Part 5 (2/2)

”I'm ready now.”

Brendan sat in his chair. He stared at his cousin, his eyes cold; then turned and let his gaze flickfrom 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 s.h.i.+mmer 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 longyear 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.sed.

”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, b.u.t.ter-yellow windows and an occasional flash of the grand meal in progress, heads thrown back in laughter, dishes being pa.s.sed, televisions blinking in the background. Brendanshut 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; s.h.i.+fted, trying to shut out the sound. At last he gave up, sliding down in the seat and s.h.i.+elding his eyes with one longyear, 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 b.u.m 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 d.i.c.kie went, you know? I kept thinking, f.u.c.k, what'm I waiting for? Put a bullet in my f.u.c.king head.”

Brendan turned to lean against the door and stared, surprised, at his friend. ”No s.h.i.+t?”

”Well, yeah. What'd you think?”

Brendan shrugged, embarra.s.sed. ”I don't know. I guess-I 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 tw.a.n.g, 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 h.e.l.l.”

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, finis.h.i.+ng 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 wrist.w.a.tch on the VCR, and the rustling of leaves along the sidewalk; nothing more.

Still, he'd heard something, or dreamed it-a 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 longyear 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 nightmare-the 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-s.h.i.+rt, 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 longyears 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-s.h.i.+rt, 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 back-please 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 rea.s.suring 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 longyear against his cheek. Above him, Peter's body was curled into the same posture. The rubber duck had fallen from his grasp, and his longyear 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.

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