"Except when he's with me—"
"—you have no idea how exhausting it is, being with him all the time. It's killing me, Brendan, it's—"
Her voice broke, drowned in a spurt of static as another flight announcement thundered somewhere behind her. —I can't, Brendan, not anymore, he's—"
Brendan shut his eyes and took a long breath. "Teri? Teri?" He turned so that Tony and Peter wouldn't see him. "Can you hear me? Listen, I'm sorry, really. Don't cry. We'll be fine. I know you're with him all the time, I know how hard it is. He'll be fine—"
"Shit. That's my flight. I'm sorry, Brendan, this is so crazy. But I really did try to call. He's got school, I gave Tony the schedule. Except for Christmas Eve, but you knew that. His medicine's in the blue bag with the dinosaurs. Okay, shit, I have to run—kiss him for me, I'll call you, bye—"
So.
"So." Brendan put down the phone, turned. In the living room, Peter sprawled on the floor, fingers pulling at a thread in the carpet. On the couch behind him sat Tony, pointing excitedly at the screen.
"—see, remember? Those are the real three Kings, and that guy there, he's one of the real shepherds. But that other guy with the black beard who's sneaking up on the little donkey, he's a Sears shepherd—"
"Tony. You were here when Teri dropped him off?"
Tony looked over at Brendan, surprised. "Oh. Hey, I forgot you were home. Yeah, sure I was. I was right here, Peter and I settled down to some serious holiday cheer. Right, Petie?"
Peter continued to make the same soft nasal humming sound he always did. His eyes were still glued to the screen: when the bad shepherd grabbed the little Puppetoon donkey and stuffed him in a sack, Peter flinched. His father didn't notice; he was already going through Peter's bags, looking for the pages of instructions he knew would be there.
"Well, thanks. What the hell was she going to do if you weren't here? Why didn't she go by my office?"
"She did. She couldn't even get in the building."
Brendan grimaced. "Damn, 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 butter 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 damn 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 "The Owl and the Pussycat"; 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 bums 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?"