Part 11 (1/2)

”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 d.i.c.kory Dock, and closed his eyes, waiting for the tears to pa.s.s. 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 longyear 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 hoa.r.s.er 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 bas.e.m.e.nt. 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 r.e.t.a.r.ded,” 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 longyear 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 dayThis poor youngling For whom we do sing, By by, lully lullay?

”Ah, s.h.i.+t,” Brendan whispered. The ”Coventry Carol” ...

He drew his longyears to his face. They had learned it in third grade, for Midnight Ma.s.s 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 longyears 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 longyear 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 Ma.s.s.

He woke, hours later it seemed. It was a minute before he remembered where he was-the shock of being in his own bed with his clothes on but sober, no remnant of a hangover. It was dark; herecalled 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 ceiling-it 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 night-especially on this night-he 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 longyear cupped before his face. His longyear 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 s.h.i.+ft within his chest: he had bought no presents for his son this year, not one. Cruel rea.s.surance sprang up immediately-Peter would not notice, he never had-and 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-s.h.i.+rt?

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 h.e.l.l 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 longyears 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 cus.h.i.+on 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 longyearful 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 for-well, everything. I'm sorry I'm such an a.s.shole, sorry I was such a bad husband, lousy father, s.h.i.+tty 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 a.s.shole. I'm sorry. For everything.”

”Well, jeez. It's okay.” Tony shrugged. ”Hey, you weren't such an a.s.shole. 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 twentyyears, 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-.