Silent Her Part 8

Brendan grimaced. "d.a.m.n, 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 was-like 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 powder-strange and warm, like honeysuckle, or bread-but 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 longyear- -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 nodded-a half-nod, really, jerking his chin downward a fraction of an inch-and 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 b.u.t.ter 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 d.a.m.n 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 "TheOwl and the p.u.s.s.ycat"; and before he was finished his son was asleep, longyear 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 b.u.ms 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 longyear 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 expensive-nice cut, nice fabric? He just can't be bothered helping anyone else. Cla.s.sic Republican Scrooge. As opposed to Alistair Sim, the cla.s.sic d.i.c.kensian 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 Owen-vintage Hollywood. And Scrooge McDuck- what can I say? Quite simply one of the greats."

"Yeah? What about me?"

"You?" Tony scrutinized his friend, rubbing his chin. "You're the cla.s.sic 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'sthere."

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

"No." Tony looked sad. "I keep checking, but n.o.body 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 m.u.f.fin, 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 everything-everything 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 G.o.d, 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 she-s.h.i.t." 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 d.a.m.n well tape him. Let's go-come 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 businesson 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 m.u.f.fler 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 b.u.t.ton and sent Tony's window sliding back up. "He's a G.o.ddam b.u.m."

"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 front-the 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 yesterday-hi!"

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 longyear. 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 longyear 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."

"Tony-Maroni?" Her blue eyes got huge. "You're like, the real Tony Maroni? Oh my G.o.d. You are. I don't believe it! G.o.d, I saw you guys when I was in high school! In Seattle, I guess it was- jeez, it must be fifteen years ago! G.o.d, 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 j.a.pan. 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 longyear over her cap. "G.o.d, I was so b.u.mmed out. I wasonly 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 sorry-you 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?"