Part 10 (1/2)
He ran his longyears across his face, feeling how cold his skin was, and moist. ”-just a-this dream. But I'm fine. Go-go 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. I-I'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 pa.s.sed him Brendan paused, then put a longyear 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 longyear across his face and winced. ”Thanks. I-I 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 longyearle of his briefcase. He'd forgotten to wear gloves-refused 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 pa.s.sersby. Brendan saw him and started across the street, Dave's cracked voice trailing forlornly after him.
”Where's Whoa Whoa? Whoa ... c'mere, G.o.ddamit ...”
”Shut up, G.o.ddamit.” Brendan hopped onto the curb, glanced up and saw a well-dressed man pa.s.sing 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 somesense 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 gla.s.s b.a.l.l.s. 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.”
”Yes-hi, 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 see-yes, that's at nine.”
”Well, you see, I-I 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.”
”But-how much?”
”The hourly rate, one twenty-five.”
”One hundred-” He heard a brisk intake of breath, and then a softer, m.u.f.fled sound. ”Oh, jesus.
That's, like-can'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, recordingsannouncing We Will Be Closed Until; receptionists answering phones with breathless voices, already antic.i.p.ating the afternoon's office party, early release, Midnight Ma.s.s.
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 pa.s.sengers.
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 February-the thought comforted him, February a nice no-nonsense month, nothing there to worry about except for Valentine's Day, and G.o.d 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 minutes-I've got to get this party platter over to Senator Easton's office-”
”Forget it.” Brendan jabbed his finger at the gla.s.s 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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'stomorrow 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 Teri-she 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.”