Part 8 (1/2)
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 s.h.i.+mmering 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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-s.h.i.+rt 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?”