"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. Classic Republican Scrooge. As opposed to Alistair Sim, the classic Dickensian 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 classic 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's there."
"What about that Chip Crockett Christmas thing? Ever hear any more about that?"
"No." Tony looked sad. "I keep checking, but nobody 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 muffin, 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-shirt 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 god, 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—shit." Brendan straightened, smacking himself in the forehead with his palm. "How'm I going to do this?"
"Do what?"
"Well, I can't take him on the Metro in rush hour. And it'll be so late, I'll never find a parking spot by the office after I drive him in. Let me think, let me think—
"I know." Brendan snapped his fingers, pointed at Tony. "You're not doing anything, right? You mind coming with me? Then you can drop me off at the office and drive back here, and I don't have to worry about parking."
Tony frowned, glancing at the television. "Yeah, I guess. Do I have time to—"
"No. If the Grinch is on you can damn well tape him. Let's go—come on, Peter, sweetie, time for school.…"
Out on Maryland Avenue, the city's ineffectual road crews were doing their usual job of making the morning commute even worse. The night's sleet had been reduced to a puree of salted slush and dead leaves clogging the roadside, and numerous tow trucks were still doing a brisk business on the narrow side streets.
Yet despite the mess, the commuters crowding the sidewalks were cheerful, men and women in trenchcoats and lightweight parkas waving to each other as they hurried towards Union Station and the Capitol grounds. Strands of white lights spun through trees and hedges and outlined the fronts of brick rowhouses and storefronts. In Stanton Square Park, an evergreen glittered green and blue and red where some street people had strung together empty beer cans and bottles with strapping tape and bits of aluminum foil.
"Hey, check it out!" said Tony as the Volvo crawled past. "That looks nice, doesn't it?"
Brendan grunted. On a bench by the sidewalk, Dave the Grave and his dog were already settled with a paper bag between them. Dave's battered tweed jacket had been augmented by a long red muffler and some tinsel; his dog lolled beside him, the ends of the comforter tucked between his paws. At sight of Brendan's car, Dave lifted his bottle and shouted a greeting.
" 'Aaay, whoa whoa! M'ry 'issmiss!"
Tony rolled down his window and leaned out. "Merry Christmas, Dave!"
"Shut up, Tony." Brendan pressed a button and sent Tony's window sliding back up. "He's a goddam bum."
"Aw, give him a break, man! It's Christmas."
"Yeah, well, he can go to the shelter with everyone else, then. Or freeze on a grate."
"Jeez, Brendan!" Tony shook his head in dismay. "What about all those poor people in the missions we used to collect for at Sacred Heart? You never wanted them to freeze on a grate."
"If they'd been outside my house, I'd have wanted them to freeze. And their little dogs, too."
"Boy, what a grouch. Hey, Peter, you ever know your old man was such a grouch?" Peter said nothing; only chewed thoughtfully on his yellow duck and stared out at the bottle-decked tree behind Dave the Grave.
Brendan continued to be a grouch the whole way to the Birchwood School, immune to Tony's admiration for the White House Christmas tree, the decorations in the windows of the restaurants at Dupont Circle, the group of kids from Gonzaga High School singing by a subway entrance. In the front seat Tony rocked and sang, too, turning to pick up Peter's duck when it fell and yelling encouragement at some boys trying to slide down a driveway on a cafeteria tray.
"Keep your weight in the front—the front—"
"They're going to kill themselves," Brendan said, turning up the side road leading to the school. "And then their parents will hire me to sue the company that makes those trays."
"Don't you remember doing that? Only we had those flying saucers?"
"Yeah. And we had snow. All right, here we are. Let's make this snappy, I have a client coming in at ten."
Tony slid from the front seat and began gathering Peter's things. "How come you're so busy right before Christmas?"
"Because I want to be," Brendan said tersely. "Okay, Petie, here we are at school."
Inside, everything looked pretty much as it always did. There were green-and-red cutouts on the wall, a few reindeer and trees, some yellow cardboard stars and blue Menorahs; but no Christmas tree, no lights, no scary Santas. There were fewer kids as usual, too, and half as many teachers.
"Peter! Hi!" Peter looked up, a faint smile on his face as Peggy knelt before him. "I missed you when your Mom picked you up early yesterday—hi!"
She reached forward and gave him a hug, holding him very tightly for just a moment and then withdrawing. She stood, brushing the hair from her eyes, and smiled. She was wearing a long green sweater with stars on it, and a small red-and-green-striped wool cap. "Brendan! I haven't seen you for a while—"
"I know, my schedule changed, I—" Brendan was still staring at his son. "He let you hug him?"
"Yeah, that's a new thing, just this week. But we've been working up to it for while. He's really doing great, you know, he's been making some incredible progress just these last few weeks. Do you have a minute? 'Cause I can—"