CHIP CROCKETT'S CHRISTMAS CAROL
By Elizabeth Hand

"This day we shut out Nothing!"

"Pause," says a low voice. "Nothing? Think!"

"On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing."

"Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lying
deep?" the voice replies. "Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe?
Not the shadow of the City of the Dead?"

Not even that

Charles Dickens, "What Christmas Is as We Grow Older"

Tony was the one who called him.

"Brendan, man. I got some bad news."

Brendan felt a slight hitch in his stomach. He leaned back in his chair,
nudging his office door closed so his secretary wouldn't hear. "Oh yes?"

"Chip Crockett died."

"Chip Crockett?" Brendan frowned, staring at his computer screen as
though he was afraid Tony might materialize there. "You mean, like, The
Chip Crockett Show?"

"Yeah, man." Tony sighed deeply. "My brother Jake, he just faxed me the
obituary from the Daily News. He died over the weekend but they just
announced it today."

There was a clunk through the phone receiver, a background clatter of
shouting voices and footsteps. Tony was working as a substitute teacher
at Saint Ignatius High School. Brendan was amazed he'd been able to hang
onto the job at all, but he gathered that being a substitute at Saint
Ignatius was way below being sanitation engineer in terms of salary,
benefits, and respect. He heard a crackle of static as Tony ran into the
corridor, shouting.

"Whoa! Nelson Crane, man! Slow down, okay? Okay. Yeah, I guess it was
lung cancer. Did you know he smoked?"

"You're talking about Chip Crockett the kiddie show host. Right?"
Brendan rubbed his forehead, feeling the beginning of a headache. "No,
Tony, I didn't know he smoked, because I don't actually know Chip
Crockett. Do you?"

"No. Remember Ogden Orff? That time he got the milk jug stuck on his
nose? 'That's my boy, Ogden Orff!' " Tony intoned, then giggled. "And
that puppet? Ooga Booga? The one with the nose?"

"Ogden Orff." Brendan leaned back in his chair. Despite himself, he
smiled. "God, yeah, I remember. And the other onethat puppet who sang?
He did 'Mister Bassman' and that witch doctor song. I loved him."

"That wasn't a puppet. That was Captain Dingbatyou know, the D.J.
character."

"Are you sure? I thought it was a puppet."

"No way, man. I mean, yes! I am ab-so-lute-ly sure"

An earsplitting whistle echoed over the line. Brendan winced and held
the phone at arm's-length, drew it back in time to hear Tony's voice
fading.

"Hey man, that's the bell, I gotta go. I'll fax this to you before I
leave, okay? Oh, and hey, we're still on for Thursday, right?"

Brendan nodded. "Right," he said, but Tony was already gone.

Late that afternoon the fax arrived. Brendan's secretary gave it to him,
the curling cover sheet covered with Tony's nearly illegible scrawl.


OGDEN ORFF LIVES! SEE YA THURS. AT CHILDE ROLAND.

TONY Brendan tossed this and turned to the Daily News obituary, two long
columns complete with photo. The faxed image was fragmented but still
recognizablea boyishly handsome man in suit and skinny tie, grinning at
a puppet with a huge nose. Above him was the headline:


AU REVOIR, OOGA BOOGA Brendan shook his head. "Poor Ooga Booga," he
murmured, then smoothed the paper on his desk.


Iconic kiddie show host Chip Crockett died yesterday at his home in
Manhasset, after a long and valiant battle with lung cancer. While never
achieving the recognition accorded peers like Soupy Sales or Captain
Kangaroo's Bob Keeshan, Chip Crockett's legend may be greater, because
it lives solely in the memories of viewers. Like other shows from the
late 1950s and early 1960s, The Chip Crockett Show was either performed
live or videotaped; if the latter, the tapes were immediately erased so
they could be reused. And, as though Fate conspired to leave no trace of
Crockett's comic genius, a 1966 warehouse fire destroyed the few
remaining traces of his work.

For years, rumors of "lost" episodes raced among baby boomer fans, but
alas, none have ever been found. The show's final episode, the last of
the popular Chip Crockett Christmas specials, aired on December 23rd,
1965.

The gentle Crockett was noted for a surreal sense of humor that rivaled
Ernie Kovacs'. His cast consisted of a dozen puppetsall created by
Crockettand a rogue's gallery of over-the-top human characters, also
given life by the versatile performer. Every weekday morning and again
in the afternoon, Chip Crockett's jouncy theme would sound and the fun
began, as potato-nosed Ooga Booga, sly Ratty Mouse, and the lovable
knucklehead Ogden Orff appeared on WNEW-TV, reaching a broadcast
audience of millions of childrenand, occasionally, their unsuspecting
parents.

Chip Crockett was born in 1923 in Birdsboro, Pennsylvania. His broadcast
career began in 1949 with a radio show

Brendan sighed and looked up. Outside a sky the color of scorched nickel
hung above Pennsylvania Avenue. In the very corner of his window, you
could just make out the scaffolding that covered the Capitol building, a
steel trellis overgrown with plywood and poured-concrete forms. When he
and Robert Flaherty, his law partner, had first taken this office,
Brendan had proudly pointed out the view to everyone, including the
Capitol police officers who dropped in with paperwork and Congressional
gossip during their breaks. Now Rob was dead, killed four years ago this
Christmas Eve by a drunk driver, though Brendan still hadn't taken his
name from the brass plate by the front door. The Capitol looked like an
image from war-torn Sarajevo, and the officers Brendan had once known
were unrecognizable behind bulletproof jackets and wraparound
sunglasses.

"Mr. Keegan?" His secretary poked her head around the door. "Okay if I
leave a little early today? It's Parent Conference week at Jessie's
school"

"Sure, sure, Ashley. You get that Labor Department stuff over to Phil
Lancaster?"

"I did." Ashley already had her coat on, rummaging in a pocket for her
farecard. "How's Peter these days?"

Peter was Brendan's son. "Oh, he's great, just great," he said, nodding.
"Doing very well. Very, very well."

This wasn't true and, in fact, never really had been. Shortly after his
second birthday, Peter Keegan had been diagnosed as having Pervasive
Developmental Disorder, which as far as Brendan could figure was just a
more socially acceptable term for his son's being (in the medical
parlance) "somewhere within the autism continuum." Batteries of tests
had followedCAT scans, MRIs and PETsand the upshot of it all was yet
another string of letters: PDDNOS, or Pervasive Developmental Disorder
Not Otherwise Specified. In other words, Peter Xavier Keegan, now four,
had never spoken a word to anyone. If you touched him he moved away,
deliberately but casually, with no more emotion than if he'd brushed up
against a thorny hedge. If you tried to look him in the eye, he looked
away; if anyone tried to hold him, however gently, he would scream, and
hit, and bite, and eventually fall screaming to the floor.

He had not always been like that. Brendan had to remind himself every
day, lest the fragmentary images of eighteen-month-old Peter smiling in
his lap disappear forever. Once upon a time, Peter had been okay.
Brendan had to believe that, despite the doctors who told him otherwise.
That his son had been born with this condition; that Peter's neural
wiring was defective; that the chances for reclaiming that other
childthe one who clung to his father and babbled wordlessly but
cheerfully, the one who gazed at Brendan with clear blue eyes and held
his finger as he fell asleepwere slim or nil. Just last week Brendan's
ex-wife, Teri, had begun a new regime of vitamin therapy for their son,
the latest in an endless series of efforts to reclaim the toddler they
had lost.

They were still waiting to see the results. And Brendan's secretary
Ashley would have known all this because Teri had told her, during one
of her daily phone calls to Brendan to discuss the million details of
shared custody arrangementspickup times, doctors' appointments, changes
in Peter's medication, nightmares, biting incidents, bills for the
expensive Birchwood School, missing shoes, and loose teeth. To his
recollection, Brendan had never volunteered a single word about his son
or his divorce to Ashley, but he had no doubt but that, if called upon,
his secretary could testify in District Court about everything from his
prior sexual relationship with his ex-wife (satisfactory if
unremarkable) to his current attendance at AA meetings (occasional).

"Peter's very well," he repeated one last time. He made a tube of Tony's
fax and eyed his secretary through one end. "Good luck at school,
Ashley."

He walked home that evening, his briefcase nudging his leg as he made
his way up Pennsylvania Avenue, keeping his bare head down against the
chill night wind. Tony's fax stuck up out of his overcoat pocket, still
curled into a tube. He ducked into the gourmet kitchen shop and bought
some coffee beans, then headed down Fourth Street towards his apartment.
He was thinking about the old Chip Crockett Show, and how his secretary
was born a good ten years after it had gone off the air.

How did I get to be so old? he marveled, kicking at the pile of sodden
leaves banked against his building's outer door. "Mr. Keegan." When the
hell did that happen? And he went inside, to silence and The Washington
Post still unread on the kitchen counter, the unblinking red eye of the
answering machine signaling that no one had called.

Thursday night he met Tony Kemper at Childe Roland. The club had been a
big hangout for them back when Brendan was in law school at Georgetown
in the early 1980s. Tony was still playing with the Maronis in those
days, and the Childe Roland was a popular after-hours spot for musicians
on tour. Later, after Tony left the Maronis and moved back to D.C., he'd
headline with local bands, and he and Brendan and Brendan's cousin,
Kevin, had gotten into the habit of meeting at the Childe Roland every
Thursday after closing time, to drink and listen to whatever performers
happened to drop by.

Now, years later, all three were veterans of Alcoholics Anonymous,
although Kevin was the only one who still attended meetings regularly.
But they still met once a week at the Childe Roland, sitting at a table
in the shabby downstairs room with its brick walls and fading posters
for Root Boy Slim and Tommy Keene and the Dale Williams Band. They'd eat
hamburgers and drink coffee or Evian water, feed quarters to the vintage
Wurlitzer jukeboxes, and argue politics and football over "96 Tears" and
"Bastards of Young" and "Pretty Vacant."

Tonight Brendan was the first to arrive, as usual. He'd been divorced
for nearly a year but still couldn't quite get the hang of being single.
He didn't date, he didn't cook. He worked late when he could, but
Flaherty, Keegan & Associates didn't generate enough of a caseload to
merit more than two or three nights a week. He had Peter on alternate
weekends and Tuesdays, but that still left a lot of downtime. He hated
to admit it, but when Tony or Kevin had to cancel Thursdays at Childe
Roland, Brendan was depresseddepressed enough that he'd come to Childe
Roland by himself and sit at their usual place and feed the jukebox,
playing the songs Kevin or Tony would have played, even the ones he
hated.

But he wouldn't be alone tonight. He heard Tony before he saw him. Or
rather, he heard everyone else seeing him

"Tony, my man! What's shakin'?"

"Tony Maroni! 'Hooray, hello, whoa whoa whoa!' "

"Tony!"

"It's the Tonester!"

Brendan watched as his friend grinned and waved, crossing the room in
that bizarre way he had, half-glide and half-slouch, resplendent in his
ancient black leather jacket and decrepit Converse hightops, his long
black hair streaked with grey but otherwise pretty much unchanged from
the lanky, goofy-faced nineteen-year-old who once upon a time had been
the Great White Hope of Rock and Roll. On the Bowery, anyway, for a few
years in the mid-1970s, which (according to Tony) was the last time rock
had mattered.

That was when Tony founded The Maronis, the proto-punk band whose first,
self-titled record had recently been cited by The New York Times as one
of the ten most influential rock albums of the century. (The follow-up,
Maronis Get Detention, came in at number 79.) The band's formula, equal
parts three-chord rock and Three Stooges, won them a record contract
with EMI, a national tour, and all the attendant problems as Tony, Mony,
Pony, and Tesla (n Tony Kemper, Marty Berenstein, Paul Schippa, and
Dickie Stanton) played, fought, drank, dropped acid, shot up, and
eventually OD'd.

Not all at the same time, of course, but that was it as far as EMI was
concerned. The Maronis lost their only contract with a major label.
Worse, they lost their catalogthey hadn't bothered with an attorney when
they signedand the ensuing decades had seen one failed lawsuit after
another brought by band members, whenever one was flush enough to hire a
lawyer.

Still, the band continued to tour and record, on the small New
Jersey-based Millstone label. When Mony died of a heroin overdose, he
was replaced, first by Joni, the band's first female guitarist, and then
by Sony, a Japanese fan who attached himself to the Maronis after their
disastrous 1984 Tokyo appearance. That was when Tony left the band.
Despite the rumors, he'd never gotten into heroin. Even as a kid in
Yonkers he'd been terrified of needles; Kevin used to steal hypos from
his doctor father and hide them in Tony's Deputy Dawg lunchbox,
something Brendan would never have forgiven his cousin for, but Tony was
incapable of anything resembling anger. Whatever demons he encountered,
he fought them down with beerpreferably Budweiser, even when he
(briefly) could have afforded Heineken. He'd finally lost it in Japan
when, jet-lagged and suffering from food poisoning, he'd gotten the DTs
and started screaming about Gojiro in the lobby of the Tokyo Hilton.
Millstone had no money for an emergency medical evacuation, and so
Brendan and Kevin arranged to have their childhood friend flown back to
the States. Kevin had gone over to escort TonyKevin was raking it in at
Merrill Lynchand on their return he and Brendan checked their friend
into detox.

He'd been sober ever since. Although, because he was Tony Maroni, this
wasn't always readily apparent.

"Hey, Brenda Starr! How's it goin'?"

Brendan looked up, making a face at the boyhood nickname. "Tony. Good to
see you"

He reached across the table to shake his hand. Tony leaned forward and
grabbed him in a hug. "Yeah, man, great to see you, too!" As though it
had been a year instead of a week; as though they hadn't just talked on
the phone, oh, about two hours ago. "Where's Kevo?"

Brendan shrugged. "He should be here soon."

"Right, right. The Family Man. Family matters. Family matters," Tony
repeated, cocking his head and scrunching his face up. "Hey, get it?
Like, it matters"

"I get it, Tony."

"I never did. Not until just now."

Brendan sighed, glanced up to see a young woman in torn fishnets and
polyester skirt, Mandelbrot tattoos and enough surgical steel piercings
to arm an emerging nation. "Oh good. Here's the Bionic Waitress."

Tony whirled to grin at her. "Bethie! Hi! Hey, you look nice in that
outfit"

"It's my uniform, Tony," the waitress said, but smiled, displaying more
gleaming metal and a tongue stud. "Where's your other partner in crime?"

"Kevo? He'll be here. He's got kids, you know" Tony suddenly looked
across the table, stricken. "Oh hey, man, I didn't meanI mean, he's got
kids too," he said, pointing at Brendan. "It's just"

"Tony. It's okay," said Brendan.

"just, uh, Kevin's got a lot of 'em. Well, two, anyway."

"Really?" The waitress looked down at Brendan curiously. "I never knew
you were married."

"He's not," said Tony. "He's"

"I'm divorced," Brendan broke in. He gave Tony an icy look. "I have a
little boy."

"Yeah? You ought to bring him in some night. Okay, you want something
now or you want to wait for your friend?'

They ordered, coffee for Brendan, club soda with lemon for Tony. When
she brought the drinks back, Tony took the straw and blew its paper
wrapper across the table at Brendan. "No offense, man," he said. "About"

"None taken, Tony." Brendan lifted his coffee mug and smiled.

"Cheers."

"Cheers." Tony took a sip of his drink, then slid from his chair. "Gotta
feed the jukebox, man. Right back."

Brendan watched as his friend sidled over to one of the club's vintage
jukeboxes, spangled man-sized bijoux that glittered and bubbled and
glowed along the brick walls. There was a Seeburg, a Rockola, and the
Childe Roland's crown jewel: a 1946 Wurlitzer Model 1015, special
edition "Rites of Spring" in mint condition, down to the 45s stacked on
their glittering turntable spindle. Tony hunched over this now, drumming
his fingers on the glass surface. The green-and-gold Bakelite pilasters
and ruby lights made him look like one of his own adolescent daydreams,
long hair touched with crimson, his Silly Putty face given a momentary
semblance of gravity, as though he were gazing into some piece of
sophisticated medical machinery instead of an old jukebox.

"Hey." Tony frowned. "What happened to 'Moulty?' And who the fuck put
the Eagles on this thing?"

Brendan shook his head, marveling as he always did at how long it took
Tony to make his selections. "You know," he said as Tony slouched back
to the table, the opening drumbeats of "Be My Baby" echoing around them,
"it took Phil Spector less time to record that than it did for you to
punch it in."

Tony slid back into his seat. "Hey, you know what that is? That's the
Big Bang, man! Bum, bum-bum! Bum, bum-bum! That's the noise God made
when He made the universe! When I die, make sure they play that, okay?"
He clapped a hand to his forehead. "Geez, I almost forgot! Check this
out"

He fumbled in a pocket of his leather jacket, withdrew a wad of
folded-up paper. "There's, like, a Chip Crockett Web page. Listen"

Tony smoothed out the paper, then cleared his throat. " 'Like a lot of
other people, I grew up in the early 1960s watching The Chip Crockett
Show,' " he read. " 'I was still pretty young when I watched it, though,
and I don't really remember much, except that the puppets were sort of
scary. But since starting this Web page I have had many other people
write to me about their memories of the show, and I have come to realize
that Chip Crockett has actually influenced me in ways that I am only
beginning to understand.' "

Brendan shook his head. "Wow. That's some testimony."

"Yeah, man, but he's right. I mean, Chip Crockett had an amazing impact
on me"

"Yeah, but you're Tony Maroni. Chip Crockett could have invented you.
Here, give me that --"

Brendan took the page and glanced down it. No pictures, just a web
address, a brief introduction and listing of contents.

BROADCAST HISTORY

ARTICLES & OBITUARIES (NEW)

THEME SONG

THE GREAT FIRE OF 1966

CHIP CROCKETT'S CHRISTMAS SPECIAL "I didn't have time to print out the
whole thing," Tony said apologetically. "I had duty in the computer lab
but then there was a fire drill "

"I remember the Christmas Special." Brendan looked thoughtful. "It was A
Christmas Carol, but with all the puppets playing the parts. Ooga Booga
was Scrooge"

"Scrooga Booga," Tony corrected him. "And Ogden Orff was Bob Cratchit"

"Brendan." A gigantic hand suddenly descended to grip Brendan's
shoulder. "Tony. Sorry I'm late." Kevin Donnelly's shadow fell across
the tablea big shadow. "Eileen had to work late and I had to get the
girls from dance and then dinner"

Tony clasped Kevin's hand, moving his chair over to make room. Kevin sat
and waved at their waitress.

"An O'Douls, please," he said, then turned to his cousin. "Brendan. How
you doing?"

"Good, very good." Brendan smiled. "What's new with you?"

"Not much. What you got there?"

"The Chip Crockett Web page. Listen" Brendan held the page up and
gestured dramatically. " 'I have come to realize that Chip Crockett has
actually influenced me in ways that I am only beginning to understand.'
You know, I think Tony could start a religion based on this."

"Mmm. Eileen wouldn't like that. Let me see"

In Kevin's hand the page looked insubstantial as tissue. He was a big
man who in the course of two decades of steadfast bodybuilding had
become absolutely huge, red-haired and ruddy-faced, his arms and
shoulders so powerful they always looked as though they were about to
burst through his hand-tailored suit jackets, like some demented Capitol
Hill version of The Incredible Hulk. As a boy he'd terrorized not just
Brendan and Tony but everyone within a five-block radius of Tuckahoe
Road, and started dipping into the altar wine before his twelfth
birthday. At Notre Dame on a football scholarship, he'd brought the team
to the Nationals, then gone on to get an MBA from the Wharton School.
He'd made his first million before he was thirty, gotten sober, bailed
out of Merrill Lynch exactly one month before Black Monday, and taken a
job as a lobbyist for Standard Oil.

"You read this, Brendan?" Kevin scowled. "Did you read this?"

"Yup. What do you think?"

Kevin continued to scan the printout, while Brendan flagged their
waitress for more coffee. Whenever he saw his cousin, Brendan felt as
though he were glimpsing himself in some alternate universe. Kevin
looked like Brendan on steroids, Brendan's sandy hair turned to flame,
Brendan's body pumped full of Vitamin B-12 and Proteinex. His cousin's
career and domestic life were shiny perverse reflections of Brendan's
ownimmense financial success, gorgeous ex-model spouse, perfect
children, perfect Potomac home, perfect perfect perfect. Whereas Brendan
felt as though he were channeling his ex-wife through his secretary, and
his only child seemed to live in that other universe as well, gazing
into Brendan's world as though it were an empty expanse of sky.

"I think it's a capital offense if my taxes are paying Tony to print out
this kind of stuff on school time." Kevin shook his head and handed the
page back to Tony. "Tell me, Tony, how the hell do you keep that job? I
mean, what do you tell those kids, as a teacher?"

"You know. Follow your bliss. Stay out of jail. I tell them to be
really, really careful, otherwise they'll end up like me."

Brendan and Kevin laughed, but Tony only shrugged. "Well, it's true," he
said. "The way I figure, I'm saving the school system thousands of
dollars a year in anti-drug programs and stuff like that."

"But you never did drugs, Tony," said Kevin.

"Yeah, but they don't know that. I tell 'em: Stay in school, go to the
college of your choice, learn a viable trade. Otherwise you'll spend the
rest of your life giving practice SATs to dimbulbs like Nelson Crane."

The Bionic Waitress reappeared and refilled Brendan's coffee cup. As he
moved the papers aside she glanced down at them curiously.

"Who died?"

"Chip Crockett," said Tony.

She wrinkled her nose. "Who's Chip Crockett?"

Tony rubbed his chin. "Well, he was this kiddie show host a long time
ago. Kind of like Chuck McCann."

"Or Paul Winchell," said Kevin.

"Who're they?"

"Do you remember Uncle Floyd Vivino?" asked Brendan.

"Uh, no."

Tony frowned, thinking. Finally he brightened. "What about PeeWee
Herman?"

The waitress scrunched her face up. "Mmm, maybe a little."

"Mister Rogers?"

"Sure!" She looked more closely at the obituary.

"Well, Chip Crockett was sort of like a cross between Mister Rogers and
PeeWee Herman," explained Brendan.

"Or Adam Sandler," said Kevin. "Actually, he was more like a cross
between Mister Rogers and Tony here."

The waitress laughed. "Wow. Sorry I missed out on that one."

She turned and headed back to the kitchen. Tony stared after her
admiringly, then shoved his chair back. " 'Scuse me, gotta hit the
head."

His friends watched him go. "So," said Kevin, easing himself into the
chair next to Brendan. "Tony's taking the news about Chip Crockett
pretty hard. How 'bout you?"

"Aw, don't give him a hard time, Kev," said Brendan. He sometimes felt
as though he'd spent his entire life defending Tony against Big Tough
Guys like Kevin. "He gets on these kicks, he'll get over it."

Kevin looked hurt. "I wasn't giving him a hard time. I actually feel
kind of bad about it myself."

"About Chip Crockett?"

"Sure. I liked Chip Crockett. Especially Ogden Orff " Kevin rapped his
knuckles again his forehead and cried, " 'No, Ogden, noooo!' " Then, in
fonder tones, " 'That's my boyOgden Orff!' "

Brendan smiled. "Good old Ogden Orff. But gee, Kev. I never figured
you'd be all broken up about Chip Crockett."

"I dunno. I was thinking about how that fire just, like, wiped any
evidence of him off the planet. Like if you're not on TV somewhere, or
on the net, you just don't exist anymore. Freaks me out, all that stuff.
You know, getting old. People dying. That kind of thing."

Brendan eyed his cousin suspiciously. "Is something wrong?" he asked,
fighting the faintest, cruelest spasm of glee at the thought.

"No. That's the problem. Everything's perfect. Too perfect. I mean, the
girls are gonna need braces in a year or two, and Eileen's a screaming
banshee because of this remodeling job she's doing out in Warrenton,
butwell, don't you ever feel like that? Like everything's just going too
well?"

Brendan stared at his cousin. Kevin stared back, his bright blue eyes
completely guileless. "No," Brendan said at last. He turned to grab his
coffee from the waitress. "You know, I got to get goingI've got a case
coming up, I need to go over some stuff before the weekend."

He took a gulp of coffee, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and slid it under
the mug. Behind him Tony reappeared, grinning and singing along with the
jukebox in that immediately recognizable, nasal just-north-of-the-Bronx
voice. Brendan pulled on his overcoat, watching him. It was always
disconcerting to him, the difference between Tony Kemper and Tony
Maroni. The latter's now-famous stage persona, a gangly stoop-shouldered
goofus doing his trademarked knock-kneed dancepractically immobile from
the waist up and looking as though he were swallowing the mike, his face
hidden behind a curtain of lank black hair as he blurted out his
customary greeting"Hooray hello, whoa whoa whoa!"followed by three-chord
anthems like "ECT" and "Gonna Have a Bad Trip" and "Tibbets Park," the
FM radio hit he'd dedicated to Brendan and Kevin


Come with me tonight

Playin' in the dark

We can have a great time

Down at Tibbets Park Tony Maroni was a goofball, a knucklehead, a
refugee from all those kiddie shows they'd lived on back in YonkersSoupy
Sales doing The Mouse, Chuck McCann sticking pennies on his eyes and
pretending to be Little Orphan Annie, ventriloquist Paul Winchell
arguing with his dummy sidekick Jerry Mahoney. Whereas the real Tony
Kemper moved with an unconscious but intensely sexy, almost feminine
grace: he was like someone feigning drunkenness, catching you off guard
by catching himself just when you thought he was going to walk into the
wall. And he was a great dancer. Back at Sacred Heart High School, Tony
was the guy all the girls wanted to slow-dance with, while teenage
guitarists struggled through the solos in "Southern Man" and "Nights in
White Satin."

Now Tony blinked, staring at Brendan in dismay. "Brenda! You're not
leaving already?"

"Sorry, Tony. I've got this case, we'd like to try and get a settlement
before Christmas"

"Wait." Kevin whistled and held a hand up, as though officiating a
fight. "Before I forget: Eileen wants you both to come for
Thanksgiving." He pointed at Brendan. "Do you have Peter that weekend?
'Cause the girls would love it if"

"I think I do. I'm pretty sure Teri has him for Christmas."

"Great. What about you, Tony?"

Tony rubbed his chin. "Yeah, I think I can swing it. There's this girl
I've been sort of seeing, but"

"Well, bring her. Or dump her. Whatever. Just let Eileen know, okay?"

Tony nodded. He swung around to throw an arm over Brendan's shoulder.
"See you here next week, then?"

"Righto." Brendan headed for the stairs, pausing to give his friends a
salute. "Very, very good to see you guys."

"Call Eileen, okay? Let her know if you can come," Kevin called after
him. "And hey, I really hope Peter can make it."

"I'll let you know," Brendan said with a wave. " 'Night"

Kevin watched thoughtfully as his cousin disappeared up the steps.
Beside him Tony sipped his club soda, tapping the table in counterpoint
to the jukebox.

"You know," Tony said after a minute, "Peter's sort of like Tommy, isn't
he?"

"Tommy?" Kevin started, shook his head. "Tommy who?"

"You know, Tommy'that deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean
pinball.' "

Kevin swiveled to stare at him. His eyes narrowed as he drew his breath
in. "You know what? You're an idiot, Tony," he said softly. "A total
fucking idiot."

Tony put down his club soda. "I just meant"

"And you ever say something like that to Brendan, I'll put your fucking
lights out." He tossed a handful of bills on the table. "I'll see you at
Thanksgiving."

"Yeah, sure." Tony waved meekly as Kevin left. "Thanksgiving. My
favorite holiday. Damn, that's not what I meant, you know that's not
what I meant." He ran a hand through his hair, fumbled around for a
fistful of change and added it to the money on the table. Then he stood,
rocking anxiously back and forth on his heels until he saw the waitress
approaching. "Thanks Bethie," he said, grabbing the printout from Chip
Crockett's Web page. "See you soon."

"Goodbye hello, Tony."

"Whoa whoa whoa," he said ruefully, and left.

As it turned out, Brendan saw Tony a lot sooner than Thanksgivingthe
next day, in fact. Every other Friday Brendan had his son for the
weekend, picking him up early from the Birchwood School, where fourteen
caregivers exposed his son and seventeen other very young children to a
rigorously ordered curriculum. The days were exquisitely maintained:
children sat at table for meals, games were devised so that students
learned cooperative behavior, objects were labeled and their names
repeated consistently. Teachers taught parents to use the same specific
words and phrases over and over again, to maintain consistency at home.

Brendan's ex-wife, Teri, had great faith in the Birchwood School and its
intensive program of early intervention. Although the administration and
teachers disliked labeling, most of their students had been diagnosed as
having some form of Pervasive Developmental Disorder and, like Peter,
their behavior placed them somewhere along the autism continuum.
Whenever he visited the school Brendan found himself contemplating an
adult correlation to this, something he called the Parental Anguish
Continuum. Peter was verbally non-communicative and, like many of the
other children, hypersensitive to touch and sensory stimulation. But his
tantrums had grown less frequent in the last year, and he had done
wonderfully well in the ordered environment at Birchwood. What would it
be like to have a son like Sasha Petrowicz, whose sensitivity to the
world was such that he spent much of the day screaming in pain? Or a
daughter like Ivy Montrose, who had been adopted from an orphanage in
Rumania and had a band of scar tissue across her forehead, from
headbanging in an iron-sided crib? What would it be like to be Kurt and
Donna Raymond, whose only child had died of pneumonia after surgery?
Setting himself within that arc, Brendan with customary Irish Catholic
stoicism (Teri called this denial) found himself counting his blessings.
On one hand and with gritted teeth, to be sure; but Brendan knew better
than to feel sorry for himself or his son, at least for more than an
hour or two, and never when visiting the Birchwood School.

"Brendan! Hi!"

Peggy Storrs, Peter's teacher, waved to him from a corner. Brendan
smiled and walked over. "Hi, Peggy. How's everyone doing?"

"He's having a pretty good day." Peggy sat cross-legged on the floor, a
number of blocks scattered around her. She was in her late twenties,
Brendan guessed, and completing her Masters in Education at G.W., a
strong-featured young woman with thick chestnut hair hidden beneath a
brightly checked wool hat, batiked cotton trousers and a fuzzy handknit
sweater. Brendan figured her for a lesbian, because of the hat; she
reminded him of certain nuns he'd had as teachers back at Sacred Heart,
steely-eyed women who in another life might have become neurosurgeons,
astrophysicists, attorneys specializing in medical malpractice. "Joni's
got the flu, so I'm with Allen, too, which is making it a little
difficult. We had a little outburst at snack time, but other than that
Peter's doing great."

Peggy smiled at Brendan, then turned her attention back to work. Beside
her, but a few feet apart from each other, knelt two little boys. They
were stacking blocks, Allen in a distracted manner, placing two or three
atop each other before knocking them down, Peter with intense
concentrationstacking first a blue block, then a yellow one, then
another blue, then yellow.

"Put in a green one, Peter," Peggy urged, and held out another block.
"Here. Put in the green block."

Peter ignored her. He continued stacking, head tilted, his resolute gaze
fixed not so much on the blocks as on some point just beyond. Watching
his son made Brendan think of hummingbirds; how their metabolisms were
supposedly so quick-working, their bodies and brains wired at a rate so
much faster than humans that they did not even perceive us. To a
hummingbird, Brendan was only a massive grey-and-black blur, solid and
unmoving as a boulder.

What was he to his son?

"Peter," he said gently. "Peter, hi. Hi, honey, hi Peter."

A smile flickered across Peter's face, so fast it was like one of those
phantom looks that cross a dreamer's face in deep REM sleep. But Brendan
recognized it. He smiled back, feeling a surge of joy so acute it was
like grief. "Good, Peter! Take the green block from Peggy."

Peggy's hand hovered a few inches from the blue and yellow stack.

"Take the green block, Peter," she said.

Another flicker, annoyance this time; then only that unwavering
concentration as Peter put another blue block on top of the pile.
Brendan's stomach clenched. He knew his son wasn't being stubborn, but
sometimes he found it impossible to keep from reading his behavior that
way. If you saw these kids in an ordinary settingand the Birchwood
School was, in most ways, an ordinary settingyou might not know there
was anything unusual about them. They were small, they wore rompers and
Gap jeans and L.L. Bean sweaters,Teletubbies sweatshirts and Elmo
sneakers, they toddled and ran around and cried like other kids. It was
only after been you'd been here for a while that you noticed the
dreamily intent rocking in front of a window; the methodical ordering
and reordering of blocks and cups and plastic forms; the boy whirling in
a corner until reminded that it was time to go outside; the constant and
insistently repeated statements from the teachers

"Take the green block, Peter. I'm going to put it on top. I'm going to
put the green block there, Peter"

Peter's head was half-turned to pick up another yellow block from the
floor. Peggy placed the green one on top of his tower, breaking its
careful symmetry. Blue yellow blue yellow blue yellow blue

Without a word Peter turned, smacking the pile. Blocks flew everywhere,
one of them striking Allen on the leg. He began to cry, and Peggy moved
quickly to comfort him.

"It's all right, Allen. That was an accident"

"Right." Brendan let his breath out and clapped his hands on his knees.
"We're going to the zoo now, Peter. This is the day when we go to the
zoo."

The same flicker across the boy's face, water rushing over pale sand.
Without looking at his father he shook his head. "Great," said Brendan.
He pointed to the row of cubbies against one wall. "Let's go get your
jacket and your knapsack. Have a good weekend, Peggy."

"You too, Brendan. Bye, Peter!"

Peter turned and walked to his cubby. Brendan followed him and started
to gather his son's butterfly-colored paraphernalia, green and blue
knapsack, yellow rubber boots in case in rained, yellow rubber duck. He
went into the kitchen and retrieved Peter's medication, then caught up
with Peter waiting by the door.

"Okay, Peter. You ready?"

They went to the zoo. Ever since his law school days Brendan had loved
it, the illusion of order and safety and immense distance granted by
carefully designed landscapes and cast-resin boulders.

He had learned, however, that all of this was too much for Peter;
everything except the Reptile House. Peter was fascinated by the
displays here, especially the iguanas as they slid with sinister intent
from rock to sand, finally ending up in a great heap atop each other.

"Look at that lizard, Peter. How many lizards in that pile? One, two,
three lizards."

Peter moved closer to the glass. Brendan stepped towards him, and bumped
into someone.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry"

"Hey, Brendan."

"Tony?" Brendan looked up into his friend's lopsided grin. Tony was
wearing his work clothes, grey herringbone tweed jacket, skinny black
tie. "Jeez, Tony, hi. What are you doing here?"

Tony shrugged. "Oh, I dunno. I like snakes, I guess."

"I know, but aren't you " Brendan stopped. "Oh no. Tony"

Tony gave him a sheepish look. "Yeah. I, uh, actually, wellI got canned.
That girl I was seeing"

"Oh, Christ, Tony! Don't tell me, please don't tell me"

"No! I mean, she's eighteen, anyway, but nothing happened, I just sort
of hung out with her after school a couple of times, but someone said
something, and"

"Tony"

"and anyway, we didn't have all that much in common. As it turned out."

" 'As it turned out.' 'As it turned out.' Tony, this is not a good
thing. I mean, do you have an attorney"

"No, man! Nothing happened. I'm not getting sued, or anything like that.
I mean, I was only a substitute anyway. They just, uh, said it wasn't
working out. Plus I already have another job, Russ Acton said he has a
gig for me, working nights at Gigantor Records."

"Gigantor Records." Brendan shifted so he could keep an eye on Peter,
still standing mesmerized by the iguanas. "Whoo boy. Tony "

"Hey, it's a good deal. Only three nights a week, plus I get the
employee discount. But, uh, that's actually not why I was looking for
you."

Brendan closed his eyes. Overhead a ceiling fan turned desultorily. He
took a deep breath, and opened his eyes again. "Yes?"

"I, uhwell, you know, I only had this month-by-month lease after
Kimberly split, and it turns out the lease wasn't even in her name but
that guy she used to go out with, what's his name, you know, Roy, the
bartender down at"

"Tony."

"And I, uh, welldo you think I could crash at your place for a while?
Just until I can get on my feet? Like a month or two, till the new year"

Brendan shook his head. "I don't know if that would work, Tony. Like
nowI have Peter every other weekend, and sometimes during the week, and"

"It would be temporary. Very temporary. Say a week."

"You just said a month."

"Okay, fine, a month. And I promise, I promise it won't be any longer"

Brendan rubbed his eyes, defeated. "Oh, Christ. All right. Yes. But only
for"

"'cause like, there's this place I'm guaranteed, I know I can get it, up
by Nebraska Ave., but the guy isn't moving till right after New Year's.
Plus that way I can, like, save up enough for the security deposit and
stuff. And Christmas presents."

"It's okay, Tony. I mean, I guess it'll work out, if it's only for a
while. Justwhen Teri's over, maybe you better keep a low profile."

"Sure, man. I mean, I really appreciate it, I know it's a hassle and
stuff"

"It's no hassle."

"but I really appreciate it." Tony tugged at the neck of his tweed
jacket, then held out his hand. "Thanks, Brendan."

"No prob." Brendan gave his friend's hand a cursory shake, turned and
walked over to the wall of glass cages. "Hey, Peter, look who's here.
Uncle Tony."

"It's Crazy Uncle Tony!" Tony announced. He crossed to stand directly
behind Peter. "Hey, look at all those lizards making a big pile.
'Dogpile on the rabbit! Dogpile on the rabbit!' "

Brendan frowned as Tony went on. "You rememberBugs Bunny! Boy, check him
out, that guy's huge." A flicker, and Peter tilted his head, looking
where Tony pointed. "You know, I think I used to date his sister."

Brendan laughed. "How old was she?"

"Aw, man. I mean, you should've seen this girl, there's no way she
looked under"

"Uh-uh-uh. That's the first thing they teach you at law school: Never
date anyone in high school. God,Tony. Do me a favor, do not mention this
to Teri. Or anyone else."

"Absolutely, man." Tony's gaze didn't move from the cage. "I definitely
dated that guy's sister."

"Come on, let's look at the crocodiles. Peter?" Brendan moved to take
his son's hand. For a fraction of a second Peter's rested against his
father's palm, warm and sticky, his fingernails rough where he'd bitten
them. Then they slid away. Brendan felt that same small stab at his
chest, familiar and painful as a pulled tendon; but he only looked at
his son and smiled. "Remember the crocodiles? You liked them last time
we were here."

They wandered through the rest of the reptile house, Tony expressing
remorse over the remains of several white mice and a dead sparrow. After
a quarter hour, Peter grew restive. He started grabbing at the railings
in front of the glass cages and rocking back and forth, his cheeks
flushed.

Brendan turned to Tony. "He's hungry," he said. "Okay Peter, time to go.
It's time to leave the zoo now."

Peter said nothing; only rocked faster, back and forth on the rail.

"Time to go," repeated Brendan. "Come on, Peter. We have to leave now."

Peter closed his eyes and swung sideways.

"Peter," Brendan said again. He looked at Tony and took a deep breath.
"All right, PeterI'll have to pick you up, then"

He stepped towards Peter, wrapped his arms firmly around him and started
disentangling him from the rail. Peter kicked, grunting loudly; then
began to scream. At the other end of the room a mother with two small
girls stared at Brendan, frowning.

"Peter," Brendan said in a strained voice, prising his son's fingers
from the railing. "Come on, Peter"

Peter started crying. Brendan held him as tight as he could and carried
him to the exit. When he saw the door, Peter's cries abruptly stopped,
but he continued to push at his father, trying to get away. Tony bounced
after them.

"I'm hungry too, Peter," Tony announced loudly. Peter narrowed his eyes
and looked the other way. "Gentlemen? It's dinner time"

Tony held the door for them as they stepped outside. "My treat," he said
with a bow.

"Tony, you don't"

"My treat. Come on, Peter, we're going to McDonald's."

Brendan shook his head. "That may not be a good idea, Tony." He bent and
let Peter slide from his arms to the ground. "When he goes off like this
"

But Peter was already brightening. He took a few steps, stopped, and
looked at the sky, shutting his eyes and letting that same half-smile
flash across his face. Brendan watched him, then turned to Tony.

"Okay. We can try McDonald's," he said. "Just don't tell Teri, she'll
hold you personally responsible for the extinction of the poison arrow
frog."

Peter stared up at Tony, but looked away when the tall man gazed down at
him.

"We can walk there," Tony said. "Right, Peter?" Peter turned, continuing
to watch Tony from the corners of his eyes. Tony began to walk backwards
down the sidewalk. "Plus, Brenda, this way you don't have to do the
dishes afterwards.

"plus, I have one more favor to ask you," he added, sidling up alongside
of Brendan as they approached Connecticut Avenue.

Brendan stopped, grabbing Peter as he ran towards the gate. "What?" he
asked tersely. His son struck at his hands as he zipped up Peter's
jacket and pulled a knit cap down over the boy's sleek hair.

"No biggie. Just, could you help me move my stuff? There's not a lot,"
Tony added, "it's just too much for one cab ride, you know, plus your
car has so much more room."

Brendan sighed. "All right, Tony."

"And could you maybe do it tonight? 'Cause the landlady said she's, like
changing the locks tomor"

"Yes Tony."

Brendan's blue eyes glittered dangerously. Tony said nothing more; just
nodded and walked with them up Connecticut Avenue, past the first crowds
of commuters heading home in the early dusk.

They ate. Peter was quiet, repeatedly squeezing his chicken nuggets
between his fingers and refusing to eat more than a few mouthfuls. But
Brendan was relieved that it was nothing more than that, no screaming
fits, no throwing food or trays or cups, nothing to make all the other
parents and children turn from their Big Macs and Happy Meals to stare
at an uncontrollable four-year-old and his ineffectual father.
Afterwards they found Brendan's Volvo wagon and drove to Adams Morgan to
retrieve Tony's stuff. This consisted of a stereo system, five large
boxes of CDs and tapes, another six cartons containing records by
Firesign Theater and dozens of one-hit wonders from the late '60s and
early '70s; a small carton of paperbacks, heavy on the Illuminati and
the Beats; a spatula; Tony's Mosrite electric guitar; and a single black
trash bag holding Tony's wardrobe, which consisted entirely of black
T-shirts and black jeans.

"That's it," Tony announced. He tossed the trash bag into the back of
the car. In the middle seat, Peter sat quietly and stared out the side
window. Brendan had remained behind the wheelthey were illegally parked,
and he was also doing lookout duty for Roy, putative owner of both
Tony's ex-girlfriend and her lease, a bartender known for his humorless
attachment to World Wrestling Federation events.

"Good." Brendan leaned out the car window. "Now can we go?"

"Yeah, yeah, just hold on. One more thing" Tony raced back upstairs,
long hair flying. A moment later he returned and sprinted down the
steps, his battered black leather jacket in his arms. "God, it feels so
great getting out of that hellhole! I thought I'd never escape."

"You were only there for three months," said Brendan. The Volvo pulled
away from the curb. Tony turned to look back.

"Yeah, well, it seemed like a lifetime," he said. "Hey, there's Roy!"

He rolled down the window, flapping his hands at a big bearded man in a
Redskins windbreaker. "Yo, Roy! Your mother sews socks that smell!"

"Tony!" Brendan started to laugh. "You really are an idiot, you know
that? That guy better not have your new address"

"No way, man." He turned to grin at the boy in the back seat. "Pretty
good, huh, Peter? Stick around with your old Uncle Tony, tomorrow I'll
teach you how to meet girls." Peter smiled, so quickly that Brendan
caught only the faintest shimmer of it in the rearview mirror. Tony
beamed, pounding on the dashboard and nodding. "This is going to be
great, Brenda, you know? Having the chance to hang out with you, spend
some QT "

"When do you start work?"

"Good question. You know, I think maybe I'm supposed to go in tonight,
just to get acclimated. You got an extra key?"

"Tonight? What, like now? You want me to drop you"

"No, man. I told you, I'm the graveyard shift, midnight to seven."

Brendan groaned. "You didn't tell me. And you better not wake me up or
you'll be living in Stanton Square Park."

"No prob, man, no prob. Just give me an extra key, I'll kiss you guys
good night and then bye-bye"

Tony let his arm drape out the open window. As they rounded a corner he
waved at a group of spike-haired kids hanging out in front of a 7-11.
"Bye-bye," he repeated.

"Fuck you," one of the kids shouted. "Motherfucker, you fuck"

A bottle exploded on the street just behind the car, broken glass
spattering up against the rear window.

"Damn it!" Brendan swerved, then glanced at Tony. He was gazing at the
dashboard, his expression unreadable. "Boy, talk about a lack of
respect! If only they knew Tony Maroni was in this car."

"Good thing they don't." Tony's voice was flat. "Jello Biafra got the
shit beat out of him in Berkeley by a bunch of kids like that. He was
going to watch a gig at Gilman Street, they thought he'd sold out."

"Yeah, well, that won't happen to you," said Brendan dryly.

Tony turned back to staring out the window. In the seat behind them
Peter began to snore softly, as the car turned down Mass. Ave. and they
headed for Brendan's apartment.

It was nearly dark when they got there, the sulfur-yellow streetlights
casting a Halloween glow over sidewalks and lawns and boxtree hedges.
Brendan's place was a brick rowhouse, the second one from the corner on
a street just a few blocks from the old riot corridor; a neighborhood
that had spent the last fifteen years being gentrified without ever
quite achieving its goal. He double-parked in front and gave Tony the
keys, waiting in the car as Tony ran in and out with the stereo and
guitar and boxes of records.

"Okay, that's everything except the clothes," Tony said breathlessly,
hopping back into the front. "I stuck it all in the front closet, that
okay?"

"Yeah." Brendan cocked a thumb at the backseat where Peter lay slumped,
his hand in his mouth. "But tonight you sleep on the couchPeter'll be in
his room."

"No prob."

He swung the car around the corner and parked in front of Big Mo's
Liquor and Tobacco Plus. A few underdressed men stood in front, their
breath staining the air as they cadged change from commuters hurrying
home with shoulders hunched against the cold. Brendan glared at them as
he stepped from the car.

"Damn winos, get a fucking job. All right, Peter," he said, and reaching
into the back seat he hefted the boy in his arms. "Tony, can you get
that stuff on your own?"

"Sure, man."

"The car alarm's set, don't mess with it once you close the door."

Brendan gave the street men a final scowl, then headed towards the
corner. Tony hopped onto the sidewalk. He yanked out the black trash bag
and his leather jacket, dropped them behind the car and slammed the door
shut.

"Heyyou" one of the men yelled hoarsely. "YouWhoa Whoa!" He lifted a
malt liquor bottle in an unsteady toast.

Tony turned and smiled. "Dave. How you doin'?"

"Mmm fahn. Jus' fahn." Dave teetered on one foot, a wizened man in a
filthy trench coat, wispy white hair sticking out from beneath a
Microsoft gimme cap. At his feet a whippety mongrel wagged its tail
frantically. "Uh-huh, uh-huh." Dave peered up at Tony with clouded eyes
and stuck out one hand. "Whoa whoa whoa."

"Yeah, yeah. Here." Tony fished out a five-dollar bill and gave it to
him, bent to scratch the dog's head. "Good doggie! Hold on"

He peeled off his tweed jacket and held it up. "See if this fits, Dave."

"Thangs, thangs " Dave smiled, showing a few ravaged teeth, and took the
coat. Behind him the other men nodded approvingly. "Go' bless you."

"No prob, man." Tony reached down for his leather jacket, grabbed the
trash bag and started down the street. "See ya"

Brendan met him at the door. "I'm getting Peter to bed. I pulled out the
sofa for you, there's sheets and stuff in the bathroom." As Tony bounded
past him into the living room he frowned.

"Where's your jacket?"

"I gave it to Dave the Grave."

"You gave it to Dave the Grave? I gave you that jacket!"

"Yeah, well now you can see it whenever you want," said Tony brightly.
"I gotta fly, I've gotta be at work early tonight. Thanks again, man.
Don't wait up for me."

"Right." Brendan said through clenched teeth. He watched as Tony raced
back out the front door and down the steps to the sidewalk. "You have
your keys?" he shouted after him.

"Keys to the city, man!" Tony yelled, punching the air with his fist as
he started towards the Metro. "Later!"

From the room behind him, Brendan heard his son banging impatiently on
the door. "I'm coming, Peter." He gave Tony one last look, a gangly
stoop-shouldered figure slouching its way downstream, past the
overcoated men and women armed with briefcases and leather backpacks,
the kids in their Timberland street gear, and a single slight
whitehaired man weaving his way across Maryland Avenue in a white gimme
cap and grey herringbone tweed jacket.

"Dave the fucking Grave," muttered Brendan, and he shut the door.  He
and Peter were already up when Tony got home from work the next morning.

"You want breakfast?" Brendan pointed at the frying pan still on the
stove. "There's some bacon left, I can make you eggs or something."

Tony shook his head. "No thanks. Got an Egg McMuffin on the way home.
Check this out"

He pulled a CD from his leather jacket. "Promo of the new Advent Moth.
Wanna hear it?"

"No."

"Aw, c'mon"

"No." Brendan slid back into his chair at the table beside Peter.

"Peter, here's Uncle Tony. Peter has to finish eating before he can
leave the table," he said. "Okay, Peter. Pick up your fork, and eat this
before it gets cold."

Tony stood watching them. "Hey, Peter," he said. "That looks like a good
breakfast. Yum yum yum."

Peter sat at the table in a booster seat, a plastic bowl in front of him
holding a small yellow heap of scrambled eggs. Around him the floor was
smeared with more scrambled eggs and several pieces of toast. "Pick up
the fork," repeated Brendan.

Peter reached for the cup. "That's the cup," said Brendan firmly. "Pick
up the fork."

Peter put down the cup but did nothing. "This is the fork," said
Brendan, pointing. "You eat your food with the fork." Peter picked it up
stiffly, and began to eat.

"Listen," said Brendan. He looked up at Tony and patted the empty chair
next to him. "We have to talk."

Tony sank obediently into the chair. "This isn't going to work, right?"

"Well, no, probably not. Or well, maybe for just a few days" Brendan
sighed and took a sip of coffee. "I was talking to Teri"

"Oh, yeah, right. I thought we weren't supposed to tell Teri."

"I have to tell Teri, because of Peter." Brendan glanced at his son and
smiled. "You're doing a good job with that fork, Peter." He turned back
to his friend. "Look, Tonyyou know what it's like. We're doing this
intensive treatment, Peter's doing really well with it, andwell, we have
to be consistent. Anything disruptive is just going to confuse him, and
"

"Right," said Tony. He spread his hands out on the tabletop and began
drumming them. Peter looked over, drew his own hand to his mouth, and
bit it.

"Pick up your fork, Peter. Put down your hand and pick up your fork."
Brendan reached over, took Peter's hand and brought it back to the
table. Peter began to scream, but then abruptly stopped.

"See what I mean?" Brendan shot an exasperated look at Tony. "We're
working on that kind of stim, him biting his hand"

Tony nodded. "He's not doing it as much as he used to."

"He's not doing it at all. Hardly. That's one of the things you doyou
don't let them indulge in any self-stimulation, not until after they've
eaten their breakfast, or done computer time, or whatever. Then, instead
of letting him bite his hand we give him something else"

Brendan turned so the boy couldn't see him and went on sotto voce, "we
give him this rubber duck, he can soothe himself with that for a few
minutes."

Tony rubbed his chin. "Uh-huh. Well, I can do that. I mean, I can
remember to"

"No, you can't. No offense, but just your being here is disruptivenot
you personally, but anyone else beside me, or Teri. We have this all
worked out and it'swell, it's pretty rigid, Tony, it's like this total
one-on-one stuff and let me tell you, it's exhausting."

"But then maybe you can use meI mean, I can help with something, right?"
Tony asked, a little desperately.

"Well, maybe." Brendan gave his friend a doubtful look. "I guess we can
try it and see."

"Why didn't you just tell all me this last night?"

"Jesus, Tony, you didn't really give me a chance, did you? I mean, you
ambushed me at the zoo, saying how you're getting kicked out of your
place and you've got twenty-four hours to live, anduse your fork,
Peter."

"I didn't mean to put you out." Tony ran a hand through his long hair,
his leather jacket squeaking. "Okay. Well, I guess I could, I can always
find somewhere else to crash, just let me get on the horn and see who I
can get in touch with, okay?"

"Wait. Let me finishbut hold on a minute." Brendan stood, got behind
Peter's chair and put his hands firmly on the boy's shoulders. Peter
wriggled, but paused as his father went on, "Peteryou did a good job
eating your breakfast. You did a good job using your fork. Let's go in
now, you can watch Sesame Street."

He pulled the chair out. Peter scrambled down and walked beside him into
the living room. "See? Check this out"

Brendan leaned down to pick up a videotape from a stack alongside the
VCR. "We watch the same Sesame Street tape every day. It's
close-captioned, and we read it out loud."

"He can read?"

Brendan slid the tape into the machine. Peter settled in the middle of
the floor, staring straight ahead as his father walked past him and Big
Bird filled the screen.

"Yes. No. I mean, I actually don't know what he can do," Brendan said,
joining Tony back in the kitchen. "You know? They keep running all these
tests, andwell, he tests above average for language comprehension, and
he does well with all these learning games they play. And he's bonded
really well with Peggy, his teacher, which is wonderfulat first he
wouldn't even let her near him. But he's still not talking, obviously.
And he's still doing the stims when he feels stressed out, though that's
pretty normal."

Brendan drew a hand across his forehead, blinking as though the light
were too bright. "But what's normal, right? God, I'm tired."

He looked at Tony and smiled wearily. Brendan had gained a few pounds
when he quit drinking, and his light brown hair was thinner and flecked
with grey, but otherwise he looked pretty much the same as he did back
in law school. Same pale blue eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses, same
faded freckles in a round boyish face, same faded rugby shirt and chinos
and worn L.L. Bean topsiders. The kind of attorney a GS-3 receptionist
might trust in a dispute over a rush-hour fender-bender, or a checkout
clerk at Rite Aid who lost his job when his drinking became a problem; a
guy who looked reliable and intelligent, but not dangerously so. Not
like his ex-wife, a lawyer who represented a pharmaceutical corporation
in federal lawsuits over the unanticipated side effects of designer
drugs with names Tony couldn't even pronounce; a woman who wore Donna
Karan clothes and contact lenses that tinted her hazel eyes an
astonishing jade-green; a woman who before her divorce had taken a year
off from her job, to stay home and work every single day with her
autistic son.

"Well, you know, Brendan, maybe I could help out. I mean, if you told me
how "

Brendan tilted back in his chair. "Thanks, Tony. But you know, it's
like, complex. All this patterning stuff. The theory is, you just keep
doing the same thing over and over and over again, and eventually you
end up burning new neural pathways in the brain."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Sounds weird. Actually, it sounds boring."

"Well, yeah, it is boring. Sort of. But it works. These kidstheir brains
are wired differently than ours. Someone like Peter, he goes into
sensory overload at the slightest stimulation, the sort of thing maybe
you or me wouldn't notice but he's incredibly sensitive to. The rest of
us, our sensory levels are set at five or six; but his are cranked all
the way up to nine, or ten."

"Noeleven!" Tony said, bopping up and down in excitement. "I get it!
You know, like in Spinal Tapthe dials go all the way to eleven."

Brendan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You know, Tonythe best
thing would probably be ifwell, maybe you could kind of stay out of the
way. It's fine your being here, I mean, I'd kind of even like it for a
little while."

Tony looked hurt. "Oh. Thanks."

"Come on, Tony, you know what I mean. It's just incredibly stressful,
that's all. Actually, it would be nice to have you around," Brendan went
on a little wistfully. "Since Teri has commandeered Peter for most of
the holidays. Not that he gets any of it," he ended, glancing into the
living room.

How would you know what he gets? Tony thought. He leaned forward,
leather-clad elbows nudging aside an empty glass of orange juice as he
watched the little boy in the next room. On the floor in front of Peter,
a huge plastic container of Legos had been spilled. Methodically, his
brow furrowed, Peter was picking through the multicolored blocks, taking
only the yellow and blue ones and being very careful not to even touch
the others. On the TV behind him, a fuzzy red figure floated in a
star-flecked ultramarine sky, silhouetted against a calm moon while a
cat danced beneath. Tony blinked; letters scrolled across the bottom of
the screen. On the floor, Peter tilted his head to one side, and his
mouth moved silently.

"What's he saying?" said Tony. "Brendan? Is he, uh"

Brendan turned, springing from his chair with such force that it skidded
across the room. "Peter? Peter"

Peter sat calmly and regarded the wall of yellow and blue that separated
him from the remaining Legos. Above him Brendan stood, hands opened
helplessly as he stared down at his son. "You okay, Peter? You okay?"

Peter said nothing, his mouth a straight line as he stretched out a hand
and began to touch the blocks: yellow blue yellow blue yellow blue.
After a moment Brendan turned and looked at Tony in the kitchen. "What
happened?"

Tony opened his mouth, thought better of it. "Uh. Nothing. I mean"He
shook his head and shrugged. "Nothing, man. Sorry. I guess I'm just
kinda beat, you know? I think I'll crash for awhile"

He stood, chair scraping loudly. In the living room something flashed
across Peter's face, unobserved by the grownups. A wince or perhaps a
smile, the bright spark of a moth's wing in the dark. Brendan continued
to stare at his friend.

"Beat," he said at last. He nodded, pushed up the sleeve of his old
rugby shirt to scratch his arm. "Right. Use my roomjust sleep on top of
the bed, there's a blanket in the closet. Teri's coming by at noon to
pick up Peter. You can have his room thenokay, Peter? That okay if Uncle
Tony uses your room?"

This time Peter did smile. Tony saw it. Brendan didn't; he had already
turned to adjust the volume on the TV. For just an instant the two
others locked eyes and for once Tony could really see him: Peter's gaze
questioning, the blue eyes pale as his father's but green-flecked, the
firmly-set mouth neither stubborn nor remote but merely intent, slightly
distracted but also puzzled by all the to-do. Tony gazed back, and in
that instant it was as though a thread were stretched taut between them,
silvery and shimmering, ephemeral as Peter's smile, something else that
only Tony could almost see

"Hey," he murmured. "Hey  !"

His heart surged as though on an explosive adrenaline rush, he had a
flash of delight so intense and primal it was like one of those things
you know you should never be able to remember but in a miraculous
amphetamine moment you do: the first time you saw the moon, the first
time you understood the color red; the first silver-grey flicker of a
man's face on a small square screen, gentle and smiling, and other
smaller faces dancing around him: a mouse, a beatnik, a gross-beaked
clown. It was like that, seeing Peter smile, the echo of some emotional
Big Bangbum, bum-bum!

And then it was gone. Without moving his head, Peter's attention back to
the blue and yellow wall of Legos. Tony was staring down at him
open-mouthed, feeling at once bereft and exultant.

Fuckin' A, he thought. His hand closed on the back of his chair as he
stood, dazed, love and sleeplessness and the rush of blood to his head
all one solid revelation. He blinked, eyes aching as Brendan walked past
him to gather dishes from the table.

"Tony. You go on," he said with a glance over his shoulder. "Peter and
I'll be out for awhile, down at the park or something. If the phone
rings just let the machine catch it, okay?"

Tony stared at him, then nodded. "Sure," he said. "Thanks, man."

He turned, stopped to look back. Peter was framed within the doorway,
kneeling in front of his Legos. The TV hummed at his back, a fuzzy red
figure twirled around the moon, words formed and changed on the screen.

"Bye Peter." Tony waited to see if the boy would look up, if that mad
rush of feeling would overcome him again.

It didn't. Peter remained where he was, making his patterns: yellow blue
yellow blue. Yellow.

"Bye bye," murmured Tony. He swiped a long strand of unwashed hair from
his face; then turned and walked down the corridor to Brendan's room.

In the weeks that followed they fell into a surprisingly easy routine.
Surprising because in all their years of knowing each other, Brendan and
Tony had never actually lived together. Oh, there had been numerous
occasions when one or the other had been bounced out by a girlfriend, or
a group house had gotten just too crazy even for Tony's patience. And
certainly there had been plenty of drunken evenings when Brendan had
passed out on Tony's sofa or floor, or vice versa. And so Brendan had
always assumedextremely very wrongly, as Tony quickly pointed out with a
hurt lookthat Tony was a slob.  In fact Tony was exceedingly, even
excessively, neat. He cleaned dishes immediately after washing them; he
picked up damp towels and hung them over the shower rod to dry, and
later folded them carefully, in three parts, and replaced them on the
towel rack. If Brendan put his half-full coffee mug down somewhere and
forgot about it, the next time he'd see it would be in the dishwasher,
or back in the cupboard. Each section of The Washington Post was in the
recycling bin as soon as it was read, and sometimes even sooner.

"You know, Tony, I was saving that Redskins article," Brendan said the
Sunday before Thanksgiving, aggrieved to find the sports section gone a
few hours before game time. "Christ, you're worse than my mother! Were
you always like this?" Brendan gave his friend a suspicious look as Tony
sorted through the CDs in the living room. "I thought you were a slob.
Like me," he added, yanking the offending sports section from the
recycling bin.

"No way, man."

"Yes, waywhat about all those places you lived? What about your place
with Kimberly? That was disgusting."

"Wasn't me, man." Tony shook his head. "That was her. That was all of
them. I just like messy women," he said, shrugging. He held up a CD and
struck a thoughtful pose: Marcus Welby, Punk Rocker. "I think they're
better in bed. Haven't you ever noticed? Big Fat Slob Equals Great
Head."

Brendan laughed. "Oh. That's what I've been doing wrong."

"Sure, man. Problem is, eventually, you just can't find 'em."

"You mean like, all the good ones are taken?"

"No, manI mean, like, Kimberly's place was such a fucking pigsty, it
took me a week to figure out she'd gone off with Roy." Tony turned back
to the stack of CDs. "And you know, these days I'm so wired when I get
home from work in the morningit's like when I used to play. Takes me a
while to wind down. It calms me, straightening stuff. And I mean, what's
your fucking problem?" He glared over his shoulder at Brendan. "Cleaning
up is a lot more productive than shooting smack."

Brendan hooted. "Is that what you told your students? 'This is Tony
Maroni for a Drug-Free America. Clean your'ouch!"

He ducked as a CD went skimming past his head. "Go watch your Foreskins
game!" yelled Tony. "Let me clean in peace!"

They went out to dinner that night after the game, Tony's domestic
abilities not extending as far as cooking food. Peter was at his
mother's until Wednesday, when Brendan would pick him up for the long
Thanksgiving weekend.

"How come you got the night off?" he asked Tony, dousing his salad with
balsamic vinegar. "I thought Gigantor was open for all major holidays."

"They are. But I said I'd cover for Jason so he could go see his
girlfriend in Charlottesville." Tony picked up a french fry, dabbed it
in ketchup and drew a little heart; erased it and ate the fry. "Wish I
had a girlfriend," he said. "We still on for Cousin Kevin's?"

"Far as I know. Kevin says Eileen's bought a five-hundred-pound turkey
and upset the Chicago trading floor by sucking up cranberry futures. So
I guess we're expected."

Tony laughed: he loved Eileen. "You think she'll do that thing again
with the little teeny pumpkins and jalapeo cheese? And the girls doing
their Irish dancing?"

"Jesus, I hope not. Kevin said come any time after ten, so we can catch
some of the parade. And we're supposed to bring cider."

"Cider?"

"Yeah" Brendan pulled an ATM receipt from his pocket and squinted,
trying to read something scrawled there. "Magyar Farms Organic
Flash-Pasteurized Cider. Four gallons."

"Wow. Flash Pasteurized." Tony leaned back in his chair and grinned.
"Thanksgiving. I can't hardly wait. Remember when we were kids, watching
the parade and stuff? And that story your Uncle Tom always told, about
the turkey who ate the Pepperidge Farm Man?"

Brendan laughed. "I forgot about that."

"And Chip Crockett  Remember how Captain Kangaroo always used to have
Thanksgiving dinner, like a real formal dinneryou know, Mister Green
Jeans and Dancing Bear saying Grace with all the silverware and good
china. And so Chip Crockett started doing that thing with Ooga Booga and
Ogden Orff trying to stuff a kielbasa?"

Brendan speared a cherry tomato and shook his head. "Jeez, Tony. How the
hell do you remember that stuff?"

"Chip Crockett Web page, man! It's like a memory enhancer. Or a time
machine, or something." He hesitated, recalling that weird charged
moment with Peter; thought of mentioning it to Brendan, but instead
said, "Like when you smell something, or hear somethinga song, or the
way a balloon smellsand all of a sudden you flash back to when you were
really, really little? Like Peter's age? But you can't remember exactly
what it is that you're remembering, because you were so young then it
was before you started remembering things. It's like that."

Brendan stared at him blankly. "Balloons?"

"Sure!" Tony leaned back a little too enthusiastically in his chair,
nearly tipped before he came crashing back down. "Oops. Yeah, balloons."

"Tony? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I told you: Chip Crockett's Web page! It's all there. All that stuff
you thought you forgot when you grew up"

"Like where I put my Casey Stengel baseball cards?"

"Absolutely. And all those Bosco commercials? And Cocoa Marsh?" Tony
pushed aside Brendan's salad and leaned across the table. "It's all in
there. Bonomo Turkish Taffy. Enemee Electric Organs. Diver Dan and Baron
Barracuda. 'They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha Ha.' Ooga Booga. Ogden
Orff. Everything."

"Right." Brendan closed his eyes, opened them, and slid his salad plate
back where it belonged. "You know, Tony," he said between mouthfuls of
mesclun and seared porcini mushrooms, "doesn't it ever strike you that
some of this stuff iswell, sort of useless?"

Tony looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"All this baby boomer detritus. Beatlemania. Mickey Mouse Club hats.
Three Stooges T-shirts. It's all bullshit. They're just trying to sell
you shit. It's all one big fucking infomercial."

"But that's not what I'm talking about." Tony shook his head, hair
whipping round his face. "I'm talking about the stuff that was lostall
those people you never heard of again. Like Chip Crockett. All those
puppets he made, " he said plaintively. "And his characters. Ogden Orff.
I mean, there's nothing left but these little tiny ten-second
videoclips, but he's there, man! He's still alive!"

Brendan dropped his fork onto his plate and buried his face in his
hands. "Tony." He cracked his fingers so that he could peer at his
friend. In front of him, Tony's cheeseburger platter was almost
untouched, the ghostly red outline of a heart just visible alongside the
pickle. "Listen. I hate to be the one to give you the bad news about
Santa Claus, but"

"But this is real. Ogden Orff was realor, well, Chip Crockett was. They
were real," Tony repeated, pounding the table. "Real."

"Yeah, but Tony! They don't matter. They never mattered! I mean, it's
cute and nice that you can find this stuff and look at the funny
pictures and all, but Jesus Christ! You're forty-three years old! I got
my access bill and you spent thirty-nine hours online in the last two
weeks. That's a lot of Ogden fucking Orff, Tony. And to tell you the
truth, I'm kind of"

"I'll pay you back. I'll pay you right now, here"

Brendan made a tired gesture as Tony fumbled in his pocket. Dollar bills
fluttered around him, coins chinked across the table and onto the floor
in a steady rain. "I don't want your money, Tony. I definitely don't
want it in nickels and dimesstop, for chrissake! Listen to me

"I know you just started working again, butwell, you've got to, like,
get a life, Tony. A real life. You can't spend all your time online,
looking at pictures of Ogden Orff."

"Why not?" The look Tony gave Brendan was definitely hostile. "Why the
fuck not? What do you think I should do? Huh? Mister Big-Time lawyer.
What, are you pulling in thirty grand these days, after you make child
support? Forty?"

"That has nothing to"

"Yes it does! Or, wellno it doesn't, does it?" The hostility drained
from Tony's face. Suddenly all he looked was tired, and sad, and every
one of his forty-three years old. "Hey man. I'm sorry. I was out of line
there, with that money stuff"

"It's okay, Tony."

"Way out of line. 'Cause like, I know you could earn more if you wanted
to. Right?" Tony raised his eyebrows, then looked away. "But, like, I
understand that you don't want to. I identify with your integrity, man.
I respect it. I really do."

"My what?" Without warning, Brendan began to laugh. "My integrity? My
integrity? Oh Tony. You big dope!" Hard; harder than he'd laughed in a
long time, maybe since before Peter was born. Maybe since before he was
married, when slowly everything had stopped being funny  because what
was funny about being married, especially when you didn't stay married?
Or having a kid, even a perfectly normal boring healthy kid; or a job, a
perfectly normal healthy job that you hated? There was nothing funny
about any of that; there was nothing fun about it at all.

And there was Tony Maroni, with his soulful dopey eyes, his long greying
hair and stretched Silly Putty face, his black leather jacket with its
Jimmy Carter campaign button rusted to the lapel and the faxed copy of
Chip Crockett's obituary still wadded in one pocket. Tony who remembered
the words to every back-of-the-schoolbus song they'd sung thirty-five
years ago; Tony who had dedicated a song to his childhood friends, and
treasured Officer Joe Bolton's autograph as though it were the Pope's;
Tony who'd nearly wept when PeeWee Herman got booted off the air; who
did weep, as a kid, when he'd gotten the bad news about the North Pole.

Tony Maroni was fun. Tony Maroni was funny. Most of all, Tony Maroni had
integrity. Sort of.

"What?" Tony tilted his head, puzzled. "What?"

"Nothing." Brendan shook his head, wiping his eyes. "Nothingjust, you
know"He flapped his hand and coughed, trying to calm down. "Me. You. All
this stuff."

Now Tony sounded suspicious. "All what stuff?"

"Life. You thinking I have integrity, when"

The laughter started up again: spurts of it, hot somehow and painful,
like blood. Laughing blood, Brendan thought, but couldn't stop. "when
I'm justaaterriblelawyer!"

"Awwww." Tony rubbed his forehead and frowned. Then he started laughing,
too. " 'No, Ogden, no!' " he said, imitating Chip Crockett. " 'Don't
file that tort!' "

Brendan lifted his head. His pale blue eyes were brilliant, almost
feverishly so; but there was a kind of calm in them, too. Like a beach
that's been storm-scoured, all the sand castles and traces of an endless
hot afternoon smoothed away, so that only a few still sky-reflecting
pools remain.

Calm. That was how he felt. Their waiter passed and Brendan smiled at
him, signaling for the check; then turned back to Tony. "Okay. So maybe
you can show me that Web site."

Tony's face cracked into a grin like Humpty Dumpty's. "Sure, man!
Absolutely!"

"And maybe you can write me a checknot now, jeez, Tony. When you get
settled. More settled. Whenever."

The waiter brought the check. Brendan paid it. Tony left the tip, in
little neatly-stacked piles of quarters and dimes and nickels. On the
way out Tony held the door as Brendan shrugged into his heavy camel's
hair coat, still smiling. As he stepped past him onto the sidewalk
Brendan tripped, catching himself as he lurched between an immaculately
dressed Capitol Hill couple who scowled as Brendan drew himself up,
laughing, alongside his friend.

"That's my attorney," said Tony fondly. "Ogden Orff."

Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and warm, the air glittering with that
magical blue-gold tinge Brendan recalled from his undergrad
dayslate-autumn light that seemed to seep into the pores of even the
most disenchanted bureaucrats in their holiday-weekend drag of
paint-spattered chinos and faded Springsteen T-shirts, rearranging
leaves on vest-pocket lawns with their Smith & Hawken rakes. That was
what Teri was doing when he went to pick up Peter at The House Formerly
Known as Brendan's, way up Connecticut Avenue just past the Bethesda
line.  "Hi, Teri," he said, stepping from the car and hopping over a
brown heap at the edge of the driveway. "How you doing? Where's the
boy?"

Teri paused, balancing the rake on her shoulder like a musket, and
cocked a thumb at the house behind her. "Taking a nap. You can go wake
him if you want."

Brendan nodded. His ex-wife as always looked harried, her short hair
stuck with twigs and her dark eyes narrowed with a furious concentration
that seemed expended needlessly upon innocent dead leaves. "Great," he
said. "What're you doing today? Kevin said"

"Leon's coming over. We're going out to Harper's Ferry."

Leon was Teri's paralegal, a wispy young man ten years her junior who'd
been her companionate default since before the divorce was final.
Brendan had never been able to figure out if Leon was sleeping with his
ex-wife, if he were even heterosexual, or a careerist, or what?  "That's
nice," he said. "Well, Kevin and Eileen send their love."

"And Tony?" Eileen swung the rake down from her shoulder, plonked it in
the ground in front of her and leaned on the handle. To Brendan it still
looked like a musket.

"Tony?"

"Does Tony send his love? I understand he's living at your place these
days."

"Tony! Oh, sure, Tony sends his love." Brendan kicked at the leaves,
noticed Teri's wince of disapproval and quickly began nudging them back
into place with his foot. "Loads of hugs and kisses from Tony Maroni."

"Hm." Teri eyed him measuringly. Then, "You should have told me."

"You know, Teri, I don't need to ask for"

"I didn't say ask," she said calmly. "I said told. You should have told
me, that's all. I don't care if Tony's living with you. I know it'sI'm
sure it must make things easier for you. I just need to know, so I can
arrange Peter's schedule accordingly."

Brendan frowned. "Accordingly to what?"

Behind Teri the front door of the little mock-Tudor house swung open.
Peter stood there, yellow rubber duck in one hand. He smiled, staring at
a point just above Brendan's head, then walked across the lawn towards
him.

"We can talk about this later," said Teri. She wiped a smudge of dirt
form her cheek and called to the boy. "Hi sweetie. Ready to go with
Daddy?"

Brendan grinned as Peter came up alongside him. "Hey, Peter!" He
caressed the top of his son's head, ever so gently, as though it were
dandelion fluff he was afraid to disperse. "We're going to go see Kevin
and the twins. Remember the twins? Give Mommy a kiss goodbye."

Peter remained beside his father. "I'll go get his stuff," Teri called
as she started for the house.

"I'll bring him back Sunday afternoon. Is that still okay?"

Teri nodded. A few minutes later she returned with his knapsack and
extra bag of clothes. "Okay. This should be everything. Here's the
number where we'll be till Saturday."

She crouched in front of Peter and took his hands in hers. He writhed
and tried to pull away, but Teri only stared at him, her eyes glazed
with tears. "I'll miss you," she said. Her voice was loud and steady.
"You have a great time with Daddy and Uncle Kevin and the twins, okay? I
love you, Peter"

Peter said nothing. When Teri kissed him and stood, he drew the rubber
duck to his mouth, rubbing it against his cheek.

"All right then." Brendan started for the car, turning and beckoning for
Peter to follow. "Wave goodbye, Peter."

The boy followed him. "Wave bye-bye," Brendan repeated, standing aside
to let Peter climb into the back seat. Brendan strapped him in, then got
in front. "Bye-bye," he said to Peter, the boy kicking at the seat in
front of him. And, "Bye-bye," Brendan called to Teri, rolling down the
window as he backed from the drive, "Bye-bye," as behind them she grew
smaller and smaller, the rake just a rake again, his ex-wife just a
mother, waving to her son as he disappeared down the street.

Kevin lived in an expensive contemporary house in Potomac, its cedar
siding tinted a rich russet-brown and lushly overgrown with Virginia
creeper and English ivy, its front yard a miniature forest of
rhododendron and birch trees and azaleas. There were no stray leaves on
the ground, save beneath a solitary Japanese maple whose bounty was
scattered across the grass like crimson handprints.  "Uncle Brendan!
Uncle Brendan's here!"

Two small girls, Cara and Caitlin, danced excitedly on the front porch.
Twins, with long silken hair so deep a red it looked violet in certain
lights, paper-white skin and green eyes. They were wearing smocked
flowered dresses and their hair was ribboned with pink satin bows so
immense it looked as though they were wearing throw pillows on their
heads.

"Peter! Where's Peter! Hi Peter!"

The girls ran over to the car and began pounding on the window. Peter
regarded them with the same reserved interest he'd shown the iguanas at
the zoo, but when Cara yanked the door open and flung herself at him he
kicked fiercely at the back of Brendan's seat.

"Cara! Hey, honey, come give Uncle Brendan a kissit's okay, Petercome
here, sweetie, remember he gets a little excited if"

"Actually, you're our cousin." Caitlin stood watching him solemnly. "Not
our uncle. Our first cousin once removed."

"Oh yeah? Well here, come give Uncle Cousin Brendan Once Removed a kiss"

"Brendan!"

Another figure appeared on the porch, radiant in crimson velvet and ecru
lace, her hair a gold corona framing a face even paler than the girls'.

"Eileen, higee, you look great! Hi, Caitlin, Cara, hi hi hi hi"

Brendan unfolded himself from the car and the twins' embrace, freed
Peter from his carseat. Eileen clattered down to hug him, Peter sliding
behind his father's legs as she did so; and Brendan felt that
irresistible tug of lust and awe he always felt when he saw his cousin's
wife.

"Wow!" He drew back to admire her dress, protected by a spattered apron
with the legend JESUS IS COMING: LOOK BUSY. "You really dressed for
dinner."

"Tell me about it." Eileen dabbed Brendan's chin with a finger, erasing
a smudge of lipstick. "Girls, go get your father."

She swatted at the twins and sent them racing into the house. "And close
the door! I've been doing this job out in Warrenton, redecorating
Senator Weston's place," she continued, turning back to Brendan. "Almost
broke my wrist on that goddam chainsaw , the chain came off and"

Brendan laughed. Eileen had been a lingerie model"the Rosey Underwear
girl," she called itfor the Rosellen's Boudoir Catalog, before quitting
to have babies and then become an interior decorator for the horsy set
out in Middleburg. Now she wielded a chainsaw and glue-gun like Martha
Stewart on steroids.

"oh, but you know what it's like," she ended.

"Breaking my wrist on a chainsaw in a senator's house? Actually, no."

"And how is Peter?" Eileen's tone softened as she took in Peter,
sheltered behind his father and chewing his rubber duck. "Hi, darlin'"

She glanced at Brendan. "Will he let me hug him?"

"No. But Peggyhis teacher at Birchwoodhe'll let her hold him, now.
Sometimes."

Eileen gazed down at Peter. "That's okay," she said softly. "That's just
fine, okay Peter?" She turned back to his father, holding the front door
open. "I'm glad he's doing so well, Brendan. Kevin told me, that new
school is great and he's just making such great progress "

Brendan followed her inside, wondering what on earth Kevin could have
said. The two cousins seldom confided anything more personal than
Redskins' scores. "Oh, and listen," Eileen went on, taking his arm.
"Tony said not to worry, he got the cider."

"The cider!" Brendan slapped his forehead. "I totally forgot."

"That's what I'm telling you, Tony's bringing it.

"Tony? I thought he had to work."

"Change of plans. Here, Peter, you can put your things in here. Brendan,
you too"

"Brendan! Peter! Glad you could make it" Kevin loomed in the doorway,
beaming.

"Yeah, great to be here, Kevin, thanks."

"Girls!" Kevin ordered. "You all go play nicely together, you and
Peter." He turned and made his way down the hall.

"Sure Dad." Caitlin smiled respectfully at the younger boy. "Hi, Peter.
Would you like to come watch TV with us? In the other room?"

"It's down here," said Cara, and started off. Peter shook his head,
looking at the ceiling and patting his rubber duck against one cheek.

"You know what?" Brendan started to explain. "Sometimes he doesn't like
to go off on his own. But maybe in a few minutes, if I go"

Without a word Peter began walking. Still gazing at the ceiling, but
following Cara into the cozy room where a TV was already turned to the
Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

"Hey, Brendan." Kevin stuck his head out from the kitchen. "What're you
drinking?"

"Uh, club soda. Fizzy water, anything." Brendan's brow furrowed, and he
crossed to where the children sat.

"He's watching with us," said Caitlin. On screen the camera panned a
crowd of waving children, then swept up to take in a shapeless scarlet
mass floating against a backdrop of skyscrapers and cobalt-blue sky.
"Look Peter, it's Elmo!"

"Sesame Street. The universal language."

Brendan looked up to see Tony standing in the hall. He wore a black
T-shirt, faded black jeans, and his leather jacket, augmented by four
gallons of cider balanced very precariously in his arms.

"Tony. Hey, why didn't you tell me you were coming, I would've given you
a lift." Brendan scooped up two of the gallons and took a step towards
the kitchen. "I thought you had to work."

Tony shrugged. "Well, you know how it is." His gaze remained fixed on
the television. "Gee, look at Elmo! He sure looks bigger in real life,
huh? Hi goils," he called to the twins. "Look: it's Crazy Uncle Tony."

The girls glanced up, gave high-pitched squeals of glee, and raced over
to hug him.

"Uncle Tony! Crazy Uncle Tony!"

"Hey," said Brendan. "How come he's Uncle Tony and I'm only Cousin
Brendan?"

"Come on, guys," called Eileen from the kitchen. "Come hang out with the
big kids. Girls, dinner'll be ready in an hour."

It was warm enough to sit outside on the deck, looking out onto a small
stand of maples still clinging to their shaggy red leaves. Now and then
one of the children would wander out, the girls looking for snacks
(refused) or attention (given), Peter simply standing for a moment
beside his father before turning and walking back inside.

"Tony said he's starting to read?" Eileen asked. She alone was drinking
wine, a good Smillon that gave off topaz sparks as sun struck her glass.

Brendan's mouth twitched in an automatic smile. "Actually, no, I don't
think he's reading. Well, we're not sure he's reading. We have
close-captioned TV, and he watches it, and Teri thinks maybe he makes
out some of it. But I don't know," he ended, pressing his glass of club
soda to his cheek. "I just don't know."

"Well, but everything has to be taken slowly, doesn't it?" Eileen leaned
over and touched his knee. "Every little thing is sort of a major
triumph with kids. Any kids."

"Sure." Brendan thought of Peter going in by himself to watch TV with
the twins. "Every little bit counts."

"It's all important," agreed Eileen.

"Sure," said Kevin, standing. "But what's really important is football."

Tony looked stricken. "What about The March of the Wooden Soldiers?"

"Don't worry, Tony, we got it all set up." Kevin started for the
kitchen. "And you know what else, Tony? This year you even get to sit at
the grownups' table."

When dinner was ready they all moved into the formal dining room. At his
father's side, Peter sat quietly as Brendan cut up turkey and green
beans. For a little while the room was happily silent, except for grunts
of "Great job, Eileen" and muffled requests for more stuffing. Seconds
were dispersed, plates emptied, and soon everyone save Peter began
talking at oncethe twins eager to tell Brendan about some complicated
arrangement they had for sharing hamsters, Kevin ribbing his cousin
about the last football game, Eileen sharing her recipe for
jalapeo-pumpkin dip with Tony.

And, gradually, and despite Eileen's best efforts, the conversation
began to turn to childhood. Brendan and Kevin and Tony's childhood, in
particular; Chip Crockett, in even more particular.

"Kevin, man, you got to check out his Web site. I was gonna show it to
Brendan the other night but it got too late. It'll blow your mind.
Right, Brenda?"

Kevin sniffed. "Sounds more like something the girls'd go for, Tony. I
personally don't watch a lot of Chip Crockett these days."

"Well, no one does," said Tony. He turned to Eileen. "You remember Chip
Crockett. They had him over in New Jersey, right?"

"Oh sure. He was greatyou girls would've loved him. I had a total crush
on Chip Crockett," she added dreamily. "He was"

"What was he like?" Cara broke in.

"He was just like your Uncle Tony," said Kevin. "Plus or minus a few
brain cells."

"I was going to say," Eileen continued, "that he was like my father. Or
what I wanted my father to be like. He was funny"

"He was silly," said Kevin.

"He was wonderful. I still remember, after Kennedy was assassinatedthat
Monday morning Chip Crockett came back on the air and tried to explain
it to us. He looked awful, but he was so gentle and sadI never forgot
that."

The twins looked bored. "Can we be excused? Please?"

Eileen nodded. "Yes. Of course, just clear your plates "

They were already out the door. A moment later Cara poked her head back
in. "Peter? Wanna come? We have that movie"

"The movie!" Tony shot to his feet. "Wait, girls"

"Go ahead, Peter," said Brendan, smiling encouragingly. "Go with Tony."
Peter slid from his chair and left.

"Tony! Clear your place!" Kevin shouted as Tony hurried down the hall.
"God, he drives me nuts. Doesn't he drive you crazy, Brendan? Living
with him?"

"Not really. Well, a little. He's very neat."

"Neat? Well, his life's a fucking mess. You know he got canned from
Gigantor Music?"

Brendan blinked. "No."

"Yes. He showed up for work last night, they told him to go home."

"Kevin." Eileen's lacquered red nails poised menacingly above his wrist.
"Shut up."

Brendan began to unwind a crescent roll. "What happened?"

"Who knows? Who cares? Look at himforty-three years old, he's still
wearing a leather jacket and hightop sneakers and waiting to collect his
first royalty check. He's a fucking loser."

Eileen's eyes narrowed. "Yeah? Well, I've never seen anyone wearing a
T-shirt with your face on it."

"He hasn't even played a pickup gig in three years." Kevin picked up his
glass of non-alcoholic beer and stared at it. "He depresses me."

"He makes me laugh." In a swirl of red velvet and Chakra perfume, Eileen
stood. "He's the only one who's still the way we were when we all met. I
think he's a sweetheart."

"Oh yeah?" sputtered Kevin. "Well, then, why"

"And you can do the dishes."

She stalked off, carrying the bottle of smillon. Kevin stared after her.
"Christ. My wife's leaving me for Tony Maroni."

Brendan took a bite of his roll. "You know, it's a concept."

"What?"

"T-shirts with your picture on them. They could give 'em out at
Greenpeace rallies. You'd be bigger than Saddam Hussein."

Kevin gazed broodingly at the deconstructed turkey. After a minute,
Brendan asked, "Why does he bother you so much?"

"Tony? Because he's superfluous. He has absolutely no place in the food
chain."

"Then why do you stay in touch with him at all?"

Kevin sighed. "Because he's the only one of us who's still the same as
when we met."

"Dad?" Caitlin stood in the doorway. "The tape's not working."

"I'll go." Brendan stood, put a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "You help
Eileen with the dishes."

He followed the girl into the hall. "How's Peter doing, Caitlin?"

She shrugged. "Okay, I guess. He doesn't talk."

"That's right."

"Did he ever?"

"No, he didn't."

Caitlin stopped outside the door to the TV room. Peter and Cara were
sitting on the floor with Tony sprawled between them, counting out Gummy
Worms.

"Hey, guys," said Brendan. He stepped over them to the television and
picked up the remote. "What's the problem?"

The screen blipped to blue, then black. In a flurry of electronic snow
the tape started. Brendan sank onto the couch, balancing the remote on
his knees. "There"

Mother Goose appeared on the screen, warbling tremulously about Toyland.
Heroes and villains were identified: Little Bo Peep, Tom Thumb ("That
sap," said Tony), wicked Barnaby, and, last of all, Stan and Ollie lying
side by side in bed sound asleep.

"Do they talk?" Cara frowned. "I don't like it when they don't talk."

"It's been colorized," said Brendan. "I hate that."

"I don't." Caitlin scrunched closer to the screen. "I hate
black-and-white. No way "

"Way," said Tony. "Black-and-white is cool, man. You just have to get
used to it. Here"

He grabbed the remote from Brendan and started fiddling with it, pushing
buttons and pointing it around the room. "Beam me up, Captainoops, not
that one " Caitlin and Cara giggled. Even Peter turned to watch. "Hmm.
There's gotta be a way to do this "

Brendan shook his head. "It doesn't work like that, Tony. Older TVs, you
can adjust the color to make it black-and-white again. But not anymore.
Not with a remote, at least. Believe me, I've tried."

On screen, Stan Laurel froze, rose-pink mouth open in a wail.

"Uh-oh. Looks bad for Old Mother Hubbard." Kevin's massive frame filled
the doorway. He looked down at the kids and smiled. "We used to watch
this every year on Thanksgiving. But it wasn't in color then."

"Uncle Tony's fixing it."

Kevin glanced suspiciously at Tony. "Uncle Tony better not be breaking
it."

"see what this'll do"

"Look!" Cara jumped up excitedly. "He did it! Uncle Tony did it!"

Stan's wail filled the room. He reached up to tousle his thatch of
hairblack-and-white hair, black-and-white hand; black-and-white Ollie
rolling black-and-white eyes in disgust.

"Now, Stannie, what'd you go and do that for?"

"That's impossible." Brendan shook his head. "You can't do that with a
remote. I've tried. I've even called the video store"

"You sure can't do it with that remote." Kevin strode over and snatched
it from Tony's hand. "If you screwed this up"

"Daddy, be quiet!"

"Shhh!" said Tony. "I like this part."

"Well, don't mess it up now, Kev, for Chrissakes." Brendan whacked at
his cousin's knee. "At least wait'll it's over."

"Yeah, Daddycome sit with us"

Kevin sat. Tony flopped back, arms outspread and long hair tangled as he
watched, a huge grin on his face. Brendan slid past him onto the floor
and edged towards his son. Without taking his eyes from the screen,
Peter moved away. Brendan stopped, feeling as though someone were
squeezing his ribs. Then he turned back to the movie. After a few
minutes, Eileen appeared and sat down next to Tony. She cupped her
wineglass between her knees and put the half-empty bottle on the floor
beside the couch.

"I love this movie," she murmured. "But I don't like the way they
colorizedbut hey! Who fixed it?"

"Tony!" everybody shouted.

Eileen raised her glass at him. "Way to go, Tony Maroni."

"Shhhh  !"

Everybody shhhed. The story unfolded, like one of those card tricks you
know in advance won't be much of a trick at allGuess which one's the
king, Daddy!because they're all kings.

But no one cared. Cara and Caitlin and Peter watched, huge-eyed. Brendan
sat as close to Peter as he could, feeling his heart constrict again
when the boy winced at the Bogey Men.

"It's okay, Peterthey're just pretend. Seeyou can see the zipper on that
one. Are you scared, honey? Do you want to sit with Daddy?"

Peter shook his head.

"This is the best part," whispered Tony. "Watch "

There was Santa's Workshop. There were Laurel and Hardy. There were one
hundred wooden soldiers six feet high.

And there was the music. A solitary horn, high and sweet and strong, a
sound Brendan still heard in dreams; an answering blare of trumpets and
drums

And the toy soldiers became real, black helmets lifting above impassive
white faces, stiff black legs slicing the air as they began to march. As
a child, this moment had always filled Brendan with such inexpressible
joy that he had simply jumped to his feet and leapt up and down. Then
Tony would do it, too, and Kevin, and all their brothers and sisters,
until the rec room would be filled with giddy leaping children, and on
the screen behind them rank upon rank of implacable, unstoppable
soldiers making war upon the Bogey Men.

Now, for just an instant, he felt that way again: that tide of joy and
longing, that same impulse to leap into the air, because he could not
leap into the screen. Without thinking, he moved to put his arm around
Peter. His son shrank away.

"Peter "

The name came out before Brendan could stop it, a sound nobody heard.
The trumpets swelled, the soldiers broke rank and began routing the
Bogey Men. Brendan looked down and wiped his eyes. He glanced aside and
saw Kevin doing the same, and Eileen, eyes fixed on the screen and their
arms around their children.

"Mommy, will they win?"

"Of course, watch "

On the floor beside Brendan, Tony sat unnaturally still, his hands
clasping his knees, his bare arms goosefleshed as the soldiers triumphed
and the Bogey Men were driven back into the darkness and the lovers
reunited before Old King Cole.

"That was a good movie," said Cara.

"Whaddya mean?" said Kevin. "That's the best movie"

"I liked it when the soldiers saved everybody."

"I liked it when the soldier stepped on that guy's head."

"I liked it when the alligators ate Barnaby."

Brendan turned to his son. "What did you like, Peter?" he asked,
struggling to keep his voice steady. "Did you like the soldiers? Were
they cool?"

Kevin flashed the remote at the television. The tape began to rewind,
soldiers marching backwards, crooked Barnaby wriggling back into his
crooked house.

"Hey, look." Cara walked up to the screen. "It's in color again."

"Damn good thing, too," said Kevin. "This remote cost a hundred bucks."

"Come on, girls." Eileen yawned, looked dismayed into her empty
wineglass. She set it in on the floor and stood. "Who wants dessert?"

A rush for the kitchen, the girls elbowing Tony as he pretended to hold
them back. Kevin drooped an arm around Eileen and snuck in a kiss as the
others raced down the hall, Peter trailing after them. Only Brendan
remained sitting on the floor, staring at the empty TV screen. After a
minute, he turned and reached for Eileen's empty wineglass; then angled
around the couch until he found the half-empty bottle of smillon. He
poured some into his glass and drank it, slowly but steadily. Then he
refilled the glass and drank again, and then a third time, until the
bottle was empty.

"Mm."

For a minute he sat, feeling the muffled rush that came when he drank
too quickly: like pressing a pillow over his face and jumping from the
top bunk when he was a kid. Doing that always made his head ache,
eventually, just like drinking did.

But not yet. Brendan got to his feet, feeling purposeful, perfectly
focused, and walked down the hall. Away from the kitchen, to the huge
back room where his cousin had set up a pool table and wide-screen TV,
sofas and club chairs and the small liquor cabinet Eileen insisted on
keeping for guests and clients.

Tony had wandered off as well, looking for the bathroom. He finally
found it, a room bigger than any living room he'd ever had. More
furniture, too, including a bookcase that contained reprints of vintage
comic books. He got so caught up in Namor the Sub-Mariner that it wasn't
until his Pokemon watch beeped six o'clock that he realized he'd been in
there for half an hour.

"Damn."

He shoved the Sub-Mariner under his arm and hurried back to join the
others in the kitchen.

The children had gone out onto the deck to eat. A floodlight cast a
weird movie-set glow over them: the twins' hair pumpkin-orange, Peter's
rubber duck a blob of yellow paint beside his elbow. Cara and Caitlin
sat side by side at the picnic table, sharing a fluffy pink blanket
against the November chill. Peter was on the other bench, alone, picking
at apple pie and rocking slowly back and forth. Inside, Eileen had
dimmed the kitchen lights and brought candles in from the dining room.
It took a minute for Tony's eyes to adjust to the odd patchwork of light
and shadow, the surreally bright window framing the children so that
they looked like a film running behind their silent, candle-lit parents.

Only it wasn't really silent at all. As he entered the room, Eileen
turned, her cheeks red and golden hair seemingly aflame.

"Here's Tony!" she said, too brightly. She lifted a bottle of mineral
water and beckoned at a stool pulled up beside the counter. Kevin was
leaning beside her, arms folded against his big chest, scowling with
even more than his customary ferocity. "Here! I was just making some
coffee to go with dessert!"

"Uh, thanks." Tony looked around uneasily. What the hell was going on?
"Is there any more cider?"

"Cider? Sure, sure " Eileen hurried over to the fridge, and that was
when Tony saw Brendan. He was sitting at the big round kitchen table,
holding a wineglass and looking up at Tony and Eileen and Kevin with a
dangerously fixed smile. Tony remembered that smile. He hadn't seen it
in about ten years. The last time he had seen it, it had been followed
by an empty bottle of Jameson's that nearly cracked Tony in the skull.

"Why, it's Tony Maroni," said Brendan. His eyes glittered, but his voice
sounded as though he were talking through a cardboard tube. "Hey hey.
Whoa whoa whoa."

This time the bottle wasn't Jameson's but white wine. It wasn't empty
yet, either. The cork lay at Brendan's elbow beside Eileen's
Williams-Sonoma corkscrew, and beside that was a steaming coffee mug,
untouched.

"Hi, Brendan."

"Hi, Tony. Pleased to meet me?"

"Oh sure, sure." Tony nodded. Eileen walked over and handed him a glass
of cider.

"There you go!" She turned to Brendan. "What about you, Brendan? Some
cider?"

"Not on your fucking life."

Tony cleared his throat and lifted his glass. "Mmm." His mouth was so
dry that when he took a sip, it tasted like raw sugar on his tongue.
"Hey, great seeing that movie with the kids, huh?"

Eileen and Kevin both swiveled to stare at him. Tony flushed and looked
over at Brendan. His friend's blue eyes had gone cold and distant: he
looked like a distinctly less benign version of his son.

"Hey, no," said Brendan. "It actually really sucked. It actually made me
feel really bad."

"Brendan." Eileen pressed a hand against her cheek. "Imaybe you could"

"Never mind." Brendan took a drink of his wine. "It doesn't matter."

"I just thought, I can make some"

"Why don't you put it down, Brendan."

Eileen sucked her breath in audibly as Kevin pushed past her. "Kevin,
why don't you"

"Why don't you let me handle this," he said harshly. "I told you, no
wine"

Eileen stood her ground. "You know what? I am not the one who"

"Uh-oh." Brendan laughed. "The annual Thanksgiving dinner meltdown! Hey
Tony, what would Chip Crockett say about that?"

"I know what Curly would say." Everyone turned, and Tony said, "Nyuk
nyuk, nyuk "

"Put it down, Brendan. You don't need that. Come on." Kevin looked down
at his cousin. His arms were uncrossed now, half-raised before his
chest. One hand was already unconsciously starting to curl into a fist.
"You've got to drive."

"You can stay here," broke in Eileen. At Kevin's glare she said, "I just
meant he wouldn't have to"

"Give it to me." Kevin reached for the wineglass. Brendan continued to
smile, continued to stare at some place in the air above a flickering
candle. "You don't want it, Brendan."

"What do you know about what I want?" Brendan's smile grew broader, and
he took another gulp of wine. "You have no fucking clue. You've never
had a fucking clue. You"

Kevin's hand clamped down on his shoulder. Brendan rocked back in the
chair, teeth grinding as his smile became a terrible fixed grin. A drop
of blood welled from his lower lip where he'd bitten it. In his hand the
wineglass began to tremble, as Kevin's arm fell.

And froze in mid-air. Kevin turned, writhing, as Tony held him by the
wrist.

"Leave him alone, Kevo," he said softly.

"The fuck you say! I'm not letting my goddam cousin kill himself and"

"Leave him." Tony gazed calmly into Kevin's eyes, but under his black
T-shirt his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, as though he'd been
running. "Just leave him, Kev."

"You!" Kevin tried to yank his hand free. But Tony moved with him,
looking more like he was slamdancing than fighting one of his oldest
friends. "Let go"

With a muffled shout Kevin stumbled back against the table, sending it
sliding across the floor. Brendan remained in his chair as the wine
bottle toppled and then fell onto his cousin.

"Goddamit!" Kevin yelled, still struggling to pull himself from Tony.
"You goddamn"

"Oops," said Brendan, gazing at the spilled wine as Eileen darted over
with a dish towel. Tony looked at Kevin, measuringly but without rancor,
then let him go.

"I'll drive Brendan and Peter," said Tony. He turned to Brendan and
nodded. "If that's okay? I'll drive you back. Just let me know when
you're ready."

"I'm ready now."

Brendan sat in his chair. He stared at his cousin, his eyes cold; then
turned and let his gaze flick from Tony to Eileen to the children, still
oblivious on the porch. The acid light had poisoned everything, time had
poisoned everything. He remembered that now, with the taste of wine
souring on his tongue and the return of the dreadful drunken clarity
that had fed him for so many years. Why had he ever forsaken it? For an
instant he felt like Superman, his eyes burning into those of his
family, scorching right through Kevin, leaving Eileen a little charred
around the edges, skipping the children completely: they were all doomed
anyway. He grinned, his lips pulled tight across his teeth, and got to
his feet. "Sure, Tony. I'm ready."

The room seemed watery and amber-tinged, though maybe that was his eyes?
He blinked, and suddenly everything came back into focus. Or rather, it
lost the bright malign shimmer the alcohol had given it. The wine had
burned right off; someone had snuck Kryptonite into the kitchen. He
blinked again, this time because he could feel tears starting, and took
an unsteady step towards the door. He reached blindly for the back of
his chair, fumbling so that he knocked it over. Tony caught it, stepping
forward to put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"It's okay, man. You're just a little tired. I'll drive. Maybe you could
get Peter and I'll, like, meet you by the car."

"That's a great idea, Tony." Eileen paused on her way out to the deck.
"It's time for the girls to get ready for bed, too."

They prepared to leave. Peter began to scream when Brendan tried to put
his coat on, and the twins watched with great interest until Kevin
shouted at them to go upstairs. Brendan finally gave up with the boy's
coat and simply picked him up and carried him, shrieking, to the car.
The effort exhausted him. He flung the back door open and strapped Peter
in, then staggered out again and threw himself into the front passenger
seat, his head throbbing. He was dimly aware of Eileen and Tony hugging
farewell on the front steps, Kevin's brooding figure looming behind
them. The wind rose, cold and smelling of wood smoke, and sent leaves
whirling up into the darkness. Then Tony was beside him, adjusting the
seat for his longer legs and playing with the radio.

"Check it out." Tony beamed as the Volvo filled with the strains of
"Mister Grinch." "Christmas music!"

Brendan closed his eyes. "Are you going to drive?" he asked after a
minute had passed.

"Not until you give me the keys."

"Oh. Right. Here"

Tony drove. Brendan sat beside him with his eyes shut; but after a
moment he rubbed them, blinking, and turned to stare at his friend.

How had the car radio been on, if Brendan hadn't given Tony the keys?
Was that possible, even in a late-model Volvo? Brendan shook his head,
framing the question; then thought better of it. He was the drunk, after
all. He sank back down in the seat, gazing numbly out the window as they
made their way back through the silent suburbs, trees dark and bare as
lampposts, lampposts already woven with sparkling Christmas lights and
plastic greenery. Houses prim as Peter's Lego towers, butter-yellow
windows and an occasional flash of the grand meal in progress, heads
thrown back in laughter, dishes being passed, televisions blinking in
the background. Brendan shut his eyes again, praying that he might fall
asleep.

He did not. Tony kept fiddling with the radio, scanning between oldies
stations and the left of the dial, finally settling on a station whose
playlist seemed to consist almost entirely of guitar feedback. Brendan
winced and sighed loudly; shifted, trying to shut out the sound. At last
he gave up, sliding down in the seat and shielding his eyes with one
hand, wondering if there was a single human being playing on this song,
or even working at the radio station.

"Doesn't it ever bother you?"

Beside him, Tony nodded in time to a beat Brendan couldn't hear; but
after a moment he glanced aside. "What?"

"You know. This" Brendan gestured feebly at the radio. "I mean, you were
in Newsweek and Rolling Stone, and that movie. Everything just seemed
like it was going to be so great. Doesn't it ever bum you out?"

Tony stared straight ahead. His long hair had slipped from its ponytail,
catching inside the collar of his battered leather jacket. He turned the
car onto Connecticut Avenue, drove for several minutes in silence.
Finally he said, "Well, sure. Especially after Dickie went, you know? I
kept thinking, fuck, what'm I waiting for? Put a bullet in my fucking
head."

Brendan turned to lean against the door and stared, surprised, at his
friend. "No shit?"

"Well, yeah. What'd you think?"

Brendan shrugged, embarrassed. "I don't know. I guessI don't know."

Tony smiled but said nothing. They slid in and out of traffic, until
finally Brendan asked, "Why didn't you?"

"What? Kill myself?" Tony shook his head. He poked at the radio, blips
of noise, chatter, static, treacly ballads, relentless country twang,
guitar. He stopped, finger poised above the scanner. A twelve-string
jangled, and he hit the volume.

"Like that," he said, and grinned that loopy Tony Maroni grin. "Now and
then, you hear something. You know? And then you think, well, what the
hell."

Brendan shook his head bitterly. "Yeah, but it only lasts for three
minutes."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Well, sure! What do you expect?"

Brendan stared at him, and suddenly they both started to laugh. The song
played on, Tony sang along until it ended. In the backseat, Peter
grunted and kicked, but when his father looked back at him the boy was
yawning, staring out at the streetlights. Brendan turned back, rubbing
his forehead and smiling ruefully. "What did I expect," he said, and
they drove on home.

Tony slept on the couch that night, as he always did when Peter was
there. He didn't even bother pulling it out; just lay facedown, still in
his leather jacket, and pulled a blanket over his head. Within minutes
he was asleep.

He woke, so suddenly that for a moment he wondered if he'd even been
asleep at all. He lifted his head, hair falling in his eyes, then
gingerly raised the edge of the blanket to peer out. Beyond the edge of
the couch wan grey light was filtering through the rice-paper shades.
The street was unusually quiet: no rush-hour traffic or trash pickup on
the day after Thanksgiving. No street people, either; they'd all still
be down by the Fourteenth Street shelter, finishing off their turkey
leftovers and getting in line for breakfast.

Then what had awakened him? With a frown Tony sat up, the blanket
sliding to the floor. It was so still he could hear the faint tick of
his wristwatch on the VCR, and the rustling of leaves along the
sidewalk; nothing more.

Still, he'd heard something, or dreamed ita bird, or maybe a cat. Though
whatever it was, it was gone now. He stood, stretching, then padded down
the hall to the bathroom.

And stopped. The sound came again, a pinched high-pitched cry, like a
trapped animal struggling to breathe.

But Tony knew it wasn't an animal. He turned, and saw the open door of
Peter's room.

"Peter?" He walked over hesitantly, squinting. "Hey, man, you having a
bad dream?"

Peter's bed was pushed against the wall. A white Ikea bed with high
rails, it gleamed in the soft glow of a night-light shaped like the
moon. On the floor beside it, a large pillow had fallen. At first Tony
thought it was Peter, but it was too big. And now he could see Peter,
lying on his side with one hand cupped against his cheek. He looked
tiny, dark hair and eyes smudged against pale skin, his rubber duck
clutched to his chest. And he was having a nightmarethe noise was louder
here, a harsh wheezing that stuttered and then started up again. Tony
shook his head, stood on tiptoe and took a step inside.

"It's okay," he whispered. "Don't be scared "

On the floor beside the bed, the pillow moved. Tony froze. A pale rope
looped up from the shapeless heap that was not a pillow, wobbled in the
air above the boy's head, and finally materialized into an arm grabbing
at the bedrail. There was a gasp, a terrible sound that made Tony dart
back into the doorway again. The rest of the heap fragmented into blots
of shadow: a thatch of unruly hair, a maroon t-shirt, another arm: a
man, his shoulders heaved forward and shaking.

"Brendan?"

Tony wasn't even sure if he'd said the name aloud. It didn't matter. His
friend clasped both hands around the bedrails, so tightly that the
entire bed shook.

"Peter "

Tony flinched, turning his head so he wouldn't have to see Brendan there
in his sweatpants and Redskins T-shirt, rocking back and forth until the
bed began to racket against the wall. But he could do nothing to shut
out the sound, Brendan crying out wordlessly, unrelentingly, his fingers
weaving through the rails and tugging helplessly at the blankets.

" come backplease come back"

Tony turned and stumbled down the hall. His own breath came in such
short sharp bursts that when he reached the kitchen he slid to the floor
and sat there, heart pounding, waiting for Brendan to suddenly burst in
and turn that awful spotlit glare of grief upon him.

But Brendan did not come. Tony waited for a long time, watching the dawn
brighten from grey to pearl to white. Gradually the echo of his friend's
weeping died away, into the faint rattle of the first buses on Maryland
Avenue. And with that small reassuring sound, Tony felt better. He got
to his feet, a little unsteadily, opened the fridge and grabbed a carton
of orange juice. He downed it, shoved the empty carton into the trash
and then stuck his head back out into the hall, listening.

Silence. He waited, then very softly crept back down to Peter's room.

On the floor beside the bed sprawled Brendan, seemingly fast asleep, one
hand against his cheek. Above him, Peter's body was curled into the same
posture. The rubber duck had fallen from his grasp, and his hand had
escaped between two of the rails to rest upon his father's shoulder. For
a minute Tony stood and watched them. Then he turned away.

He went back to the living room and did a peremptory check of the
television, half-hoping to find some remnant of Thanksgiving Past buried
in the strata of infomercials and commercial sludge he sifted through.
Except for the fade-out of It's a Wonderful Life, there was nothing. He
clicked it off, singing "Auld Lang Syne" under his breath as he wandered
down the hall. By the time he'd settled in behind Brendan's computer, he
was humming "Rudolph" and beating time with a pair of unsharpened
pencils.

He checked his e-mail, the usual notes from friends and several of the
effusive, occasionally lunatic, letters from Maroni fans that made up
the bulk of his correspondence. There was also a brief message from
Marty Berenstein, a.k.a. Mony Maroni.


Dear Tony, Just wanted to let you know that our latest effort to
extricate the catalog from EMI went down in flames, again. Sorry.

Otherwise things here are fine. Jocelyn's doing her junior year abroad
in Madrid, so Helen and I are having a second honeymoon, of sorts.
Actually, make that a *first* honeymoon. All the best to you and yours
for the holiday season

Marty

"Ho ho ho," said Tony. "Another day, another lawsuit. Now"

He started clicking around, looking at the New York Times headlines,
checking Amazon for the standing of the first three Maronis albums. Even
twenty-odd years later, these sold well enough to generate modest but
reliable royaltiesif, of course, any of the surviving band members could
have collected them. He was just starting to compare the sales figures
for various musical rivals, when a shadow drifted across the keyboard.

"You know, I always figured there'd be a Tony Maroni Web page."

Tony looked up to see Brendan, holding a glass of water. He still wore
his sweatpants and rumpled T-shirt, his face stubbled and eyes bleary as
though he'd been on a three-day toot, rather than the losing end of a
minor skirmish with three quarters of a bottle of expensive smillon.
"You guys were so big in Japan," Brendan went on, pulling up a chair. "I
would've thought you'd at least have a Web site."

"Well, yeah, sure. I mean, actually, there's a lot of them. A lot for
me, I mean. I don't know about the others."

Brendan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, a lot? Like how many?"

Tony bounced out of the Amazon page, nibbling thoughtfully at a long
strand of hair. "I dunno. Like fifty, maybe? I forget."

"Fifty? Fifty Tony Maroni Web pages?"

Tony looked embarrassed. "Well, yeah. But, I mean, none of 'em's
authorized."

Brendan laughed. "How come none of 'em's ever helped you get the rights
back to your stuff?"

"I dunno. Sometimes they offer to, you know? Like some big LA lawyer
writes me about it. ButI guess I just don't care so much anymore, with
all the other guys being gone." Tony sighed. "We wrote all that stuff
together. It just wouldn't feel right."

Brendan nodded. "Yeah. Well, I guess I can see that."

He leaned forward, and Tony caught the faint reek of wine and sweat and
unwashed clothes, that sad tired smell he associated with church meeting
rooms and the long tearful exegeses of weekend bingesconventions where
sales reps got locked out of their hotel room after closing time,
college students missing the crucial exam after a beer bash, mothers
forgetting to feed their kids. Brendan sipped his water and Tony waited,
hoping there wasn't going to be an apology.

There wasn't. Instead, Brendan ran a finger across the computer screen,
raising a little trail of electrified dust. "Okay." He cocked his finger
at Tony and smiled. "So, like, where's Chip Crockett's Web page?"

Tony's head bobbed up and down. "Aw right," he said, relieved. "Check
this out, man, you're gonna love this"

Tony hunched over the keyboard, fingers tapping eagerly. Brendan sank
back into his chair and watched him. He rubbed his forehead, hoping he
looked better than he feltalthough what he felt wasn't even hung-over so
much as some pure distillation of humiliation, depression, and
exhaustion, with a healthy dollop of anxiety about just how Teri was
going to react when she heard about him falling off the wagon. It hadn't
happened once in the years since he'd joined AA, and somehow he
suspected it wouldn't happen again. Brendan didn't drink because he was
depressed, or lonely, or even just out of habit. He used to drink when
he was happy, in that long joyous sunny rush of years between high
school and the failure of his marriage. Back then he'd drink with his
friends, in bars and at the beach, at ballgames and concerts. He drank
because he liked it, and everyone else he knew liked it. He drank
because it was fun.

Even now Brendan wasn't sure what had gone wrong. He suspected there was
some sort of malign convergence between his body chemistry and the way
the world had suddenly changed, round about the time he saw Lou Reed
shilling for Honda motorbikes. After that, when he drank he saw the
world differently. It was as though all his worst fears were confirmed,
and after a while, he was drinking just so they would be confirmed.
Marriages were doomed. Mothers drowned their children. Your father
developed Alzheimer's disease and died without remembering your name.
That guy you used to play softball with wasted away with AIDS, and you
never even knew. Your favorite TV show was canceled, your dog had to be
put to sleep. The music you loved seeped away from the radio, and all of
a sudden when you walked down a street where you'd lived for twenty
years, there were strangers everywhere. One day you had a toddler who'd
always been a little colicky, but who smiled when he saw you and crawled
into your lap at night. The next day you had a changeling, a child
carved of wood who screamed if you touched him and whose eyes were
always fixed on some bright horizon his parents could never see. The
terrible secret Brendan kept was that he hadn't quit drinking to save
his marriage, or himself, or even his child. He'd quit because he now
knew, irrefutably, that the world had become the wasteland. And he no
longer needed any confirmation of that.

"Okay, Brenda Starr." Tony pecked at one last key, grinning. "Technical
difficulties, please stand by. I control the horizontal, I control the
vertigo "

"Vertical," said Brendan.

"Whatever. I control it." With a flourish Tony straightened. "Do not
adjust your screen! We have liftoff!"

Brendan blinked. On the monitor in front of him, that morning's New York
Times headlines glowed, flickered and disappeared. For an instant the
screen was black. Then, very slowly, a scrim of sky blue and white
scrolled down. The white became clouds, the sky shimmered and melted
like summer afternoon. In the center of the screen a small rectangle
appeared, holding the black-and-white image of a man leaning on a
stage-set Dutch door. He had neatly combed blond hair, side-parted, and
a boyish, smiling face. He wore the kind of suit Brendan associated with
the second Beatles album, a light-colored Glen plaid, and beneath that a
white shirt and skinny dark tie. Above his head, small letters floated
in a streaming red banner:


WELCOME TO CHIP CROCKETT'S WEBPAGE!  "Well," said Tony. He sucked at his
lower lip and looked sideways at Brendan. "There he is."

Brendan didn't say anything. He stared at the screen, then reached out
and traced the outline of Chip Crockett's picture. The monitor crackled
a little at his touch, and he shook his head, still silent.

Because there he was. He hadn't seen him forwhat? thirty years, at
leastbut now it was like looking at a picture of his father when he was
young. The same haircut; the same skinny tie. The same magically
complicit smile, which he'd only seen on his father at the Fourth of
July or Thanksgiving or Christmas, but which Brendan had seen twice a
day, every day, on The Chip Crockett Show.

"Wow," whispered Brendan. "Chip Crockett."

It was like dreams he had, that his dog was alive again. He pulled his
chair up closer, inadvertently nudging Tony aside. "Sorrybut hey, this
is great." His voice was husky; he coughed, took another swig of water
and cleared his throat. "This is really, really great."

Tony laughed. "That's just a picture. Actually, it's the same picture
from the obituary in the News. But here"

He moved the mouse, and more phantom letters filled the screen. Brendan
recognized the printout Tony had brought to the Childe Roland a few
weeks ago.


BROADCAST HISTORY

PHOTOGRAPHS

ARTICLES & OBITUARIES (NEW)

THEME SONG

THE GREAT FIRE OF 1966

CHIP CROCKETT'S CHRISTMAS SPECIAL Without thinking, he reached over and
took the mouse from Tony's grasp. "Oopssorrybut you, would you mind if
I"

Tony smiled. "Go for it."

Brendan clicked on THEME SONG. The screen shifted, blue sky fading to a
grainy black-and-white backdrop, much enlarged, showing a cheap
soundstage. Long white drapes covered the back wall. There was a painted
plywood table, and strewn on top of it were a number of puppets. By
today's standards, they were slightly intimidating, more crackbrained
Punch and Judy than benign Muppet. One looked like a pirate, with a
patch on his eye and a gold hoop earring and a cigarette; another was a
little guy with white fuzzy hair and a scholar's mortar. There were
morea spaceman, a beatnik, a dogbut the only puppet that was upright was
a figure with small beady eyes and an enormous nose, his mouth cracked
in a huge, slightly demonic grin, his tiny cloth hands clapped together
as though he were about to witnessor performsomething wonderful.

"Ooga Booga," whispered Brendan. "Holy cow. I totally forgot what he
looked like -- I'd even forgotten his name, till you showed me that
obituary."

He drew a long breath and leaned forward, clicked on an icon. A moment
when all was still. Then the song began: a jouncy chorus of horns and
strings, those unshakably chipper background voices you heard on records
in the early '60s. Elevator music, but this was an elevator that only
went up.

"Bum bum bum bum," sang Tony happily. "Bum bum bum bum!"

Brendan started to cry. Knowing it was stupid, knowing it was the sort
of thing you did on a jag, when you'd lost it completely, when you were
so far gone you'd sit around all day long surfing the Net for the names
of girls you'd had a crush on in the second grade, or listening to Muzak
and commercial jingles.

Didn't matter, didn't matter, didn't matter. He squeezed his eyes shut,
eyelids burning as he willed himself to stop: another Irish Catholic
trick that Teri hated. Back when they'd first started trying to
understand what was wrong with Peter, back when they barely even knew
there was something wrongback then, it was one of the first things Teri
had accused him of

"This fucking Irish Catholic thing, you guys can never cry, you can
never show anything, any emotion at alland now, nowlook at him"

Pointing at the silent toddler crawling across the floor, but crawling
in that awful horror-show way he had, dragging himself on his elbows and
knees, head canted sideways so he could stare at the ceiling but not at
what was in front of him; and never, ever, at his parents.

"look at him, look at him"

Her voice rising to a shriek, her fists pounding against her thighs as
she stood there screaming. And Peter never looked, never even noticed at
all, and Brendan

Brendan walked away. Only into the next room, saying nothing, feeling
rage and grief and sorrow swelling in his head until he thought blood
would seep from his eyes; blood, maybe, but never tears. His entire body
shook, but he wouldn't cry; just stood there like a human Roman candle
waiting to ignite; waiting for the house to grow silent once more.

"Wanna hear something else?"

Brendan blinked. The theme song was over. Before he could say anything,
Tony clicked on another icon, and the faint oozy strains of Chip
Crockett's closing theme began to play.

" danke schoen "

"Jeez " Brendan shuddered. "I forgot about that."

"Yeah. Maybe we better not. Here, listen to this one."

Tony clicked on OGDEN ORFF. A faint voice echoed from the speaker,
declaiming proudly.

"That's my boyOgden Orff!"

"Let me!" Brendan poked Tony's arm. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, To-neee"

Tony laughed. "Be my guest."

Brendan looked at the pictures, black-and-white publicity stills of Chip
Crockett as his most notorious character: the weirdly Edwardian Ogden
Orff, a man dressed as a boy in black jacket and trousers, with a long
floppy tie and his hair slicked down. Ogden never spoke; only listened
as Chip Crockett's sonorous off-screen voice offered him advice and the
inevitable admonition

"No, Ogden, noooo!"

but always ending with the same triumphant announcement

"That's my boyOgden Orff!"

There were other characters, too. Ratnik, the beady-eyed beatnik puppet
who carried around a copy of No Exit and ended each of his scenes by
failing to find his way off the set. There was Captain Dingbat,
navigating the Sloop John B through New York Harbor and calling the
Statue of Liberty a Hotsy-Totsy. There was the Old Professor, quoting
Groucho Marx instead of Karl; and Mister Knickerbocker lip-synching "Mr.
Bassman." And last of all there was Chip Crockett himself again, sitting
with a copy of Millions of Cats on his knees and reading to a studio
audience of a dozen entranced children.

Only of course these were only pictures. No voiceovers, no soundtrack,
no living color, except in Brendan's head. Just pictures. And there were
only nine of them.

"That's it?" Brendan tried to keep his voice from breaking. "What about,
you said something about some video clips?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of. There's nothing from the actual show, just a
couple of outtakes. But they're not very long. Everything was lost."
Tony sighed. "Justlost. I mean, can you believe it? They just taped over
all of it. That's like taping over the moon landing, or Nixon's
resignation or something."

"Not really," said Brendan, and he grabbed back the mouse.

The videoclips were about the size of Brendan's thumbprint, framed
within a little grey TV screen. COCOA MARSH COMMERCIAL. FUNORAMA
BLOOPER. CHIP'S THEME.

"Wow," said Brendan. A timer underneath the little screen indicated how
long each clip was. Sixteen seconds. Twenty-seven seconds. Thirty-two
seconds. "There's not a lot of him left, is there?"

"Nope. But you know, I was thinkinglike, maybe there could be like a
hologram or something, you know? Like cloning someone. You have a tiny
piece of their DNA and you can make a whole person. So, like, you'd only
need a tiny piece of Chip Crockett, and you could bring back a whole
episode."

"Tony." Brendan stopped himself before giving his automatic answer of
thirty-odd years: Tony, you're an idiot. "Tony, you're the Steve Wozniak
of Massachusetts Avenue. Do I just click on this?"

Tony nodded. Brendan clicked. A swirl of black-and-white-and-grey dots
filled the tiny screen, danced around jerkily while a hollow voice
intoned something Brendan could barely understand, though the words
"Cocoa Marsh" seemed prominent. It took nearly sixteen seconds for
Brendan's eyes to force the pixels into an image that resembled a man's
face and a puppet. By then the clip was over.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Brendan played it again. This time he could make out the image more
easily, a closeup of Chip Crockett and Ooga Booga, the puppet holding a
glass and trying to drink from it while Chip encouraged him.

"That's right, Ooga Booga! Drink your Cocoa Marsh"

Bam: the image froze, the screen went blank. Brendan ran it six more
times, trying to fix it in his mind's eye, see if it stirred any memory
at all of the original commercial. It didn't; but just that tiny clip
was enough to bring rushing back the wonderful sound of Chip's voice,
the deep and deeply humorous tones that were the echo of some great
benign Everydad. You could imagine him telling knock-knock jokes over
the barbecue grill of your dreams, holding Ooga Booga as he tucked you
into bed at night, taking sips from a can of Rheingold between verses of
"They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha Ha!" You could imagine all of this,
you could live all of this, and sometimes it seemed that you had.

"Check these out, man!"

He started, as Tony ran the other clips. They resembled the first: fuzzy
black-and-white pointillist figures, tinny voices beamed from a million
light years away; cheap sets. The last few notes of Chip's theme song
faded and the screen cut to Ooga Booga nestled against Chip's face, his
little hands clapping spasmodically and Chip's lips moving, seemingly by
remote control.

" now Ooga Booga, tell all the boys and girls what you just told me"

The image froze. It was over. No matter how many times you played it
back, you'd never hear Ooga Booga's secret.

"Man, this really bites," said Brendan. He replayed the blooper clip,
Chip bumping into a boom mike and pretending to wrestle it. "There's
really nothing else?"

"Nope." Tony pulled his hair back, making a ponytail with his fingers.
"But if you read through all the letters people have sent, there's,
like, all these rumors of other stuff. Like a couple of people say
they've heard about some bootleg tapes that were shown on Italian TV in
the '70s, tapes of actual shows that somehow got shipped over there or
something. So there's this entire Chip Crockett Mafia trying to track
them down, a bunch of fans and this retired video cameraman from New
York. If they find them, they can broadcast them over the Net. They
could probably broadcast them on TV, one of those stations that plays
old stuff all the time."

"I doubt they could do that, Tony. Even if they found the tapes. Which
they won't."

Tony swept the curtain of hair from his face and gave Brendan a hurt
look. "Hey, don't believe me. Here, look"

Another click, and there were the e-mails from devoted fans: kids grown
to doctors, lawyers, teachers, garbage men, rock stars, TV weathermen,
editors.


I'm 45 years old and boy, was I amazed to find an entire Web site
devoted to Chip Crockett.  They were all pretty much like that, though
surprisingly well-written and grammatically correct for e-mail. Brendan
imagined an entire invisible electronic universe seething with this
obsessive stuff, billions of people crowding the ether with their own
variations on Chip Crockett -- obscure baseball players, writers,
musicians, cars, books, dogs. He scanned the Chip Crockett messages, all
variations on the themes of Boy, was I amazed and Gee, I remember when
and Oh if only, a long lamentation for videos perdus.


If only they'd saved them!

If only WNEW knew what they were losing when they erased those tapes!

If only the technicians had done something!

If only I'd been there!  Brendan sighed and ran a hand across his face.
"You know, this stuff is sort of depressing me. I think I'm gonna get
the coffee going."

Tony nodded without looking away from the screen. Reflexively, Brendan
glanced back, saw a brief message that seemed to be the very last one.


Happy T'giving, everyone! Has anyone else heard about a bootleg of "Chip
Crockett's Christmas Carol" that's supposed to air on Christmas Eve? I'd
like time/station info so I can tape it.  "You know about that, Tony?"

"Uh-uh." Tony frowned, leaning forward until his nose almost touched the
screen. "That's kind of weird. Where would you hear about something like
that? I mean, apart from this site?"

"Probably there's a thousand other sites like this. You know, weird TV,
collectors' stuff. Christ, Tony, move back, you're gonna go blind."

He put his hands on Tony's shoulders and gently pulled him away from the
screen. "Come on. Time for breakfast. Time for Cocoa Marsh."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming." Tony stood, reluctantly, and yawned.
"Christmas. Wow. How could I forget it was Christmas?"

"It's not Christmas. It's the day after Thanksgiving," said Brendan,
seeing the first faint flickers of that other movie starting to burn
around the edges of his head. Very deliberately he blinked, snowflakes
melting into slush, a forest of evergreens flaming into ash and smoke, a
black boot disappearing up a chimney that crumbled into rubble. "You
have a whole month to remember Christmas." But Christmas was what
Brendan was already trying to forget.

The truth was, over the last few years Brendan had become an expert at
forgetting about Christmas. A few days after the start of the Official
Holiday Shopping Season, the ubiquitous background soundtrack of "Silver
Bells" and "Silent Night" and "Christmas at K-Mart" had diminished to
nothing more than a very faint whining echo in his ears, choir boys and
rampaging reindeer and Bing Crosby relegated to that same mental dungeon
where he banned homeless people on the Metro, magazine ads for starving
children, stray cats, and junkies nodding out at Dupont Circle. It
didn't snow, so a whole gauntlet of joyfully shrieking kids on sleds or
snowboards or big pieces of cardboard could be avoided. But it was cold,
that frigid dank D.C. cold that seeped into your pores and filled the
newcasts with reports of homeless people freezing in alleys and cars
stalling on the Beltway on their daily exodus to the sprawl.

It sure didn't feel like Christmas to Brendan Keegan. But then, he'd
been successfully inoculated against the holiday two years ago, right
about the time they'd been busy playing that popular parlor game, What's
Wrong With Our Baby? Peter had been a toddler that December, and it was
Christmas that had finally triggered Brendan's realization that
something was wrong.

"Hey, what do you think of this tree, huh, Peter? What do you think, is
this the greatest tree ever or what?"

It was a beautiful tree, a blue spruce that had set Brendan back almost
a hundred bucks; but hey, what was Christmas for? There were presents
hidden away that he'd bought back when Teri first told him she was
pregnant, a baseball mitt and football helmet, plush Redskins mascot and
oversized jersey, copies of Winnie-the-Pooh and The Hobbit and a
videotape of The March of the Wooden Soldiers that his cousin Kevin had
given him. Most of the presents were still too old for Peter, he knew
that; but he also knew that this was the age when kids started getting
into tearing off the wrapping paper and gazing at Christmas ornaments
and stuff like that. A sort of synaesthetic experience of Christmas; and
Brendan wanted to be right there, video cam in hand, when Peter got his
first look at a real Christmas tree, his very own real Christmas tree.

Well, Brendan was there, all right, and he got it all down on tape. A
few months later, playing it back for doctors and psychiatrists and a
few close family members, it amazed Brendan that he hadn't grabbed Peter
and driven directly to GW Hospital.

Because what the tape showed was a fantastically decorated tree,
branches drooping beneath the weight of popcorn strings and cranberry
strands, Shiny Brite balls salvaged from Brendan's own childhood,
hand-carved wooden Santas from a shop in Georgetown, and, most wonderful
of all, an entire North Pole's worth of fabulous glass ornaments from
Polandclowns and dragons, cathedrals and polar bears, banana-nosed
Puncinellos and one vaguely ominous St. Nick. Eileen and Teri had spent
hours hanging baubles and carefully hiding each tiny bulb so only its
glow was seen, magically, from within the secret forest of dusky
blue-green needles.

"Close your eyes!" Teri had cried, covering his face with her hand as
she led him into the room. "Now"

When Brendan saw the tree, he got gooseflesh: that atavistic sense of
looking down some endless tunnel, past the window displays at Mazza
Gallerie, past the Cratchit children exclaiming over the plum pudding,
past the manger and the Romans and the circled stones: all the way back
to a forest clearing and falling snow, cold flung against his limbs and
the unspeakable wonder of flames leaping beneath an evergreen. He
blinked back tears, touched Eileen and Teri each on the arm and mumbled
something about incredible, amazing, beautiful; and bent to scoop up his
son.

"Look, Peter, look"

But Peter wouldn't look. His gaze shifted, then his head, and finally
his whole body, so that no matter how Brendan turned and twisted, trying
to hold Peter so he could have the perfect view of the perfect treeno
matter what he did, his son would not look. It was as though the tree
did not exist. Indeed, the more Brendan tried to direct his gaze, the
more his son struggled, until he was thrashing in his father's arms,
making those soft nnnhh nnnhh sounds that, so far, were his only efforts
at speech.

"Look, honey, see where Daddy is? Look! Look at the pretty Christmas
tree! See where Aunt Eileen is pointinglook at the bird! You like
birdslook, look!"

Look. They had played the tape for Dr. Larriday, after she observed
Peter in her office. Waiting for her comments, Brendan and Teri held
hands so tightly that Brendan's knuckles ached for two days. For hours
they perched at the edge of the precipice, the doctor's diagnostic terms
whizzing past them like stones


Lack of affect

Little receptive language

Little or no eye contact

Impaired motor skills

Ritual behavior

Failure to speak

Morbid fear of change in routine Peter had struggled and screamed in his
father's arms while Dr. Larriday went down her list. Finally he had
fallen asleep. They had brought an evaluation from their family
physician, along with seven hours of videotaped footage of PeterPeter
crying, Peter sleeping, Peter crawling on his knuckles and toes, Peter
obsessively pulling himself up and down, up and down, on the edge of his
crib. Peter stacking one block on top of a secondclumsily, the wooden
pieces flying from his unwieldy grip between pinkie and thumb. Peter
sitting in front of the glass door, moving his head back and forth, back
and forth, watching the flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.
Hours and hours of tape; but Dr. Larriday was most interested in the
earliest one, the Christmas tape.

"Let's see what we have"

And there it was, glistening branches blocked by Brendan's struggling
figure as he crossed and recrossed the living room, towheaded child
screaming in his arms. Even now, almost three years later, Brendan
couldn't bear to think of that tree; any Christmas tree. Because
watching the tape again in Dr. Larriday's office that July afternoon, it
was apparent that Peter had not been ignoring the tree.

He was avoiding it. He was terrified of it.


Morbid fear of change in routine Teri had wept, sobbing until the words
were lost. "Oh, Christ, how could weI mean, look at him, it looks like
he's being tortured "

Dr. Larriday looked, and took notes. Brendan stared straight ahead, his
sleeping child in his lap, Peter's damp face pressed against his arm and
his own tears falling, unheeded, onto his son's cheek.

That was the end of Christmas for Brendan. The end of everything,
reallyhis marriage, his dream of himself as a father, his dream of a
child. Oh, he still did everything he was supposed to, buying presents
for Peter, encouraging him to open them under the small artificial tree
at Teri's house, its sparse aluminum branches threaded with a few red
plastic balls. Opening the presents for Peter, when he showed no
interest in them himself; following the behavioral therapists's
directives as to modeling play behavior with the new blocks and games
and trucks.

But Christmas? Christmas was gone. Brendan didn't even hate it, because
how could you hate something that was dead? Instead he focused on his
work, and tried his best to ignore whatever demands the season put upon
his senses, if not his time.

"Mr. Keegan?" His secretary's voice came through the intercom. "It's
Toys for Tots again."

"Thanks." He put the phone on monitor, his gaze still fixed on the
computer screen, a half dozen heavily scrawled-upon yellow legal pads
scattered on the desk before him.

"Mr. Flaherty?" A cheerful voice boomed from the speaker. Brendan
winced, reaching to turn the volume down. "This is Don Huchison from the
Capitol City Chapter of Toys for Tots. As I'm sure you know, we"

"This is Mr. Keegan, not Mr. Flaherty. And I don't take solicitation
calls at the office"

"Well, Mr. Keegan, I'll be happy to note that and request that someone
call you at home, at your convenience and when you have time. When might
that be?"

"Never."

Don Huchison laughed, a sympathetic, Ain't that the truth! chuckle. "I
hear you! This time of year, there's never enough time to"

"I mean, never call me. Again. Anywhere." Brendan flipped through a
legal pad with one hand, with the other reached to turn off the monitor.

"Mr. Keegan, I'm sure you're aware of the difficulties many families
have at this time of year, meeting their children's expectations for a
happy"

"I don't give a shit about anyone's expectations. Remove me permanently
from your list, and please don't call here again."

Click.

That evening he walked home. The cold spell remained unbroken. Pockets
of slush filled potholes and broken edges of sidewalk. The eastern sky
had a blackened cast to it, like a scorched pan; behind him, the last
glowering trails of sunset streaked the horizon blood-red, so that the
walls of the Library of Congress seemed to burn as night fell. Clouds of
vapor surrounded the crowds hurrying home from work, giving everyone a
ghostly familiar. But they were were cheerful ghosts haunting cheerful
people: even the rat-tailed mongrel who kept Dave the Grave company on
his bench in Stanton Square Park raced excitedly back and forth, rising
on its hind legs and walking backwards when smiling passersby tossed
coins into Dave's battered Starbucks coffee mug.

"God bless ya, god bless ya"

Brendan gritted his teeth, staring stonily at a down-clad woman who
stooped to put a five-dollar bill into Dave's hand. "You're wasting your
money," he said loudly. The woman looked up, startled; Dave swayed back
and forth on his bench, his litany uninterrupted. He still wore Tony's
coatBrendan's coatthough it was black now with grime, the sleeves and
collar disintegrating. "He's a wino. You're just feeding his addiction."

The woman stared at Brendan coolly. "It's Christmas. And it's none of
your damn business what I do with my money."

"Ha ha!" Dave laughed; the dog did a back flip, to applause from several
of Dave's cronies drinking malt liquor on the brittle grass. "God bless
you, darlin, that's right "

Brendan started to yell after the woman's retreating back, but then he
noticed that people were stopping to stare at him. Instead he glared
contemptuously at Dave, spun on his heel and stalked home.

"Merry Chrissmas!" Dave called after him, and the other homeless men
raised their voices raucously. "Merr' Chrissmass!"

He had left work earlier than was his habit. Since his divorce, he'd
adjusted his schedule so that he seldom left the office till after dark;
an exception had always been those days when he had Peter. No word of
his Thanksgiving fall from grace had reached TeriBrendan silently
blessed Kevin and Eileen. But since then, his visits with his son had
been cut back, at Brendan's own suggestion, to every other week. Just
until the new year, he assured Teri, pleading pressure from work, a case
long pending that now looked as though it would be settled out of court
but there was still paperwork, and client interviews, and of course it
was the holidays

And of course that was it, exactly. Teri had seen it in her ex-husband's
face when they had last met a week earlier, staring out at her from the
front of the Volvo.

"Don't you want to come in for a minute? It's so cold."

Brendan shook his head. "I'm not cold," he said, his voice tight. He
continued to stare resolutely at the steering column. "Is he ready? I
have to get going."

"He's ready." Teri looked at the house, where Peter stood impassively on
the steps, then turned back to the car. "Will Tony be there?"

"You got a problem with Tony, take it up with your lawyer." Brendan's
knuckles whitened as he clasped the wheel. "I don't give a"

"I am not being hostile." Teri's voice shook. "I'm glad Tony's there. At
least Tony is capable of something resembling an emotion. At least Tony
remembers what time of year it is. You know why you don't feel the cold,
Brendan? Do you know why?"

Brendan turned the key in the ignition. "Get him in the car. I'm
leaving."

"Because"

He tapped the accelerator. The engine roared. On the porch Peter began
to cry. Without a word Teri walked back to the house and got her son.

"You have a good time, sweetheart," she murmured as she buckled him into
his car seat. He had stopped crying almost immediately, and she tucked a
scarf around his shoulders. "You have a good time with your Daddy "

She drew away from the car and stared at Brendan in the front seat. In
the back Peter pushed off the scarf, letting it drop to the floor. "You
could do something with him, you know." Her voice was perfectly calm
now. "He's doing so well at school these days. You could take him to see
the White House tree, or Santa out at White Flint. Peggy said that might
be a good idea. She said"

Fuck what she said, thought Brendan. He glanced back to make sure Peter
was buckled, then rolled up the window. He had already started to pull
away when Teri ran up beside him and pounded at the glass.

"What?" He stopped and rolled the window down a crack. "Now what?"

"I wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten and made other plans for
next week."

"What's next week?"

"Christmas." Teri's smiled tightened. "You said you wanted to have him
Christmas Evelast summer, remember? When we"

"I remember."

"I thoughtI hoped that we could all be together. To give some, some
continuity. For Peter. I asked Kevin and Eileen"

"Oh, Christ"

"And I wanted you to ask Tony for me. If you don't mind." Teri's voice
had taken on the same brisk oldest-daughter tone she used with her
elderly clients. "If you don't want to stay you don't have to. They're
going to come after church, mid-morning. You can just drop him off if
you want. Or you're welcome to stay."

"We'll see. I'll let Tony know."

But tonight, walking up the sidewalk towards his apartment, he
remembered that he never had let Tony know. Not that he suspected him of
having any big plans for the holiday. Occasionally Brendan could hear
music from behind the closed door of his room, Tony playing guitar and
singing softly to himself; but that seemed to have stopped with the
onset of the holiday season. Unemployment didn't just suit Tony better
than any job he'd had since fronting the Maronis. It was as though he
had actually found another job, one that involved getting up each
morning promptly at six A.M., showering, shaving, dressing in black
jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket, then eating a modest bowl of
Grape-Nuts before getting down to work.

Which, in Tony's case, seemed to consist of watching every single
Christmas special that every single television station on Earth chose to
air between the first and twenty-fifth of December. No program was too
obscure or too terrible for Tony's viewing pleasurenot The House Without
a Christmas Tree or The Bishop's Wife; not Andy Williams' Christmas
Special, or Elvis's, the King Family's, and Barbara Mandrell's; not A
Very Brady Christmas! or Mickey's Extra Special Christmas Eve or The
Little Drummer Boy Returns.

And certainly not Rudolph, the Grinch, Charlie Brown, Frosty the Snowman
or Mr. Magoo. Tony had It's a Wonderful Life committed to memory; what
was harder to take was that Tony knew every word of Santa Claus Versus
the Martians, as well as The Christmas That Almost Wasn't and Fuzzy the
Christmas Donkey.

"That one ought to be called The Christmas Jackass," Brendan had snapped
one morning when he woke to find Tony already sitting transfixed on the
living room couch, steaming coffee mug beside him.

"You should check this out." Tony shot a quick grin at Brendan, then
hunched closer to the edge of the sofa. "Shh, this is the sad part"

Now, as he hurried up the steps, Brendan saw the familiar blue-grey wash
of light through his apartment window, the telltale flicker of shadow on
the wall behind the sofa where he knew he would find Tony in the exact
same place he had left him that morning.

Only this time when Brendan walked inside it was different. On the
floor, staring at the television with the same rapt expression, was
Peter.

"Peter." Brendan shut the door and dropped his briefcase. "Tony? What's
going on?"

Tony looked up and smiled. "Oh, hey, man! You're home early. That's
good, I'm glad"

"What's he doing here? What happened?" Brendan quickly stepped over a
small mountain of Peter's things, knapsack and overnight bags, his
pillow, his lunchbox, his duck. "What"

"There was a problem "

"Problem?" He knelt beside his son, fighting the need to hold him, to
shout at Tony gazing at them calmly from the couch. Peter edged away,
making a small humming sound, his gaze fixed on the TV. "What problem?
What happened? Is he"

"No, noTeri had the problem. She tried calling you but she couldn't get
through"

Brendan sighed with relief, then nodded. "RightAshley left this
afternoon, she'll be gone till next week. But"

"I dunno, some client thing? Teri said she'd call from the airport"

Right on cue the phone rang. Brendan grabbed it.

"Brendan." Brendan could hear her swallow, fighting tears. "Jesus,
Brendan. I called and called"

"I know. What happened?"

"Oh, Christ, some stupid thing. Well, not reallyold Mr. Wright died,
everyone was expecting it but not right before Christmas, I mean he was
ninety-three. But I have to go out there to deal with his wife and
ex-wife and his sister and his kids. I'm at Dulles now, this case is a
mess, you remember me telling you"

"But Peter's okay?"

"Peter's fine. He really likes Tony, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. So what's the deal here?"

Silence. He heard airport noises in the background, the squawk and boom
of flight announcements. "The deal is, Brendan, that I have to be out of
town on business right now. And"

"How long?"

"Just till tomorrow. It was impossible to get a flight, they're
completely booked, but"

"And Peter's schedule? All this talk you had about how fucking important
it is for everything to be"

"Look, Brendan, stuff happens. You can't control everything. Or maybe
you can, but I can't. Peter is with me every hour, every day, every
week"

"Except when he's with me"

"you have no idea how exhausting it is, being with him all the time.
It's killing me, Brendan, it's"

Her voice broke, drowned in a spurt of static as another flight
announcement thundered somewhere behind her. I can't, Brendan, not
anymore, he's"

Brendan shut his eyes and took a long breath. "Teri? Teri?" He turned so
that Tony and Peter wouldn't see him. "Can you hear me? Listen, I'm
sorry, really. Don't cry. We'll be fine. I know you're with him all the
time, I know how hard it is. He'll be fine"

"Shit. That's my flight. I'm sorry, Brendan, this is so crazy. But I
really did try to call. He's got school, I gave Tony the schedule.
Except for Christmas Eve, but you knew that. His medicine's in the blue
bag with the dinosaurs. Okay, shit, I have to runkiss him for me, I'll
call you, bye"

So.

"So." Brendan put down the phone, turned. In the living room, Peter
sprawled on the floor, fingers pulling at a thread in the carpet. On the
couch behind him sat Tony, pointing excitedly at the screen.

"see, remember? Those are the real three Kings, and that guy there, he's
one of the real shepherds. But that other guy with the black beard who's
sneaking up on the little donkey, he's a Sears shepherd"

"Tony. You were here when Teri dropped him off?"

Tony looked over at Brendan, surprised. "Oh. Hey, I forgot you were
home. Yeah, sure I was. I was right here, Peter and I settled down to
some serious holiday cheer. Right, Petie?"

Peter continued to make the same soft nasal humming sound he always did.
His eyes were still glued to the screen: when the bad shepherd grabbed
the little Puppetoon donkey and stuffed him in a sack, Peter flinched.
His father didn't notice; he was already going through Peter's bags,
looking for the pages of instructions he knew would be there.

"Well, thanks. What the hell was she going to do if you weren't here?
Why didn't she go by my office?"

"She did. She couldn't even get in the building."

Brendan grimaced. "Damn, that's right. Christmas party next door, they
all went down to the Hawk & Dove. And I wasn't picking up the phone."

"You didn't go to the Christmas party?"

"No, Tony, I didn't go to the Christmas party. I mean, what's the point?
They don't give you a present."

Tony looked shocked. "They don't give you a present?"

"No, you bonehead." Brendan bopped him on the shoulder with Teri's
instructions. "Of course they don't give you a present. That was a joke.
But I really am glad you were here when she came. C'mere, Peter"

He reached for his son, steeling himself for the boy to turn away or,
worse, fail to acknowledge him at all. Instead Peter remained where he
was, watching TV. When Brendan touched his arm, he could feel the ripple
of muscle beneath his son's bare skin. Or maybe it wasn't muscle at all;
maybe it was nerve, maybe that was how exposed it all was to Peter,
bound sheaves of neurons and ganglions and dendrites, veiled with
nothing more than that soft white tissue of baby skin, the tiny hairs
like a dusting of snow, the sweet powdery smell of him. For an instant
he was close enough to smell him, so close it made him dizzy, made him
forget for a moment where or when it waslike when Teri was still
breastfeeding and they would lie in bed together and he could smell all
of them at once, his own sweat, and Teri's, and Peter's scent, a scent
he had always thought came from baby powderstrange and warm, like
honeysuckle, or breadbut which he knew now came from babies.

"Peter," he whispered.

For a split second, Peter did not move away. Brendan held his breath
until it hurt, until he could feel his own nerves shimmering alongside
his son's, the two tines of a broken tuning fork suddenly and
miraculously vibrating together. Peter's skin was warm, warmer than
Brendan's own; there was a sticky spot within the crook of his elbow,
jelly or paste or generic childhood crud. He was close enough to see the
small red crescent just below his hairline, where another child had
accidentally struck him with a block. Still holding his breath, Brendan
let his fingers move ever so slightly down his son's arm, towards his
hand

but it was too much. The nasal humming became a grunt, of annoyance or
fear or pain; and the boy shrugged him off.

"Peter." Brendan spoke his name, louder this time. Peter noddeda
half-nod, really, jerking his chin downward a fraction of an inchand
scooched closer to the television. Brendan watched him, biting his lip;
then turned to Tony. "Well. One big happy family. I guess I'll make
dinner."

He waited for Tony's usual offer to help, or clean up, or bring out the
trash. But Tony only sprawled on the couch and stared at the television,
lips moving as he recited along with King Melchior.

" greatest gifts are always those that cannot be bought with gold or
silver "

"Ugh." Brendan rolled his eyes. "I'm outta here."

He made dinner, pasta with butter sauce for Peter, with pesto for
himself and Tony. While it was cooking he rummaged around for that
morning's Post. It was gone. When he looked outside the back door, the
entire stack of papers waiting to be recycled was gone, too.

"Tony? You do something with today's paper?"

"Um, well, yeah. I did." His expression was distinctly furtive.

"Um, well, yeah. Could you tell me where it is?"

Tony shifted uncomfortably, knocking a pillow onto the floor. "Uh.
Actually, no. I mean, it's gone."

Brendan frowned. "But the pickup isn't till tomorrow." Although, now
that he thought about it, he hadn't seen any newspapers out there all
last week, either.

"I know. I just needed them for something."

"What?"

"Just something. A surprise."

"A surprise. Right." Brendan sighed. "Well, tomorrow leave the damn
paper for me to read, okay? I don't need any more surprises."

Peter went to bed with surprisingly little trouble that night. Usually
any change in his routine was enough to send him into a fit of
heart-splintering screams, but except for the usual tantrum over
brushing his teeth, the evening was calm. Brendan read to him in bed,
Goodnight, Moon and "The Owl and the Pussycat"; and before he was
finished his son was asleep, hand knuckled up against one cheek, the
much-gnawed rubber duck nestled against his breast.

"Don't you read him Christmas stories?"

Brendan gently tugged the blanket up around Peter's shoulders, motioning
Tony to be quiet. "No," he whispered, and joined him in the hall. "I
don't have any here."

"Teri packed some. I saw them. The Grinch, The Night Before Christmas"

"Tony." Brendan poked his friend in the stomach. "You know what? I'm
going to tell you a secret. Christmas depresses me. It makes me sad. It
totally bums me out."

"But why?"

He sucked his breath in angrily; but when he looked into Tony's eyes he
saw only genuine puzzlement. Brendan sighed, drew his hand back and ran
it through his thinning hair.

"It just does," he said. "Okay? I just don't get in much of a Christmas
spirit anymore."

"You're not kidding," said Tony.

Still, after he'd finished cleaning up and going through his e-mail and
sorting out Peter's clothes for the next day, Brendan found himself in
the living room again, sprawled beside Tony on the couch. Outside, icy
rain spattered against the windows and tossed red and green confetti
onto the ground beneath the traffic light. On the TV screen, snow
whipped around a man with shoulders hunched against the cold as he
hurried down a narrow lane, rosy-cheeked urchins singing merrily in his
wake.

Brendan nudged Tony with his foot. "Who's this one?"

"George C. Scott. The Reagan-era Scrooge. See? His clothes are
expensivenice cut, nice fabric? He just can't be bothered helping anyone
else. Classic Republican Scrooge. As opposed to Alistair Sim, the
classic Dickensian Scrooge, who was a genuine miser." Tony wiggled his
fingers. "Holes in his gloves, stuff like that. Then there's Mr. Magoo,
the great Broadway Musical Scrooge."

Brendan laughed. "What, are you a Scrooge scientist?"

"Sure, man. Lionel Barrymore, Reginald Owenvintage Hollywood. And
Scrooge McDuckwhat can I say? Quite simply one of the greats."

"Yeah? What about me?"

"You?" Tony scrutinized his friend, rubbing his chin. "You're the
classic post-po-mo Scrooge. Involved with the text, yet denying your own
place within it. Definitely post-post-modern."

Brendan snorted. "Right." He leaned forward, picked up the TV Guide from
the floor and began flipping through it. "Where do you find all this
stuff? I mean, half of it isn't even listed in here."

"I dunno. But I can always find it. Sometimes it takes a while, but "
Tony shrugged. "It's there."

"What about that Chip Crockett Christmas thing? Ever hear any more about
that?"

"No." Tony looked sad. "I keep checking, but nobody seems to know
anything except these sort of vague rumors. I figure I'll just, like,
stay up all night Christmas Eve and see what happens."

"Great idea, Tony." Brendan took a deep breath. "But you know what? I've
kind of had enough of Uncle Ebeneezer. I'm going to bed."

Tony nodded absently, engrossed once more in the movie. "Sure. 'Night,
Brenda."

It was a scramble to get Peter ready for school the next morning. He
refused to eat anything, screaming and throwing first a bagel, then
Cheerios, toast, english muffin, cantaloupe, and instant oatmeal on the
floor, before his increasingly desperate father gave up and began the
struggle to get him dressed. When Peter stayed on the weekend, Brendan
always let him wear his pajamas until lunchtime. Now it took both
Brendan and Tony a full fifteen minutes to get the boy into his clothes,
and even then Peter ended up wearing the same T-shirt he'd gone to sleep
in the night before.

"Hey, Pete, man, calm down," said Tony when the ordeal was finally over.
"It's only clothes."

Brendan shook his head, red-faced and panting, and started shoving
plastic containers and juice boxes into Peter's knapsack. "That's just
it. It's not just clothes. It's everythingeverything is a battle." He
found himself blinking back tears, and turned to the kitchen counter,
waiting until he could speak without his voice breaking. "I swear to
god, I don't know how Teri does it."

"No lie." Tony sighed and began to scoop congealed oatmeal from the
floor. In the living room Peter sat rigidly on the couch, watching
Cookie Monster eat an aluminum plate. "Does she have to drive him in
every day?"

"Yeah. And sheshit." Brendan straightened, smacking himself in the
forehead with his palm. "How'm I going to do this?"

"Do what?"

"Well, I can't take him on the Metro in rush hour. And it'll be so late,
I'll never find a parking spot by the office after I drive him in. Let
me think, let me think

"I know." Brendan snapped his fingers, pointed at Tony. "You're not
doing anything, right? You mind coming with me? Then you can drop me off
at the office and drive back here, and I don't have to worry about
parking."

Tony frowned, glancing at the television. "Yeah, I guess. Do I have time
to"

"No. If the Grinch is on you can damn well tape him. Let's gocome on,
Peter, sweetie, time for school."

Out on Maryland Avenue, the city's ineffectual road crews were doing
their usual job of making the morning commute even worse. The night's
sleet had been reduced to a puree of salted slush and dead leaves
clogging the roadside, and numerous tow trucks were still doing a brisk
business on the narrow side streets.

Yet despite the mess, the commuters crowding the sidewalks were
cheerful, men and women in trenchcoats and lightweight parkas waving to
each other as they hurried towards Union Station and the Capitol
grounds. Strands of white lights spun through trees and hedges and
outlined the fronts of brick rowhouses and storefronts. In Stanton
Square Park, an evergreen glittered green and blue and red where some
street people had strung together empty beer cans and bottles with
strapping tape and bits of aluminum foil.

"Hey, check it out!" said Tony as the Volvo crawled past. "That looks
nice, doesn't it?"

Brendan grunted. On a bench by the sidewalk, Dave the Grave and his dog
were already settled with a paper bag between them. Dave's battered
tweed jacket had been augmented by a long red muffler and some tinsel;
his dog lolled beside him, the ends of the comforter tucked between his
paws. At sight of Brendan's car, Dave lifted his bottle and shouted a
greeting.

" 'Aaay, whoa whoa! M'ry 'issmiss!"

Tony rolled down his window and leaned out. "Merry Christmas, Dave!"

"Shut up, Tony." Brendan pressed a button and sent Tony's window sliding
back up. "He's a goddam bum."

"Aw, give him a break, man! It's Christmas."

"Yeah, well, he can go to the shelter with everyone else, then. Or
freeze on a grate."

"Jeez, Brendan!" Tony shook his head in dismay. "What about all those
poor people in the missions we used to collect for at Sacred Heart? You
never wanted them to freeze on a grate."

"If they'd been outside my house, I'd have wanted them to freeze. And
their little dogs, too."

"Boy, what a grouch. Hey, Peter, you ever know your old man was such a
grouch?" Peter said nothing; only chewed thoughtfully on his yellow duck
and stared out at the bottle-decked tree behind Dave the Grave.

Brendan continued to be a grouch the whole way to the Birchwood School,
immune to Tony's admiration for the White House Christmas tree, the
decorations in the windows of the restaurants at Dupont Circle, the
group of kids from Gonzaga High School singing by a subway entrance. In
the front seat Tony rocked and sang, too, turning to pick up Peter's
duck when it fell and yelling encouragement at some boys trying to slide
down a driveway on a cafeteria tray.

"Keep your weight in the frontthe front"

"They're going to kill themselves," Brendan said, turning up the side
road leading to the school. "And then their parents will hire me to sue
the company that makes those trays."

"Don't you remember doing that? Only we had those flying saucers?"

"Yeah. And we had snow. All right, here we are. Let's make this snappy,
I have a client coming in at ten."

Tony slid from the front seat and began gathering Peter's things. "How
come you're so busy right before Christmas?"

"Because I want to be," Brendan said tersely. "Okay, Petie, here we are
at school."

Inside, everything looked pretty much as it always did. There were
green-and-red cutouts on the wall, a few reindeer and trees, some yellow
cardboard stars and blue Menorahs; but no Christmas tree, no lights, no
scary Santas. There were fewer kids as usual, too, and half as many
teachers.

"Peter! Hi!" Peter looked up, a faint smile on his face as Peggy knelt
before him. "I missed you when your Mom picked you up early
yesterdayhi!"

She reached forward and gave him a hug, holding him very tightly for
just a moment and then withdrawing. She stood, brushing the hair from
her eyes, and smiled. She was wearing a long green sweater with stars on
it, and a small red-and-green-striped wool cap. "Brendan! I haven't seen
you for a while"

"I know, my schedule changed, I" Brendan was still staring at his son.
"He let you hug him?"

"Yeah, that's a new thing, just this week. But we've been working up to
it for while. He's really doing great, you know, he's been making some
incredible progress just these last few weeks. Do you have a minute?
'Cause I can"

She looked over and for the first time saw Tony. "Oh! Hi, I'm sorry, I
work with Peter here, Peggy Storrs."

She stuck out her hand. For a moment Tony just stared at her, with an
expression Brendan had last seen when he'd received the new Advent Moth
promo. Then,

"Very pleased to meet you," he said, grabbing her hand and pumping it.
"Anthony Kemper. I'm an old friend of Brendan's. We went to high school
together. In Yonkers. Actually, we're living together now, if you ever
--"

"That is very temporary." Brendan glared at him, then turned back to
Peggy. "Actually, Peggy, I'm kind of in a rush this morning, but"

But Peggy was still looking at Tony, her brow furrowed. "You know, you
look very familiar. I mean, really familiar. Have you, like, been in
here before? Although I don't remember"

Brendan sighed. "Peggy, meet Tony Maroni."

"TonyMaroni?" Her blue eyes got huge. "You're like, the real Tony
Maroni? Oh my god. You are. I don't believe it! God, I saw you guys when
I was in high school! In Seattle, I guess it wasjeez, it must be fifteen
years ago! God, you guys were great, that was like the greatest show I
have ever seen in my life!"

Tony smiled dreamily. "Yeah, yeah  I remember that. The Limehouse. That
was right before we went to Japan. That was, like, the last time we
really played together," he added wistfully. "I mean, all of us, in the
States."

"You left after that " Peggy ran a hand over her cap. "God, I was so
bummed out. I was only fifteen, and that was it, I felt like I'd missed
everything. Tony Maroni." She shook her head. "This is so amazing. I
guess I'd heard once that you lived here in D.C., but"

Brendan cleared his throat. "You know, I hate to break up the Rock
Trivia Show, but I have a client coming in half an hour and I need Mr.
Maroni here to drive me back to my office."

"Oh sure, sure." Peggy glanced down at Peter, then up at Brendan again.
She was actually blushing. "But I just can't believe that"

"Oh, please, believe," said Brendan. He wondered what Peggy would think
if she knew that Tony considered This Is Spinal Tap a model for
behavioral therapy. "Look, I'm in a real hurry today, that's all. Maybe
tomorrow when I drop him off, we could go over some of this great stuff
you're talking about."

"Oh, but there's no school tomorrow. Christmas Eve. So many kids and
teachers are going away or have family stuff, Deirdre decided that we'd
just close until the 28th. We have early release today, at noon. It was
in the newsletter "

Brendan swore under his breath. Peggy hunched her shoulders. "I'm really
sorryyou didn't know? That was why Teri was so freaked out about having
to go away "

"Right, right. It's okay, not a problem " Brendan turned and stooped
beside his son. "Peter, Peter, Peter. What am I going to do about you?"
he murmured.

"I'll be there." Tony's voice was so loud that several of the other
teachers turned. "I mean, hey, what else do I have going on? It'll be
great, we'll do Christmas stuff."

"Christmas can be a little intimidating for some of these kids." Peggy
smiled. "But you probably know that already if you're hanging out with
this little guy here at home. I still can't believe you and Brendan went
to high school together."

Brendan stared at the floor and shook his head despairingly. Tony
nodded, bopping back and forth on his heels.

"You know what?" he said. "I can come pick him up at noon, and you can
tell me what I need to know about being with him. I mean, whatever I
don't know already."

"Which would fill an encyclopedia," Brendan muttered darkly. "Listen,
Elvis, I really do have to get back to the office. Peggy, Peter will be
fine with Tony, you just tell him anything you think he needs to know,
okay?"

Peggy nodded. "I don't think you're on the sheet as an authorized
pickup, are you, Tony? So maybe you could just come to the office and
fill out a form, and Brendan can sign it, and we'll be all set," she
said, and started for the office.

"Sure, sure!" Tony loped after her.

"Do you believe this, Peter?" Brendan shook his head. "I graduated
fourth in my class at Georgetown. Plus, I thought she was gay."

Peter said nothing. Though if his father had turned his head, he might
have seen something like reflected light shining in his son's eyes, as
Peter gazed sideways at Tony jouncing up and down outside the office.

"Listen, sweetie. Daddy has to go to work now. Uncle Tony's going to
pick you up at lunchtime. Can you remember that? It won't be me and it
won't be Mommy"

"Okay. I'm signed on, Captain Kirk," Tony announced, sweeping up behind
Brendan. "You ready? Want me to drive?"

"No, I'll drive." Brendan sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'm ready. Remember,
Peter." He stood, pointed at Tony. "Uncle Tony here will pick you up."

Tony nodded. "Noon, right?"

"Actually, if you can come a little earlier, it'll make it easier in
case he's having a rough day." Peggy smiled. "Or if I am."

Brendan groaned. "Let's go"

"Bye, thensee you around noon. Hooray hello, Tony!"

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Tony called. "Ouch! Jeez, I'm coming, Brenda, for
chrissakes"

Brendan drove back to Capitol Hill. Tony bopped and drummed on the
dashboard and sang "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" until Brendan
threatened to throw him out and make him walk from Foggy Bottom.

"Okay, okay, I've stopped, see? Man, I just can't believe that girl
Peggy, huh? She's great, she's like so great "

But Brendan was brooding over how Peggy had been able to hug his son.
Automatically he glanced into the rearview mirror, looking for Peter in
his car seat. For a split second he had a flash of panic, seeing it was
empty

But of course Peter wasn't there. Peter was at school, bonding with
strangers. Panic subsided into a wash of despair, and Brendan gripped
the wheel until his hands hurt.

"How come you never told me about her?"

Brendan swallowed, let his breath out. "You never asked."

"I can't believe she saw us at the Limehouse. That was probably the best
show we ever did, you know that? I can't believe she saw it."

"At least she's old enough to vote." Brendan pulled over near his
office. For a moment he just sat there, waiting to see if the despair
would fade. It did not. A young woman pushing a stroller around puddles
on the sidewalk stopped, pointing at the window of the Trover Shop.
Swags of fresh holly hung there, their berries so deep and glistening a
red they looked like drops of blood. Brendan shut his eyes, then turned
and reached into the backseat for his briefcase.

"Listen, Tony. Get there early like Peggy said, okay? But don't forget
Peter. Make sure he eats something when he gets homeactually, bring
something in the car, there's some juice boxes and peanut butter
crackers in the kitchen. Ask Peggy to check if he needs any medicine
before you leave, okay? I'll try to get out early but probably I won't
be back till five or so."

"Sure man, sure, no prob." Tony clambered into the driver's seat as
Brendan climbed out. "Don't worry, we'll be great, it'll be fun."

"Make sure he's in his car seat!" Brendan shouted as Tony pulled away,
an arc of slush rising behind him. "Get there early. And be careful!"

Tony was careful, and he got there early. In fact, he got there about an
hour after leaving Brendan on Pennsylvania Avenue. It would have been
even sooner, but he stopped at the flower vendor's at Eastern Market and
bought a small crimson poinsettia in a green plastic pot shaped like a
Christmas tree.

"Hi," he said breathlessly when he arrived back at the Birchwood School.
A half dozen children were settled at separate tables around the room,
each with a grownup and a cookie and a little paper cup full of juice.
Peggy looked up from where she sat across from Peter, holding the cookie
for him.

"Tony! You are early."

"Here. This is for you. Merry Christmas." Tony plonked himself on the
floor beside Peggy and handed her the poinsettia. "Unless you're not
allowed to accept gifts."

"Oh no, gifts are highly encouraged. Look, Peter! See? This is a
poinsettia. A flowerthis is a flower"

"So. Any instructions?" Tony turned and smiled at Peter, stretched his
hand out to within a few inches of his face and waved gently. "Hey,
Petie. You ready to come home with me? Watch Mister Magoo?"

Peter moved his head so that he faced away from Tony; but his gaze edged
sideways, watching.

"Mister Magoo!" exclaimed Peggy. "God, I loved thatit used to be my
favorite Christmas show. But they never run it anymore. Did you rent
it?"

"Uh-uh." Tony wiggled his fingers at Peter.

"Is it on Nickelodeon or something?"

"No. I mean, I don't know. I guess."

"Huh. Well, I'll check it out when I get home, maybe I can catch the
end."

"Wanna come over with me and Pete here? Cause then you could watch it
with"

Peggy shook her head. "I wish I could. But I have to write up all the
weekly reports and stuff like that. Maybe another time." She smiled
across the table at Peter. "So, Peter, are you ready? Tony here's going
to drive you home today. Then your Daddy will be back later. Okay? Let's
finish our snack and get everything ready to go "

Tony went with her to gather Peter's things. "So. Is he, like, really
doing better? I haven't seen so much of him the last two weeks, 'cause
he's been with Teri."

Peggy nodded. She turned from the wall of brightly-painted cubbies and
leaned against it, cradling Peter's jacket to her chest. "You know, he
really is. We work so intensely with the kids here, and it can take
years, but sometimes all of a sudden you just have a breakthrough. And I
really think that could happen with Peter. Although," she added,
lowering her voice, "probably I shouldn't say that. People get very,
very sensitive about the issue of 'curing' autism."

Tony stared at Peter, standing off by himself and staring at a knothole
in the wall. "Right," Tony said softly. "Well, I know his Mom and Dad
love him no matter what."

Peggy bit her lip, then nodded. "Oh, sure," she said. "Though I think
Brendan has some unresolved issues. He seems a littledistracted lately.
Not as focused. But like I said, I shouldn't be saying this "

"It's okay. I'm, like, family," said Tony. "And let me tell you, Brendan
really loves that."

He laughed and bent to pick up Peter's knapsack. "Okay, Petie. Let's go
watch Mister Magoo's Christmas Carol. One of the very best"

Peggy walked them to the front door. A few other parents were waiting by
the office now with wrapped packages, greeting teachers and waving at
their children.

"Yvonne! I'll be right with you" Peggy touched the shoulder of a woman
in a faux-mink coat, then turned back to Tony. "That's the mother of my
other student. I should go. But thanks so much for coming by, Tony."

"So, are you, like around? After the holidays maybe?"

Peggy straightened her little wool cap and smiled. "Maybe. Thanks for
the poinsettia. Tell Mister Magoo I said hi. And Peter"

She stooped and gave him another quick strong hug. "You have a wonderful
Christmas, Peter. I'll see you very soon. Very, very soon "

They walked outside, Peter stopping once to stare ruminatively at a
spiral of oil sending spectral currents across a puddle. Tony waited
with him. "Hey, pretty cool, huh?" he said, and continued to the car.
"You know, you're a lucky guy, Pete."

Tony held open the Volvo's back door and watched as Peter slowly climbed
in. "Having a babe like that for a teacher. Man oh man."

They returned to Brendan's apartment. The sky was inked with clouds like
slate-colored smoke, the air had that metallic bite that precedes snow.
Peter was careful not to look into Tony's eyes when he glanced back at
him. He seemed not to hear Tony when he asked a question or pointed out
somethingChristmas lights, sidewalk Santaand after they parked the boy
walked in front of him, dragging his backpack and making rhythmic
huff-huff noises.

"Okay. Lunchtime," announced Tony when they got inside. He cut up an
apple and smeared the slices with peanut butter. Peter refused to sit,
so Tony fed him standing. Tony ended up eating most of it, but he did
manage to get Peter to drink some milk, only half of which ended up on
the floor.

"All right. Now Uncle Tony has to check his e-mail. Come on"

Peter ignored him. He walked into the living room and sat on the floor
and began pulling at a thread in the carpet. Tony frowned, then turned
and walked down the hall.

"I'll be right back. You come on down here if you want, okay?"

He checked his mail and spent a few minutes reading the headlines, then
went to Chip Crockett's Web site. Nothing new there. A few messages from
a week ago, Tony's own unanswered request for information about Chip's
Christmas special. He was just going to log off when he heard a soft
huff-huff behind him.

"Hey, Peter. C'mere, want to check this out?"

Peter stepped forward, keeping a good distance from where Tony sat.
There was still peanut butter on his face, and a clump in his hair where
he'd twiddled it into a knot.

"Look," said Tony. "See? That's Chip Crockett. Your Daddy and I liked
him when we were little. Like you like Cookie Monster."

Peter avoided his eyes, but when Tony turned back to the computer the
boy stepped forward, staring at the monitor. "And that's Ogden Orff.
Listen"

Tony punched a key. Static; then,

"That's my boyOgden Orff!"

Peter moved closer.

"Wanna hear it again?"

Tony played the sound bite again; then drew up the black-and-white image
of Chip Crockett dressed as Ogden Orff. "See? That's him? Ogden Orff.
And lookhere's Captain Dingbat. And this one, this is my favorite. Ooga
Booga. Isn't he great? Check out that schnozz, manever see a nose like
that? Hey, you're blocking me!"

Peter stepped in front of him, his face scant inches from where the
black-and-white image of a puppet with bulbous nose and tiny hands
filled the screen.

"Pretty cool, huh?" asked Tony. Peter shook his head and continued to
stare. "Ooga Booga. Good ol' Ooga Booga."

Tony sighed, swiping the hair from his eyes. "But you know, we oughta go
check out Mister Magoo. Come on, let me turn it off now."

He started to move the mouse, but as the screen changed Peter shook his
head again, and when the screen went blank he made a sharp angry sound.

"Hey man, I know; but I promise, we can come back later. Let's go watch
TV now. Come on, it's Mister Magooyou'll like him, he's like Ooga Booga
only he moves."

Tony started for the living room. Peter remained where he was, gazing at
the empty monitor.

"Come on, Petie," Tony urged. "Let's go "

At last Peter followed him. Tony put the television on and slumped onto
the couch, remote in hand. Peter sat on the floor. Tony began flipping
through the stations until he found what he was looking for.

"Hey, great, it's just starting! Watch, Petie, you're gonna love this
show"

That was how Brendan found them when he got home hours later. They were
onto the Grinch by then, the floor around them scattered with popcorn
and broken crackers.

"Tony. Peter." Brendan shut the door, shaking moisture from his
overcoat. "Man, it's getting cold out. Hi, guys."

"Hey, Brenda Starr! You're just in time. Look, he's stealing the
Christmas tree!"

"Yeah, great. " Brendan rolled his eyes. He looked back down at the
handful of letters he'd just picked up from the floor beneath the mail
slot. "Here, you got something."

He handed Tony a letter and set his own mail on the kitchen counter.
Tony glanced at the envelope, then shoved it into a pocket.

"Did he have anything to eat?" asked Brendan. He ran a finger along the
counter top, frowning: someone had spilled something there, flour it
looked like, or maybe salt. "Beside what's on the floor?"

"Some peanut butter and apple and some milk. And a lot of popcorn."

"All the major food groups. Well, we've got frozen pizza for dinner."
Brendan stepped back into the living room and stood behind his son.
"What do you think, Peter? You like this Grinch guy?"

Peter shook his head slightly. On screen the Grinch covered his ears
against the sound of villagers caroling. Brendan crouched down to pick
up bits of popcorn.

"I do," he said. "I can really relate to him. You know why? Because
there is too much noise. Turn it down, Tony."

Still, after Peter was in bed the rest of the evening was quiettoo quiet
for Tony, who wanted to watch David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing "The
Little Drummer Boy" but was forbidden to by Brendan.

"For the next forty-eight hours, this is a Christmas-free zone," he
announced, shooing Tony from the couch and changing the channel to CNN.

"Forty-eight hours? Jesus, Christmas'll be over by then!"

"You got it." Brendan stretched out on the couch and yawned, then
wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell? Paint?"

Tony shrugged. "Mmmm, yeah." He stood in the hall, looking lost and
disconsolate. His T-shirt was spattered with white powder, his hair
pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. "I told you, I'm working on something.
I just wanted to take a break and hear"

"Forget it, Tony."

"But"

"Good night, Tony."

That night his father came to him. At first Brendan thought it was
Peter, but as the sound of footsteps grew clearer he recognized it
unmistakably as his father's tread, that familiar pause as he went into
the bathroom and after a minute or two returned to the hall, heading
down towards Brendan's room. Brendan was lying in bed, staring at the
ceiling where the soft mingled lights from the tree fluttered like blue
and green and red moths. He couldn't wait, how could anyone wait? Surely
it was morning now  ?

And yes, of course it was, because his father's shadow filled the
doorway, just as it always had. Brendan started, then with a cry sat up.
Joy scalded him, and amazement: because there he was, wearing the red
L.L. Bean nightshirt he'd gotten for Christmas one year, its sleeves
worn and hem frayed, his bare legs still muscular though the hair on
them was grey now. His face, however, was young, the way it looked in
old family pictures, the way it looked in Brendan's mindand that was the
other amazing thing, not just that his father should be here, alive, but
that he was young. Brendan gasped with delight, realizing anew what he
had forgotten since the last time this had happened: that people didn't
really die, or even if they did, you could still be with them again, it
didn't matter that they were dead after all! Relief poured over him like
water and he shook himself, feeling the sheets sliding from his arms as
he tried to get to his feet, to cross the room and hug him. Because his
father saw him, too, it wasn't like it had been those last two years in
the nursing home, he saw Brendan and recognized him and he was smiling,
one hand half-raised in the familiar greeting that mimed tossing a
baseball, the other stretched out to his son.

"Dad! Dad"

But the words didn't come out. All the air had been sucked from him, and
all the light toothe room was black again, or no, his eyes were closed,
he could still see those phantom lights pulsing behind his eyelids and
somewhere behind them his father stood, waiting, and all he had to do
was open his eyes and he could see him, he could leap from the bed and
in two steps he would be there, he would see him again

But his eyes would not open. When he tried to cry out his throat closed
and he could only grunt, horribly, thrashing at the bed and struggling
to rise while his hands sank down and the darkness pressed upon his face
like a door falling on him. He screamed then, and as the sound echoed
around him he opened his eyes and found himself sitting up in bed. A
narrow slab of light fell into the room where the door was cracked, then
disappeared as it was flung open.

"Brendan?" Tony stood there in his boxer shorts, hair a wild nimbus
around his face. "You okay?"

Brendan shook his head, then nodded. When he opened his mouth air rushed
in to fill his throat, and he gasped.

"Jesus  I had a nightmare. Orno"

He ran his hands across his face, feeling how cold his skin was, and
moist. "just athis dream. But I'm fine. Gogo back to bed. I'm sorry I
woke you."

"I wasn't asleep." Tony remained in the doorway, his face creased with
worry. "You sure you're okay? I thought someone was, like, breaking in
or something."

"No, really, it was just a dream. II'll just check Peter. Go on"

He stood shakily, the sheets falling to the floor around him. Tony moved
to let him get by, and as he passed him Brendan paused, then put a hand
on his shoulder. "Hey. Tony. Sorry I woke you."

"No prob, man." Tony smiled. In the half-light leaking from the bathroom
his raggedy features looked gaunt, his hair more silver than grey; and
for the first time Brendan thought, he's old. The notion shook him
almost as much as the dream had. He stood there for a moment, gazing at
his oldest friend as though trying to recall his name; and finally
smiled back.

"Yeah. Well, 'scuse me"

"Hey, you know what today is?" Tony called after him softly. "Christmas
Eve!"

Brendan took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, pausing to lean against the
bathroom door. For an instant spectral lights flickered around the
perimeter of his vision, red and green and blue, the shadow of a tree.
He drew a hand across his face and winced. "Thanks. II remembered."

The morning was cold and heavy with moisture, the sky leaden and a few
fine flakes already biting Brendan's cheeks as he hurried to work, his
fingers numb where they curled around the handle of his briefcase. He'd
forgotten to wear glovesrefused to, actually, indulging in some absurd
belief that if he didn't dress as though it were winter, it wouldn't be.

But the day promised more miserable weather, more sleet and freezing
rain, maybe even snow. Dave the Grave and his cronies had gotten an
early start on the holiday, gathering on a corner opposite the Library
of Congress and bopping up and down against the cold. Dave's wiry dog
nosed at a pile of refuse spilling from a trash can, and Dave himself
looked pale and rheumy-eyed, the filthy tweed jacket hanging loosely
from his stooped shoulders. One of his friends held him up as he waved
at passersby. Brendan saw him and started across the street, Dave's
cracked voice trailing forlornly after him.

"Where's Whoa Whoa? Whoa  c'mere, goddamit "

"Shut up, goddamit." Brendan hopped onto the curb, glanced up and saw a
well-dressed man passing him with a suspicious look: he must have spoken
aloud. He glared back and the man hurried on.

There was no one in his office when he arrived. He let himself in,
trying to summon up some sense of well-being at having the place to
himself. But everything looked desolate and abandoned, the computer
monitors staring blankly from his partners' desks, Ashley's tiny Norfolk
pine dropping yellowing needles onto the floor, its branches drooping
beneath the weight of three miniature glass balls. Brendan spent a good
minute staring at it glumly, before picking the tree up and depositing
it in the wastebasket. Then he set to work.

He'd made a point of scheduling back-to-back client appointments all
morning, starting at nine. At just past eight-thirty the phone began to
ring with the first of the day's cancellations.

"Brendan Keegan."

"Yeshi, Mr. Keegan, this is Paulette Yates? I was supposed to see you
this morning? About a personal injury suit?"

"Yes, Miss Yates." Brendan swiveled so that he could gaze out the
window, took in the Capitol's scaffolding glazed black with snow and
ice, and immediately swiveled back to glance at his appointment book.
"Let's seeyes, that's at nine."

"Well, you see, II have to cancel? I forgot it was Christmas Eve, and I
have to get the train to see my parents, and"

"You're canceling the appointment."

Nervous silence. Then, "Yes. I'm really sorry, I just"

"Would you like to reschedule now? Or, no, it'd be better if you called
next week, my secretary's out."

Her voice brightened with relief. "Oh! Sure, sure"

"Fine. And, um, Miss Yates: you know I have to charge you for the missed
appointment."

Another silence. "You do? Even though I called?"

"Well, you called at twenty-five to nine. I can't put someone else in
that slot now."

"Buthow much?"

"The hourly rate, one twenty-five."

"One hundred" He heard a brisk intake of breath, and then a softer,
muffled sound. "Oh, jesus. That's, likecan't you"

"I'm afraid I can't. Now, we can reschedule after"

Click.

He read the morning Post, rescued before Tony could find it and spirit
it away for whatever knucklehead purpose he had. He made phone calls,
setting up meetings and hearings for after the holiday, responding
politely to the Greetings of the Season and Best Wishes For, all
carefully worded these days and especially in this place, make sure no
one feels excluded: Merry Christmas, Chanukah, Kwaanza, Solstice. In the
background, laughter and music, recordings announcing We Will Be Closed
Until; receptionists answering phones with breathless voices, already
anticipating the afternoon's office party, early release, Midnight Mass.

And alone of everyone he spoke to, Brendan felt grounded, sober, adult;
already looking to next year, a new year. Like someone on a long
international flight, everyone around him fidgeting restlessly while he
slept, his watch already set ahead seven hours, his mind at peace,
untrammeled by excitement, and cold to the allure of gratis wine,
chocolates, movies, smiling fellow passengers.

Three of his other appointments canceled as well; two, actually, with
the other a no-show. Brendan carefully noted all this in his book,
copying the information out for Ashley for billing purposes. He
researched a case that would be going to trial in Februarythe thought
comforted him, February a nice no-nonsense month, nothing there to worry
about except for Valentine's Day, and God knows that had never been much
of a threat.

At lunchtime he ventured out for a sandwich. Big wet flakes were falling
now, whitening black overcoats and Timberland parkas but turning to
slush as soon as the flakes made contact with the pavement. The takeout
shop was crowded; everyplace was crowded, nothing, seemingly, being out
of the running for consideration as a last-minute Christmas gift.
Brendan waited impatiently while the man behind the counter prepared
cold-cut platters and wrapped a roast beef sandwich in green butcher
paper with a gold bow.

"I'll have one of those." Brendan pointed at the sandwich. "Only without
the wrapping paper."

"That'll be about five minutesI've got to get this party platter over to
Senator Easton's office"

"Forget it." Brendan jabbed his finger at the glass front of the
counter. "Just give me a Kaiser roll."

The roll was tasteless. He ate it on his way back to the office, dodging
Senate staffers rushing for cabs and giddy interns hugging each other
goodbye on their way to the airport. When he got back inside, there was
a message on the machine from Teri, giving him her flight arrival time
and reminding him to come by with Peter the next morning at ten o'clock
for Christmas cheer.

"Cheer," Brendan repeated, erasing the message. "Cheer cheer cheer."

The phone rang. He answered it, still shrugging out of his wet overcoat
and shaking crumbs onto the floor alongside dead Norfolk pine needles.
"Brendan Keegan."

"Brendan. Kevin."

"Kevin." Brendan hung up his coat, slid into his chair. "How are you."

"Well, I'm good. Been thinking about you. See the game the other night?"

"Wasn't that something," Brendan said, his voice sounding like a hollow
echo of his cousin's bluff tone. He hadn't spoken to Kevin since
Thanksgiving. "What's up?"

"Well, Eileen and I wanted to invite you and Peter over this evening. If
you're not doing anything. The girls would love to see you. You could
even stay over if you want. We're going to Teri's tomorrow and we could
all go together, if you feel like it."

"Well, thank you." Brendan cleared his throat: why did he and Kevin
always sound as though they were trying to arrange a subpoena? "I mean,
that would be nice, except that I don't know when you last talked to
Terishe had to go out of town, and so Peter's with me until tomorrow
morning, and I think probably we'll just stick to our original plans."

"Peter's there with you right now?"

"No, nohe's at home, with Tony." Brendan cleared his throat again and
adjusted the contrast on his monitor. "As a matter of fact, I better get
goingI should get back early, make sure everything's okay."

"Oh." Kevin's voice rose slightly. He paused, then added, "Well, you
know, Tony would be very welcome, too. Eileen's got a ton of food,
there's plenty of room"

"Thanks, Kevin. But, you know, I have a client waiting. We'll just see
you tomorrow, okay?"

He waited a long moment until Kevin finally replied. "Sure. Sure,
Brendan. Give Peter a hug, okay? We'll see you tomorrow. Merry
Christmas"

"Right. Thanks, Kevin"

He hung up. Around him the room was dim, the windows ash-colored: he'd
forgotten to turn the lights back on. He didn't do so now; just hunched
closer to the computer screen, scrolling down a list of dates and names
as he punched his home number into the telephone. Tony answered just as
the answering machine kicked in, sounding out of breath.

"Tony? It's me, Brendan. Everything okay?"

"Oh, hey, hi. Yeah, it's okay, I guess. I don't know what it isyesterday
he was great, but today he doesn't want to eat at all. He doesn't want
to do anything. I finally just parked him in front of the TV, he seems
to be all right there."

Brendan felt conflicting emotions, a bitterly gleeful I told you so! and
anxiety for his son. "Well, he can be a handful. Are you sure you're all
right?"

"No kidding he's a handful. But I think we're okay "

There was no concomitant bitterness in Tony's voice; only exhaustion.
And suddenly Brendan wondered what, exactly, he was doing here in his
office; what had he been thinking, leaving his child at home alone with
a stranger? What the hell was wrong with Teri, taking off like that at
the last minute, not even talking to him first? His concern spiked to
rage, thinking of Peter hungry, Peter suffering, Peter

"Brendan? I gotta go check on himI'll see you later, okay?"

And Tony was gone. Brendan started to call back, to demand to know what
was happening; but as quickly as it had come his anger disappeared. He
drew a long shuddering breath, replaced the phone in its cradle. He
should have stayed home today; he should be there now. Even thinking of
Teri and trying to transfer this granite load of guilt to her didn't
make Brendan feel any better.

"Ah, shit."

He switched his computer off, and for several minutes sat alone in the
dark. Snow and freezing rain hissed against the window; now and then he
could feel the walls shake as wind buffeted the building. He had to go
home, he should never have left this morning, how could he even have
dreamed of doing so?

But the thought of returning there, of facing the hours of tedium and
cleaning up and fruitless insistent arguing with a child who never
spokehis child, his son, a boy who would scream if Brendan tried to look
him in the eye, a boy who would only bear his father's touch when he was
asleepthe thought of being with Peter in that desolate apartment on
Christmas Eve filled him with such despair that he moaned aloud.

And, at last, stood and dressed to go home. What else could he do? He
could no more blame Peter for his own grief than he could blame Teri.
And of course Peter did recognize him, he wept sometimes when Brendan
dropped him off at school, and when he left the room after tucking him
into bed at night; he woke up some nights whimpering, and would only go
back to sleep after Brendan spoke to him, murmuring nonsense, snatches
of half-remember nursery rhymes, the words to "Meet the Mets."

And of course Peter loved him, there was no doubt about it, he was his
father. Brendan tried not to hear Teri saying that, or the therapist
they'd seen; tried to hear the words in his own voice inside his head;
tried to imagine them coming from his son.

But at that his imagination balked, the thought of Peter speaking made
his father feel sick and dizzy with hopelessness. It was too much like
his dream; too much like giving in for a few moments, even in sleep, to
love and belief and hope. You could not steel yourself against
disappointment and loss and grief in this life, if nothing else Brendan
knew that; but you could arm yourself against the rest of it. You could
arm yourself against desire and hope, you could be a fucking fortress
and never fall, never let a single arrow through. And so as the sleet
gave way to snow and every radio in the city began to sound, gently or
noisily, its welcome to the imminent feast, Brendan Keegan picked up his
briefcase, locked the door to his office, and began to trudge home.

It was a miserable walk. Just as Brendan had spent the last few years
trying to ignore the sigils of the season, so he had attempted to ignore
its weather, refusing to invest in anything more winter-worthy than his
Brooks Brothers overcoat. No down parkas, no Thinsulate-lined gloves, no
sturdy L.L. Bean boots with leather uppers to shield his expensive wool
trousers from the surging tide of slush and curbstone filth that
inevitably caught up with him. In this he was not alone: much of the
city's workforce, save those hardy Congressional underlings from places
like Maine or Minnesota, continued to indulge the hopeful but ultimately
unsupportable notion that they lived in a Southern city, with weather
befitting retirement communities along the Gulf Coast. In reality D.C.'s
weather could be as extreme as it was unpredictable, a fact now
underscored for Brendan by the sight of two laughing, red-cheeked young
women in Park Police mufti, making their way past Eastern Market on
cross-country skis. He shuddered and tugged his collar up around his
neck, averting his eyes. It was harder to avoid the row of cut
evergreens leaning against the brick facade of the Market itself, or the
plastic buckets full of fresh-cut holly and box, the ropes of princess
pine and balsam and the ghostly clouds of mistletoe dangling from oak
branches sawn from trees along Skyline Drive. He skirted the line of
greenery, stepping off the curb into the street; but the fragrance of
balsam and boxwood dogged him, along with the sound of pleading
children, the faint thrum of a church organ and an unsteady soprano
struggling with "O Holy Night."

"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, dudewe'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 hands white and raw from the sleet outside.

"Huh?"

" 'Huh' nothing. What's this mess? The whole place is a goddam mess" He
moved his hand, too quickly, to point to the living room, and bashed it
into the door. "Owgod 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 hand 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 hand curled around his.

"Brendan," said Tony, softly but urgently. Tony's grip was tight, his
hand 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 hand, gripped in his own like
some remnant of a life-size toy, and abruptly let it fall. He shook his
head. "Hey, manit'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 hand 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 hand 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


I know that you remember

How we made our mark

Oh we had a great time

Down at Tibbets Park 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.


Hey hey, whoa whoa whoa

Gonna tell you now

Where I wanna go

Running with my friends

Playing in the dark

Gonna have a good time

Down in Tibbets Park!  "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 hand 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.


Lully, lulla, thou little tiny child,

By by, lully lullay.

How may we do

For to preserve this day

This poor youngling

For whom we do sing,

By by, lully lullay?  "Ah, shit," Brendan whispered. The "Coventry
Carol"

He drew his hands 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.


Herod the king,

In his raging

Charged he hath this day

His men of might

In his own sight

All young children to slay.

That woe is me,

Poor child for thee

And ever mourn and may

For thy parting

Neither say nor sing

By by, lully lullay 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 hands 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 hand 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 wasthe 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
ceilingit 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 nightespecially on
this nighthe 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 hand cupped before his
face. His hand 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 immediatelyPeter would
not notice, he never hadand 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 hands 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 handful 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 forwell,
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 logbut unbroken
now, the tape loop had begun againstill 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 hand
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-mch hands 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, jeezpoor 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 additionsRatnik 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.


Don't be a meanie,

Show us your bikini!  And at the end, all of them were onstage together,
miraculouslyRatnik 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 handfuls 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 cryit'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'sit 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
hand. "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 Tonywe 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 Terithat would just scare her, probablybut 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 handful 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 hand 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, handing 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 hand; 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 hands 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 hand-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 hand 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. "Whatwhere'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 hands like
crudely sewn mittens. Its face was uneven, bumps and ridges where the
papier-mch 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 hand.

"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 hands 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 hands 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 canI can see it all."


The End


For my children, and in memory of Sandy Becker