ulterior motives are beyond him. That’s why I feel a small stab of guilt when I think of the Hockey tickets that have been sitting in my glove box for the last week, the same ones I slipped in my pocket before I got out of the car. I saw Clark wearing a jersey; I know he’s a fan. I can’t claim the same altruistic inspiration because I’ve had all kinds of scenarios running through my mind since I’ve purchased them.

“I have one for you as well.”

“You first.” He awkwardly hands over a flat package with a sprinkling of snowmen over a red background. Curling metallic ribbons explode over the sides, and I wonder if Martha wrapped this.

I open it, and find a hand tooled leather wallet. It’s beautifully done, expensive I imagine.

“I made it.”

Incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever made anything before, I’ve destroyed lots of things: companies, honor…people’s lives.

I envision him bent over some dusty workbench in the garage, burning the leather. I think my thumb rubs too long over the elegant LL embossed on the surface of the gift, but how does one judge what’s too obsessive? “Thank you.”

“Now you.”

I hand him the envelope, thinking maybe it’s too impersonal? This is too much like handing a tip to my paperboy (hey thanks, what was your name again) and I wanted this to be something…I don’t know…more. Hopefully Jonathon won’t make him give these back, like the truck.

Clark opens the flap. Slides them partially out. “Oh man, Lex. This is awesome” he says, eyeing them eagerly. I can see the flash of white as the familiar grin appears again. I think by this time, I’ve memorized every dimple.

“I can drive you, if transportation is a problem?” (My payback is to be close to him, whenever possible.)

He’s studying the ticket stubs, already imagining the arena seating and judging how close he’ll be to the action. “We could go together?” he says, reluctantly replacing them in the envelope, I have the feeling he’d like to wave them around all day, just to make sure they’re real.

“It hardly seems like a gift if it benefits me.” (If only he knew) “Don’t you want to take a friend?”

“We’re not friends?” he asks hesitantly, and eyes me curiously.

I don’t know what we are…I know what I’d like us to be. And I have to stop thinking about that because I’ve missed half of what he’s saying, and I start paying attention just in time to hear-“…anyway, Chloe’s not a sports fan, and Pete’s parents would never let him go into Metropolis.”

“And yours would?” Ma and Pa Kent? Right.

“They trust me.” I’m amazed that it’s not said defensively, more as a statement of fact, which brings us to the true heart of the matter.

“But do they trust *me*?”

He skirts the issue by screwing a tree stand to the raw end of trunk he’s exposed, tightens the screws until they just start to bite into the wood. Coming from anyone else, I’d consider that an avoidance of the subject.

I know how Jonathan Kent feels about me; he’s never tried to hide it. Clark’s trying to spare me, and I only watch him squirm for a second before I change the subject. “Hmn, usually ours goes this way,” I say, indicating a vertical line with my right hand.



He lets out an easy laugh, and I wonder if anything ever makes him mad. “It’s easier if you do it this way first, then we can straighten after you stand it up.”

“Oh we can, can we?”

We struggle to haul the thing to a standing position, and Clark instructs me to hold it near the top, while he backs about five feet way. “Two inches to your left.”

I mutter as I try to stretch my arm through the scratchy needles without poking my eyes out. Damn, this is a bushy tree. I squint as I look over my left shoulder and see him standing with his head at a thoughtful angle.

“Now one to your right,” he instructs.

“How about none. This is as straight as this bitch is going to get, the trunk’s about as crooked as my annual family reunion.”

I can hear him swallow the laughter when he replies, “Okay, I think you’re right. Now hold it still.”

Clark squats down by my right thigh, twisting close to the ground while he secures the tree in its holder. As he torques the screws, his shoulder rolls, bringing his head nearly bumping into my crotch. A sudden flare of blood, and I can feel myself stiffening, in accompaniment to a kaleidoscope of images that play behind my eyelids; the roof of my car being peeled away, Clark dripping above me as I try to make out the face of my rescuer, the rivulets of water running down his face as he pants with exertion and adrenaline. I have to shift my balance, swing my right knee in so he can’t see how much he can trust a Luthor.

My father would say that the spoils of war go to the victor.

“Done.” He straightens up, his look of happy triumph is so genuine.

I can only marvel at these Kents. Half an hour in his presence and I’m studying him like some science project. Everything about him fascinates me, and I’m not just talking about the obvious physical points that are beyond beautiful. That’s just a wrapping for this eternal enthusiasm, and stubbornness, that I’ve already seen when Jonathan refuses to shake the hand of a Luthor.

It’s like some moral fiber they’re growing on this farm alongside the corn.

“You fascinate me Clark.”

“How’s that?” He questions with a twitch of one eyebrow. So self conscious, he has no idea how badly I want him, why anyone would. I didn’t have Jonathan and Martha Kent at this age to insulate me from the knowledge that people are only too happy to use you, to take advantage, until you grow up enough to protect yourself and return the favor. Like I think I could take over that role for them.

It would be so easy to show him. I’m thinking of leaning toward him when I hear the footsteps on the porch, and the squeak of the screen door. Martha Kent’s voice drifts in, carried along by the blast of winter air. “Clark, we’re home.” And I pull back, knowing that my tenuous welcome in this house would be stretched too far if they walked into a scene like that. I shake my head and stand up, just as Jonathan Kent walks into the room. He looks immediately suspicious, but that’s his usual expression whenever I’m in his presence.

“Martha,” I address her as she rounds the corner, then nod to her husband, “Jonathan. I was just leaving. Clark needed a little help with a project.”

Their eyes already survey the 7 foot pine, and I edge my way to the front door as I hear Clark’s explanation,” I wanted to surprise you.”

They would have had a surprise if they’d come home half an hour later.

I peel my gloves out of my pocket, stand on the porch and take a deep breath of icy air. //If only they’d come back half an hour later.//