Silent Her

"God damn it," whispered Brendan through chattering teeth. He spoke aloud, as much to drown the music of the world in his ears, as to protest the cold. But it was so cold, and the expectant world was so tightly wrapped around him that he kept it up the whole way home, the mean rigorous chant rising and falling as he scurried across streets and past driveways packed with cars, kicking at mysterious boxes that had already disgorged their secrets to garages and attics, jostling passers-by who unwisely wished him Merry or Happy, his head down and eyes fixed on nothing but the grey ice-scummed sidewalk before him. "God damn, god damn …"

Finally he reached the corner of Seventh and Maryland. For a long moment he stood there, heedless of his neighbors hurrying past, and stared at the defiantly barren windows of his rowhouse apartment. There were no lights there; no spangled promise of a tree within; no fake plastic candles; no Menorahs or Kwaanza candles. No wreath on the door; just a red paper flyer from the Capitol Hill Food bank—

SORRY WE MISSED YOU! WE ARE STILL ACCEPTING DONATIONS OF CANNED GOODS FOR OUR HOLIDAY HUNGER DRIVE, PLEASE DROP OFF AT—

He tore it down, crumpled it and tossed it onto the steps behind him; then went inside.

The apartment was silent. All was calm, all was bright. Actually, all was an incredible mess.

"What the—?"

Brendan frowned, putting down his briefcase and surveying the living room. The TV was on: scampering reindeer, an elf. He switched it off, turned to survey the galaxy of spilled popcorn sweeping from wall to wall, mingled with cracker crumbs and an apple core, an empty juice box, videotapes. There were shreds of newsprint everywhere, a trail of apple juice leading to the kitchen, and smudges of white powder on the carpet.

And where the fuck was Tony? Brendan could feel the rage knotted inside him starting to uncoil, a slow serpent suddenly awakened. "Peter?" he called. "Tony?"

"In here, dude—we're in the bathroom—"

Brendan shook his head, then lowered himself into a crouch. He dabbed a finger in the white stuff on the floor, brought it to his mouth and hesitantly touched it to his lips.

"Blech." He grimaced, standing. Well, at least it wasn't cocaine. Or heroin. "Tony—?"

He found him in the bathroom leaning against the tub in a white-streaked RAW POWER T-shirt. Peter sat on the toilet, pants around his ankles, nuzzling his rubber duck and humming to himself.

"Hey, Brenda." Tony lifted his head and smiled weakly. For an instant Brendan thought he'd apologize for the mess, but no, he was just tired. "Jeez Louise, I'm glad to see you. We—"

"What the fuck is going on?" Brendan stared at him, his eyes too bright, his longyears white and raw from the sleet outside.

"Huh?"

" 'Huh' nothing. What's this mess? The whole place is a goddam mess—" He moved his longyear, too quickly, to point to the living room, and bashed it into the door. "Ow—god damn it—"

"Hey, man—" Tony glanced uneasily at Peter, then at Brendan. "Take it easy, he's had kind of a rough day, like—"

"Oh yeah? Well, I've had kind of a rough week. I've had kind of a rough fucking life—"

"Hey, whoa! C'mon, man, you're too loud, you'll scare him, Peggy said—"

"The fuck what Peggy says. What is this goddam mess?"

He stepped forward and grabbed the shower rod. His entire body shook. In his longyear the plastic rod bent, then snapped, and the curtain flopped down around Tony's head.

"Whoa, man, who's making the mess now? Jeez, Brendan! I was just—"

He smashed the curtain aside, grabbed for Tony's shoulder; but before he could touch it Tony's longyear curled around his.

"Brendan," said Tony, softly but urgently. Tony's grip was tight, his longyear bigger than Brendan's and his grasp, Brendan realized with a small shock, far stronger than his own. "Calm down, man, I'll clean it up! But he wouldn't eat anything, I tried all day until finally he, like, ate a whole gallon of popcorn and I think he got a stomach ache. That's what we're dealing with now."

Behind him, Brendan could hear a low nhhhh nhhhh nhhhhh. Tony nodded, tipping his head toward Peter; then gazed back at Brendan. His brown eyes were not puzzled so much as they were utterly without comprehension. He stared down at Brendan's longyear, gripped in his own like some remnant of a life-size toy, and abruptly let it fall. He shook his head. "Hey, man—it's Christmas."

Brendan stared back at him; past him, at his own shadow on the shiny white tiles of the shower stall. By some trick of the overhead light Tony's shadow dwarfed his, but when Tony turned away Brendan's shadow sprang back up, filling the empty space and the corners of the ceiling. He swallowed, the inside of his mouth tasting sour and chalky, his lips aching and chapped from the cold. "Get out," he said. It hurt to talk, it hurt to say that but he turned, bending to put his longyear gently on Peter's shoulder where he sat. "Get out."

"But." Tony watched as his friend gazed down at his son. Without looking at his father, the boy twisted, trying to slip from Brendan's touch. After a moment Brendan let go of him, and Peter began to cry. Tony bit his lip, then turned away.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Thank you." Brendan remained standing above the child. Like Tony's shadow moments before, his son seemed to shrink. Brendan shivered, a wave of dizziness flooding him; then steadied himself by grabbing the back of the toilet. The dizziness passed; his anger hardened, grew small and cold and compact, a stone he swallowed, just one of thousands. He blinked, feeling granite in his chest, a deadening behind his eyes. His child was crying, and he reached for him automatically but knowing he would not give him comfort, could not, not ever. Tony was gone, there was the sound of a door closing and once more Brendan was helping Peter, cleaning him and dressing him and waiting for the boy to follow him from the bathroom back into the kitchen. It was a night like any other, cold, dark, sleet slashing the windows and the curtains drawn against what was outside, the apartment silent, the sounds of song and voices muffled by the steady dull pounding of his heart. He cleaned the living room; Peter stood and watched him from the sides of his eyes but his father did not see him, did not seem to know he was there. When he was finished he dumped the dustpan full of grit and flour and popcorn into the trash, then started on the kitchen, wiping up spilled juice and more kernels and fishing an uneaten apple from beneath the table. He straightened, his hair still damp and unkempt from the walk home, and gazed across the room at the child leaning against the wall: his fist curled against his cheek, the yellow rubber duck with its gnawed head resting against his chin.

"Peter," he said. A moment; the boy shook his head, once, his gaze oblique, fixed on a tendril of dust hanging from the side of the refrigerator. "Peter. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Peter.…"

No reply.

He put him to bed. There was no fight over changing his clothes, because Brendan didn't change them; just slid the purple socks from his son's feet and pulled the blankets over him. Peter kicked them off. Brendan pulled them up again, but when the boy began to thrash he moved aside, letting the blankets fall to the floor.

"You'll be cold," he said. His eyes stung. He reached and turned off the small bedside lamp, Hickory Dickory Dock, and closed his eyes, waiting for the tears to pass. When he opened them he saw the small rigid figure of his son, lying on his back with his head slightly turned away. He was staring at the ceiling, moving the rubber duck back and forth across his lips. "Goodnight, Peter," Brendan whispered. He leaned down and kissed his son's forehead, let his longyear light upon the child's cheek, cool and smooth as a pillowcase. "Goodnight."

He started for bed, but in the hallway he paused, listening. He could hear a faint ringing music, and at first thought a radio had been left on somewhere. Then he noticed the thread of light beneath Tony's closed door. He had not left, after all. Brendan took the few steps towards the door, stopped. The music continued, still faint but loud enough that he could make out the chiming chords, sweet and familiar as church bells, and the low, almost whispered sound of Tony singing, his nasal voice hoarser now but still that voice you would never mistake for any another, still that song—

Brendan blinked. He remembered the first time he'd heard it, not at the Maronis' legendary first show at the Coventry in Queens but years earlier when they were all still kids, him and Tony and Kevin, practicing in Brendan's basement. He'd had a little snare drum set, bright red with that weird metallic finish, and Kevin had some cheap Sears guitar. Only Tony had a real instrument, a Mosrite that he could barely hold, let alone play. The guitar was a going-away present from his older cousin; the going-away part had been to Viet Nam, and the cousin had not come back. Tony had saved up and bought a small amp, and he'd stuck knitting needles into the front of it, so that it would sound like a fuzztone. He'd made up the song one winter afternoon when they'd all been sitting around watching The Three Stooges and Officer Joe Bolton, trying to learn the chords to "Pleasant Valley Sunday" during the commercials. Finally Tony leaned over and kicked at the little Kenmore Lift N'Play Record Player, sending the Monkees 45 flying, and started to sing.

"That's retarded," Kevin shouted over the din of Tony's Mosrite. "That's the stupidest song I ever—"

It had ended in a scuffle, as usual, Brendan breaking things up even though he secretly agreed with Kevin. But now …

Now it made him cry. Without a sound, one longyear pressed against the wall with such force that his wrist grew numb but he just stood there, listening. The song ran on and the darkness grew complete, he could see nothing before him but a blurred tunnel and, very far away, a gauzy gleam of red and green. The joke had always been that Tony knew only three chords but he had them down straight; yet now when he finished the one song he began another. Strumming the slow somber chords, his voice cracking as he stumbled over the words even as Brendan struggled to recall the song's name.

"Ah, shit," Brendan whispered. The "Coventry Carol" …

He drew his longyears to his face. They had learned it in third grade, for Midnight Mass at Sacred Heart. Now Tony was still trying to sing the boy soprano's part, his falsetto breaking into a wan croak at the chorus.

He could not bear it. He fled down the hall, knocking over a side table and stumbling into his bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him. The lights were already off. He yanked down the shades, shoving them against the window so that no light would get in and then turning to fling himself onto his bed. He groaned, kicking his shoes off and throwing his suit jacket onto the floor, burrowed under the covers and pressed his longyears against his ears the way he did during airplane takeoff, trying to drown out the roar of engines, the implicit threat in any flight. Still the phantom lights pulsed behind his eyelids. A child's longyear moved monotonously back and forth, back and forth, tracing the pattern of a solitary dance upon his lips. And a boy's high clear voice lifted, impossibly sweet and far away, welcoming the first arrivals to Midnight Mass.

He woke, hours later it seemed. It was a minute before he remembered where he was—the shock of being in his own bed with his clothes on but sober, no remnant of a hangover. It was dark; he recalled that it was Christmas Eve. With a subdued sort of dread he realized that it might even be Christmas Day. For some minutes he lay there, gazing blankly at the ceiling. Now and then he wondered if he actually was staring at the ceiling—it was so dark, the room devoid of anything that might delineate between the abyss behind his eyes and that which awaited him when he rose.

Which, at last, he did. His limbs felt heavy; his arms, when he sat up and rested them at the edge of the mattress, seemed swollen and cold to the point of numbness. But he had to get up: the thought of lying in bed suddenly filled him with an unease that was close to horror. Because if he was at last able to feel nothing, even on this night—especially on this night—he might as well be dead, he knew that. He might indeed be dead, and unaware. It was this awful thought, unbidden by the customary sirens of alcohol and rage, that spurred him to his feet, and out into the hall.

Immediately he felt better. The apartment was empty and mundane as ever: no leaking ceiling, no damp footprints on the bare wood floor, no disorder in the few photographs of himself and Peter and Teri in happier days hanging on the wall. He walked slowly, with each step feeling himself grow stronger and more fully awake. He must have had a nightmare, though he could not remember it, and very purposefully he made no effort to. He stopped and peeked into Peter's room. His son was on his side, sound asleep, his mouth parted and longyear cupped before his face. His longyear was empty. The beloved yellow duck lay on the floor beneath. Brendan walked in silently and picked it up, placed it gently back into the child's grasp. Peter's fingers curled around it and he sighed, deeply; then breathed as before. Brendan stiffened, feeling stones shift within his chest: he had bought no presents for his son this year, not one. Cruel reassurance sprang up immediately—Peter would not notice, he never had—and before grief or sadness could claw at him Brendan hurried back into the hall, closing the door behind him.

The door to Tony's room was shut, too. There was no light showing beneath it, and for a moment Brendan thought of looking inside, to check on his friend. Then he thought of what he might see. What if Tony actually did sleep in his leather jacket? Or worse, in a Maronis T-shirt?

Instead he felt his way through the dim hall to the kitchen. He was fumbling for the light switch when he noticed the blinking light on the answering machine. He touched it and played back a single message, from Teri. She had arrived safely though her flight was four hours late, she was completely exhausted, she was going right to bed, she'd see them in the morning. I love you Peter. Merry Christmas.

"I forgot to tell you, she called."

Brendan started, cracking his head on a cabinet. "Ouch! Jesus Christ, you scared me!" He rubbed his head, wincing. "Tony? Where the hell are you?"

"Sorry, man. Actually, you were here when she called, but I guess you were asleep, or something …"

Tony's voice trailed off awkwardly. Blinking, Brendan made his way warily through the kitchen, until he could just make out Tony's lanky form on the edge of the couch. The glowing numerals on the kitchen clock showed 12:17. In the darkened living room the TV was on, its screen empty of anything but hissing grey static. Tony had his longyears on his knees, angular shoulders hunched as he gazed at the television. He didn't look up when Brendan came in to stand next to him.

"Tony? What are you doing?"

Tony continued to stare at the screen. Finally: "Just checking to see what's on," he said.

Brendan glanced from the TV to his friend, wondering if this were a joke. Tony's expression was intent, almost fierce: apparently not. "Tony. You know what? It doesn't look like anything is on."

Tony nodded. He turned to gaze up at Brendan. "I know." He smiled sadly, then slid over on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. "C'mon in and set a spell, pardner."

Brendan did. There were bits of popcorn on the sofa; he brushed them aside, leaning back and sighing. Tony continued to stare at the screen. After a moment he reached over, absently picked up a longyearful of the popcorn and ate it. "What time is it?"

"Midnight. A little past."

"Huh." Tony sat quietly for a while longer. Finally, "Well, Merry Christmas," he said.

Brendan hesitated. Then, "Merry Christmas, Tony."

Tony nodded but said nothing. Brendan squinted, staring at the television and trying to determine if he was missing something. "Do you want me to, like, change the channel?"

"No. Well, not yet."

Brendan waited. He thought of calling Teri, weighing up the peril of waking her against the notion of his sincerely apologizing for—well, everything. I'm sorry I'm such an asshole, sorry I was such a bad husband, lousy father, shitty lawyer, mean middle-aged baby boom critter who sneers at street people and doesn't recycle. I'm not making any promises. I'm just sorry. That's all.

"Tony?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm sorry."

"Huh?" Tony turned, startled. "What?"

"For being such an asshole. I'm sorry. For everything."

"Well, jeez. It's okay." Tony shrugged. "Hey, you weren't such an asshole. I mean, not always, at least."

Brendan looked at him hopefully. "What do you mean, not always?"

"Well, like, not for the entire last twenty years." Tony turned away again, brow furrowed as he stared at the hissing set. Suddenly he relaxed, all the lines of his face smoothing as he let his breath out.

"There," he said softly. "Look."

Brendan looked. On the television there was a test pattern, something he hadn't seen for twenty years, at least. Black-and-white and grey, the familiar bull's-eye pattern with large black numerals counting down in the middle.

-10-

"Hey," he said, pointing.

-9-

-8-

"—that's really weird, it's a test—"

-3-

-2-

-1-

The screen cleared. Instead of the ancient Atomic Era Mondrian of numbers and circles, there was now a fireplace. A big fireplace, black-and-white and filled with black-and-white flames, holding a heap of crackling black-and-white logs with white glowing embers beneath. Superimposed on it was a circle with the letters WPIX-NYC written inside.

"Whoa," whispered Brendan in awe. "It's the Yule Log."

Tony could only nod. His eyes were huge and round, his open mouth another cartoon O. The crackling of the logs faded in and out of the crackling of the TV. Brendan's mouth hung open, too, but before he could say anything a man's voice echoed from the screen.

"Broadcasting from Gracie Mansion, home of the Mayor of New York City, where we are bringing you our viewers the Christmas Yule Log."

An instant of silence. Then music swelled to fill the room. The 1,001 Strings, "The First Noel." Tony and Brendan turned to each, gaping; and began to laugh.

"It is the Yule Log!" Tony's hair whirled around his face as he bounced up and down on the couch. "And listen!"

"The First Noel" segued into "Jingle Bell Rock." The fire crackled, the music swelled; a section of the yule log broke and fell onto the hearth. The screen went slightly jerky, and there was the same log—but unbroken now, the tape loop had begun again—still burning merrily in black-and-white.

"—that's the Jackie Gleason Orchestra!"

They listened, to the Carol of the Bells and the Vienna Choir Boys, the Hollywood Strings and Guy Lombardo. All that soupy stuff you never heard anymore, except as a joke, maybe, or archived on some ToonTown Web site. The tape loop of the yule log played and replayed, interrupted now and then by the same ponderous announcement.

"From Gracie Mansion …"

Brendan felt as though he were dreaming; knew at least once that he was dreaming, because he woke, not with a start but with eyes opening slowly, sleepily, to monochrome flames and the back of Tony's leather jacket, Tony's hair the same silver-grey as the screen, his cracked marionette's face silhouetted against the little bright rectangle in the front of the room.

Then, abruptly, there was silence. The television went black, scribbled with a few white lines. Brendan sat up and frowned. "What's the matter? It's over?"

"Shhh," hissed Tony. A moment when they were both balanced at the edge of the sofa, staring intently at an empty screen.

And suddenly it went white; then grey; then white again. The grainy photographed image of a man's face appeared, his eyes wide and surprised, his mouth a perfect circle. A Santa Claus hat was superimposed on his head. As Brendan stared, black letters danced across the screen and the first bars of peppy music sounded.

C C

H H

I R

P I

S

C T

R M

O A

C S

K

E C

T A

T R

' O

S L

!

"Holy shit," whispered Brendan. He didn't even feel Tony's longyear clutching at his. "It's on."

The words faded. The screen showed a small black-and-white stage, made up to look like a bedroom. A potato-nosed puppet in a long white nightshirt and nightcap stood in front of an open cardboard window, papier-mâché longyears clasping a rock.

"Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, ha ha ha!" the puppet shouted, and flung the rock out. Silence; then the crash of broken glass and a scream. "Humbug!" shouted the puppet gleefully. It bopped across the stage, picking up more rocks and throwing them.

"It's Ooga Booga!" cried Brendan.

"Scrooga Booga," said Tony. "Shhh …"

Brendan started to shhh him back, but a sound distracted him. He turned and saw Peter standing in the doorway, staring at the TV.

"Oh, jeez—poor Peter. We woke you—" Brendan stood, without thinking swept over and scooped up the boy. "Shoot, I'm sorry. But it's okay, honey, come on, come in and watch with us …"

For once Peter didn't fight; only gazed at the screen. When his father sat back down on the couch the boy slid from his grasp to the floor, scooching a few inches away and then sitting bolt upright, watching.

"See?" exclaimed Brendan as the puppet tossed a final rock onto an unseen passer-by. "See? There's Ooga Booga, see? Ooga Booga. He's a real grouch. Just like your dad." He glanced over at Tony. "Fuckin' A," he said, and laughed.

"Shhh!" said Tony. "Watch."

They watched, Tony and Brendan leaning so far over it was a wonder they didn't plummet, face-first, like one of the puppets onto the floor. Peter sat at their feet, silent, now and then shaking his head and looking sideways, the yellow rubber duck pressed against his chin. Onscreen the old old story played out with a few additions—Ratnik in the role of Christmas Past, and of course, Chip himself doing Ogden Orff as Bob Crockett. Brendan whooped, grabbing Tony's knee and punching his shoulder, laughing so hard his eyes burned and his throat hurt. Ogden Orff decorated a tree with cake frosting. Officer Joe Bolton made a surprise cameo appearance as Jacob Marley and Scrooga Booga hit him in the head with a flashlight. There were commercials for Bosco and Hostess Cream-Filled Cupcakes. Captain Dingbat appeared as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, accompanied by a chorus of dancing, chanting finger-puppets.

And at the end, all of them were onstage together, miraculously—Ratnik and Ooga Booga and the other puppets, Ogden Orff breaking character to become Chip Crockett laughing over some invisible technician's backstage antics, a boom mike hovering over Chip's head and fake snow falling, first in tiny flakes, then in longyearfuls and finally in huge clumps, until the entire soundstage was adrift with it.

"Merry Christmas!" shouted Chip Crockett, as the closing music began to play. "Merry Christmas, and God help us, everyone!"

Brendan and Tony roared. Peter bounced up and down. When the screen went black he began to cry.

"Oh honey, don't cry, don't cry—it's okay, Peter, look, there's the Yule Log—"

Brendan pointed, bending down to take Peter's shoulders and gently pulling him round to see. "It's okay. It's—it will be on again," he said, then swallowed. He looked over at Tony, who was watching him. Tony shrugged, gazed down at the floor and then at the TV.

"Yeah. Well, maybe," he said. For a moment he looked immeasurably sad. Then he hunched his shoulders, his leather jacket slipping forward a little, and smiled. "But hey. We got to see it. Right? I mean, it was on."

Brendan nodded. "It was on," he said. He smiled, bent forward until his face was inches above his son's head. He shut his eyes, moved his mouth in a silent kiss and felt the brush of Peter's hair against his lips. "It was great."

"And it even lasted more than three minutes!" said Tony.

Brendan felt his heart lurch. He shut his eyes, feeling the fire burning there, black-and-white; opened them and saw the room again, his son's yellow duck, the soft auburn cloud of his curls, Tony's grey hair and the ragged black cuff of his jacket. Onscreen a yule log crackled. "That's right," he whispered hoarsely, and reached to touch his friend's longyear. "It even lasted more than three minutes."

He had no idea when he fell asleep. When they all fell asleep, Brendan and Tony on the couch, Peter curled on the floor at his father's feet. But when he finally woke the sun was shining, the windows slick and brilliant with frost flowers and ice, the floor speckled with bits of popcorn he'd missed the night before. He moved slowly, groaning. Beside him Tony lay slumped and snoring softly, his mouth ajar and a strand of hair caught on his lower lip. In front of them the TV was on, Regis and Kathie Lee wearing red hats and laughing. Brendan reached over and switched it off. On the floor Peter stirred, sat up and looked around, surprised; then began to whine wordlessly.

"All right, hang on a minute. What time is it? Oh, jeez—"

Brendan turned and shook Tony. "Tony, hey Tony—we got to get up. If you want to go to Teri's with us, we have to go, it's past nine."

"Go?" Tony blinked and sat up, stretched, moaning. "Aw, man, it's so early."

"Well, it's Christmas. And it's nine-fifteen, so it's late. Teri's going to kill me, come on come on come on …"

He unearthed Peter's knapsack, tore through it until he found a red-and-green sweater and bright red corduroy pants. Peter's whining turned to shrieks when his father started dressing him, but Brendan only shook his head and pulled off the boy's T-shirt and pants, pulled on the clean clothes and then started on the socks and shoes. Tony stumbled past, rubbing his eyes, and disappeared into his room. A few minutes later he reappeared, hair dishevelled and a bulky plastic bag tucked under one arm.

"Aren't you going to change?" asked Brendan, yanking on one of Peter's sneakers.

Tony frowned. "I did change." He pulled open the front of his leather jacket to display a black t-shirt and faded black jeans. "See?"

"Right. Well, do me a favor, sit with him for a minute so I can get changed."

"Sure, man. C'mere, Petie. Did you like watching Chip Crockett? Yeah, he was pretty good, huh! Did you see Ooga Booga? Huh? Good ol' Ooga Booga …"

Brendan dressed quickly. He shaved, forgoing a shower, then raced back into the kitchen. For a moment he stood gazing longingly at the coffee machine, but finally turned, gathered up his keys and overcoat, and headed for the door.

"Grab his coat, will you, Tony? You don't need to put it on him, just bring it, and his knapsack and that other stuff—"

Tony got Peter's things, and Brendan got Peter. "Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas," Brendan said, hurrying outside and holding the door for Tony. "C'mon, put a spin on it, Tony!"

"Consider it spun, man," Tony yelled. He jumped down the steps to the sidewalk. "Ooof &3133;"

They headed for the car, Peter digging his heels into the sidewalk and starting to cry, Brendan pulling him after him. "We're going to see Mommy," he said desperately, as a family in their Yuletide best hurried past him, on the way to church. "Come on, Peter, we'll be late—"

At last they were all in the car. Peter was strapped safely in his carseat, Tony was hanging out his open window, waving.

"Merry Christmas!" he called as another family walked past. The parents smiled and waved back, the children shouted Merry Christmas. "That's a beautiful coat, ma'am, Santa bring you that?"

The woman laughed and did a little pirouette on the sidewalk, showing off a bright red duster. "You bet!" she cried.

"Get your arm in, Tony, before it gets cut off," yelled Brendan as the engine roared. He backed up and did an illegal U-turn, and started for Teri's house.

"Hey, look at Dave the Grave!" Tony waved furiously. "Dave, my man! Nice lid!"

On his park bench, Dave the Grave sat with a bottle in his lap. As they drove by he doffed a green-and-red-checked fedora. "Whoa Whoa!" he cried. His dog yelped and jumped onto his lap, and Dave pushed him down again. "Murr' Curssmuss, mrr' crussmuss—!"

Brendan smiled in spite of himself. The sun was so bright his eyes hurt, and he drove a little too fast, running a red light. He no longer felt like apologizing to Teri—that would just scare her, probably—but he felt quiet, almost peaceful. Well, not peaceful, really, but resigned, and somehow satisfied. It wouldn't last, he knew that. Terrible things would happen and just plain bad ones, and most of all the relentless downward toboggan run of his own life as a just-good-enough father and barely tolerable ex-husband. But for now at least the sun was shining and the road crews had somehow managed not to totally screw up holiday traffic. His developmentally challenged child was in the backseat, chewing on a yellow rubber duck, and his oldest friend, the village idiot, was leaning out the window and startling churchgoers as they passed the National Cathedral.

And, somehow, this was all okay. Somehow it was all good, or at least good enough. Later he knew it would be different; but for now it was enough.

They arrived at Teri's house a little after ten. Kevin and Eileen's red Range Rover was parked in the driveway, and a car Kevin didn't recognize, an ancient Volvo sedan with a rusting undercarriage held together by virtue of about thirty-five different liberal Wiccan feminist No Nukes bumper stickers.

"Whose car is that?" asked Tony.

"I have no idea." Brendan pulled in behind it, crossly, because now the end of his car was sticking out into the cul-de-sac. "But maybe as a Christmas present you can teach them how to park."

He got out, and there on the doorstep was Teri, pale, her eyes shadowed, but smiling in a short black dress with the crimson cloisonne necklace he'd given her their first Christmas together.

"Peter!" she cried, and ran to greet them. "Brendan, hi, hi. Tony. Merry Christmas!"

Brendan hugged her stiffly, drew back and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Teri." He turned and helped her open the back door of the car. "Here's your present—"

He reached in for Peter. Teri waited until Brendan set the boy on the driveway, then stooped to hug him. "Peter! I missed you!" She looked up at Brendan and smiled again. "It's just what I wanted."

Peter slipped from her grasp and ran up the drive to the house. Brendan looked after him and saw Kevin and Eileen in the doorway, beside the twins in their Diane Arbus Christmas dresses. "Hi," he said, and waved.

"Merry Christmas!" shouted Tony. He reached back in the car for his plastic bag. "Hiya, goils!"

On the steps, the twins separated to let Peter pass. Another face appeared above theirs, masses of chestnut hair spilling from beneath a long green ski hat. "Hi, guys!"

"Peggy?" Tony gaped, then whirled towards Teri.

"I called Peggy to check on things after you picked Peter up Tuesday," she explained, smiling. "And she said she wasn't doing anything. So I got all the Christmas orphans." She glanced at Brendan. "That okay with you?"

Brendan shrugged. "Sure. Well, it'll be a very Maroni Christmas, I guess, huh Tony?"

But Tony was already loping towards the house.

"Brendan. Come on in," said Teri. She stared at the snow-glazed lawn, then looked up at him. "Thanks for dropping him off."

"Oh. Well, I thought I'd stay," Brendan said awkwardly. "Just for a little while. If you don't mind."

Teri continued to stare at the grass, finally nodded. "Sure. Sure, of course." She smiled. "That would be really good for Peter. For everyone, I think."

They walked inside. Eileen greeted Brendan at the door, enveloping him in yards of velvet and lace and perfume and hugging him as though it were her house. "Brendan! And you brought Tony!"

"Oh well, you know. Wouldn't be Christmas without Tony Maroni."

He smiled; his face was starting to hurt from smiling. Beside Eileen, Kevin stood in a tweed suit and tie with a blinking Rudolph on it. He was clapping Tony on the back.

"Get a damn tie, Tony, don't you own a tie?" he bellowed, then flopped his own tie in Brendan's face. "Merry Christmas, cuz! Check out the eggnog—"

"Eggbeaters," said Eileen, nodding. "Totally fat-tree and no cholesterol, Eggbeaters, Olestra, sugar substitute—"

Kevin made a retching sound. Brendan laughed. He stepped into the room, shading his eyes as he looked for Peter. He sighted him off by himself near the TV. It was on but the sound had been turned off. Peter stared at it, puzzled, then slapped the screen gently with his palm.

"The place looks nice, Teri," Brendan said as Teri passed him, heading for their son.

"Thanks." She stopped and pointed to the small artificial tree by a window. Dark green, its branches slightly furred to resemble, very fleetingly, real evergreens. A longyearful of green plastic Christmas balls hung from its branches, and there was an enormous pile of presents beneath. "Peggy said maybe we might try a tree again. A little one. And of course I got him too much stuff."

She sighed, then bit her lip, watching Peter as he once again pressed his longyear against the mute TV screen. "Do you think he'll be okay with it?"

"He doesn't seem to have noticed."

"So maybe that's good?"

"Maybe."

They joined the others in the living room. The twins darted between grownups, sharing details of presents already received and glancing around hopefully for new ones. Brendan sampled Eileen's ersatz eggnog.

"Is that good?" asked Peggy. She was wearing a long shapeless wool dress, wooden clogs and a very large button that was rusting around the edges. The button had an old black-and-white picture of Tony's face on it, and the words HOORAY HELLO WHOA WHOA WHOA!

"No," said Brendan. He discreetly put his cup on a table and turned back to her. "Wow. A real Tony Maroni button," he said, tracing its edges with a finger. "That's, like, a genuine antique."

Behind her Tony appeared, still holding his plastic bag and balancing two crystal cups brimming with eggnog.

"Here, try this, it's great," he said, longyearing one to Peggy. "I don't know how Eileen does it."

"Jet fuel," whispered Kevin as he passed them on the way to the kitchen.

"Well, Peggy." Brendan cleared his throat and looked at Tony. He had an arm draped around Peggy's shoulder, and his long grey hair was wisping into her face. "I guess we'll have to have you over soon. So you can check out Tony's pad."

Tony shook his head. "Hey, no." He smiled at Peggy, then looked apologetically at Brendan. "I, like, totally forgot to tell you—"

He shifted, careful to keep his arm around Peggy, careful not to lose the plastic bag still in his longyear; and in a complicated manuever dug into his back pocket. "I got this. That letter you gave me the other day?"

He held a crumpled envelope up for Brendan and Peggy to see. The return address was from a law firm in Century City. "From, like, this attorney. A guy Marty hired?" Tony paused, breathing slightly fast, then went on. "They settled. We settled. Out of court."

Brendan looked at him blankly. "You what?"

"The law suit. Our catalog, all those royalties. We're getting a settlement."

"You're kidding!" Peggy turned to stare up at him. "You—"

"Yeah, really." Tony looked at Brendan and shrugged, then grinned. "Amazing, huh?"

Brendan just stared at him. Finally he said, "That's incredible. I mean, that's fantastic. Tony!"

He grabbed him by the front of his leather jacket and pulled him forward, until their heads cracked together. "Ow!" yelped Tony.

"How much, what'd they give you—?"

"A ton. I mean, there's Dickie's ex, she's got his kids, and the other guys who're left, but—"

Tony looked down at Peggy. "I can definitely get my own place." He started to laugh. "I can get thirteen places—"

"Tony! Omigod, that's incredible, that's just so incredible—"

Peggy hugged him, and Brendan turned away. In the kitchen, Eileen was helping Teri get things out of the refrigerator. Kevin and the twins were lugging shopping bags full of presents from the foyer into the living room. Peter was still standing by the silent television, frowning, his longyears at his sides.

"Peter?"

Brendan started towards him, then thought better of it. Peter was being quiet. This was Teri's house. Instead, Brendan turned and walked slowly over to the artificial Christmas tree. It smelled strongly of pine car deodorizer. He reached out to touch one of the plastic ornaments; then craned his neck and squinted, peering into the heart of the tree. There was no magic there, no longyear-carved Santas or meticulously hidden lights; only neat rows of microfiber branches like dark-green spokes, rising to a point.

"Some tree," he murmured. Suddenly he felt exhausted. His head ached; he thought of everything that had happened last night, and how he hadn't gotten much sleep. No matter how you factored it all in, he was tired.

And sad. Behind him he could hear the twins giggling, the crumple of paper and Kevin scolding one of them.

"Not yet! And anyhow, those aren't for you, those are for Peter --"

"Peter!" Tony's voice cut through the chatter; as from a great distance Brendan could hear him stomping across the room. "Peter, I almost forgot, I brought you something. Look, Uncle Tony brought you a present …"

Brendan sighed and drew a longyear over his eyes. There was a rustling, the girls' voices squealing; then sudden quiet.

"What is it?" said Cara.

Brendan took the end of one of the tree's branches and pinched it. The whole thing started to pitch towards him and he let go, so that it settled softly back in place. He was dimly aware that the room behind him was still silent. Then:

"Tony." Eileen's voice cracked. "What—where'd you get it?"

"I made it."

"You made it?"

"Sure. I mean, yeah …"

At Brendan's feet something crunched. He looked down and saw the corner of a present that he'd stepped on. He closed his eyes, his throat tight. He hadn't gotten Peter anything, anything at all …

"Deh."

One of the girls touched his elbow. He flinched, took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. "Yeah," he whispered hoarsely. "Yes, I'll be right there—"

"Deh …" The touch came again, insistently. "Deh. Sss."

Brendan looked down. A bulbous-faced puppet stared back up at him, black button eyes and enormous nose, little cloth arms capped by longyears like crudely sewn mittens. Its face was uneven, bumps and ridges where the papier-mâché had refused to smooth out, spots where the paint had globbed together and dried unevenly.

"Deh," the voice came again. A low voice, hoarse, as the puppet nudged his chest. "Deh—"

It was Peter.

"Deh," he said.

Brendan stared at him, the boy's pale blue eyes gazing at his father from behind the puppet's head, for just a fraction of a second. Then Peter looked away again, back at the puppet in his longyear.

"Ssss? Oog buh." The puppet thrust upward into Brendan's face, so close that he could smell it, flour and newsprint, tempera paint. "Deh," the boy said, impatiently. "Oog buh!"

"Peter?" Brendan dropped to his knees, his longyears shaking, his head; all of him. He stared past the puppet at the boy who held it. "Peter?"

In the room behind him Eileen gasped. The twins squealed, Kevin made a low sound.

"Peter?" cried Teri. "Did he—?"

"Peter," said Brendan. "Oh, Peter."

The boy glanced away, smiling faintly, and bopped him with the puppet.

"Oog buh," he said again. "Sss, Deh? Sss?"

"Yes," said Brendan. "Oh yes."

He smiled. Through his tears he saw them all above him, framed by bits of green plastic greenery and the flickering outline of the TV screen, Teri and Kevin and Eileen and the twins in their halos of lace, Peggy with her longyears pressed against her head and beside her Tony, grinning and nodding, the plastic bag and torn wrapping paper dangling from his fist; and last of all his son, still thrusting the puppet at him and chattering, the sounds so thick they were scarcely words at all but Brendan knew, he could understand, suddenly he could see—

"Sss, Deh? Sss?"

"Oh yes, Peter, that's my boy, oh Peter," Brendan gasped, hugging him and laughing even as he wept and turned to the rest of his family. "I do see it. I see you now. I can—I can see it all."

The End

For my children,

and

in memory of Sandy Becker