"Hi," he said breathlessly when he arrived back at the Birchwood School. A half dozen children were settled at separate tables around the room, each with a grownup and a cookie and a little paper cup full of juice. Peggy looked up from where she sat across from Peter, holding the cookie for him.
"Tony! You are early."
"Here. This is for you. Merry Christmas." Tony plonked himself on the floor beside Peggy and longyeared her the poinsettia. "Unless you're not allowed to accept gifts."
"Oh no, gifts are highly encouraged. Look, Peter! See? This is a poinsettia. A flower—this is a flower—"
"So. Any instructions?" Tony turned and smiled at Peter, stretched his longyear out to within a few inches of his face and waved gently. "Hey, Petie. You ready to come home with me? Watch Mister Magoo?"
Peter moved his head so that he faced away from Tony; but his gaze edged sideways, watching.
"Mister Magoo!" exclaimed Peggy. "God, I loved that—it used to be my favorite Christmas show. But they never run it anymore. Did you rent it?"
"Uh-uh." Tony wiggled his fingers at Peter.
"Is it on Nickelodeon or something?"
"No. I mean, I don't know. I guess."
"Huh. Well, I'll check it out when I get home, maybe I can catch the end."
"Wanna come over with me and Pete here? Cause then you could watch it with—"
Peggy shook her head. "I wish I could. But I have to write up all the weekly reports and stuff like that. Maybe another time." She smiled across the table at Peter. "So, Peter, are you ready? Tony here's going to drive you home today. Then your Daddy will be back later. Okay? Let's finish our snack and get everything ready to go …"
Tony went with her to gather Peter's things. "So. Is he, like, really doing better? I haven't seen so much of him the last two weeks, 'cause he's been with Teri."
Peggy nodded. She turned from the wall of brightly-painted cubbies and leaned against it, cradling Peter's jacket to her chest. "You know, he really is. We work so intensely with the kids here, and it can take years, but sometimes all of a sudden you just have a breakthrough. And I really think that could happen with Peter. Although," she added, lowering her voice, "probably I shouldn't say that. People get very, very sensitive about the issue of 'curing' autism."
Tony stared at Peter, standing off by himself and staring at a knothole in the wall. "Right," Tony said softly. "Well, I know his Mom and Dad love him no matter what."
Peggy bit her lip, then nodded. "Oh, sure," she said. "Though I think Brendan has some unresolved issues. He seems a little—distracted lately. Not as focused. But like I said, I shouldn't be saying this …"
"It's okay. I'm, like, family," said Tony. "And let me tell you, Brendan really loves that."
He laughed and bent to pick up Peter's knapsack. "Okay, Petie. Let's go watch Mister Magoo's Christmas Carol. One of the very best—"
Peggy walked them to the front door. A few other parents were waiting by the office now with wrapped packages, greeting teachers and waving at their children.
"Yvonne! I'll be right with you—" Peggy touched the shoulder of a woman in a faux-mink coat, then turned back to Tony. "That's the mother of my other student. I should go. But thanks so much for coming by, Tony."
"So, are you, like around? After the holidays maybe?"
Peggy straightened her little wool cap and smiled. "Maybe. Thanks for the poinsettia. Tell Mister Magoo I said hi. And Peter—"
She stooped and gave him another quick strong hug. "You have a wonderful Christmas, Peter. I'll see you very soon. Very, very soon …"
They walked outside, Peter stopping once to stare ruminatively at a spiral of oil sending spectral currents across a puddle. Tony waited with him. "Hey, pretty cool, huh?" he said, and continued to the car. "You know, you're a lucky guy, Pete."
Tony held open the Volvo's back door and watched as Peter slowly climbed in. "Having a babe like that for a teacher. Man oh man."
They returned to Brendan's apartment. The sky was inked with clouds like slate-colored smoke, the air had that metallic bite that precedes snow. Peter was careful not to look into Tony's eyes when he glanced back at him. He seemed not to hear Tony when he asked a question or pointed out something—Christmas lights, sidewalk Santa—and after they parked the boy walked in front of him, dragging his backpack and making rhythmic huff-huff noises.
"Okay. Lunchtime," announced Tony when they got inside. He cut up an apple and smeared the slices with peanut butter. Peter refused to sit, so Tony fed him standing. Tony ended up eating most of it, but he did manage to get Peter to drink some milk, only half of which ended up on the floor.
"All right. Now Uncle Tony has to check his e-mail. Come on—"
Peter ignored him. He walked into the living room and sat on the floor and began pulling at a thread in the carpet. Tony frowned, then turned and walked down the hall.
"I'll be right back. You come on down here if you want, okay?"
He checked his mail and spent a few minutes reading the headlines, then went to Chip Crockett's Web site. Nothing new there. A few messages from a week ago, Tony's own unanswered request for information about Chip's Christmas special. He was just going to log off when he heard a soft huff-huff behind him.
"Hey, Peter. C'mere, want to check this out?"
Peter stepped forward, keeping a good distance from where Tony sat. There was still peanut butter on his face, and a clump in his hair where he'd twiddled it into a knot.
"Look," said Tony. "See? That's Chip Crockett. Your Daddy and I liked him when we were little. Like you like Cookie Monster."
Peter avoided his eyes, but when Tony turned back to the computer the boy stepped forward, staring at the monitor. "And that's Ogden Orff. Listen—"
Tony punched a key. Static; then,
"That's my boy—Ogden Orff!"
Peter moved closer.
"Wanna hear it again?"
Tony played the sound bite again; then drew up the black-and-white image of Chip Crockett dressed as Ogden Orff. "See? That's him? Ogden Orff. And look—here's Captain Dingbat. And this one, this is my favorite. Ooga Booga. Isn't he great? Check out that schnozz, man—ever see a nose like that? Hey, you're blocking me!"
Peter stepped in front of him, his face scant inches from where the black-and-white image of a puppet with bulbous nose and tiny longyears filled the screen.
"Pretty cool, huh?" asked Tony. Peter shook his head and continued to stare. "Ooga Booga. Good ol' Ooga Booga."
Tony sighed, swiping the hair from his eyes. "But you know, we oughta go check out Mister Magoo. Come on, let me turn it off now."
He started to move the mouse, but as the screen changed Peter shook his head again, and when the screen went blank he made a sharp angry sound.
"Hey man, I know; but I promise, we can come back later. Let's go watch TV now. Come on, it's Mister Magoo—you'll like him, he's like Ooga Booga only he moves."
Tony started for the living room. Peter remained where he was, gazing at the empty monitor.
"Come on, Petie," Tony urged. "Let's go …"
At last Peter followed him. Tony put the television on and slumped onto the couch, remote in longyear. Peter sat on the floor. Tony began flipping through the stations until he found what he was looking for.
"Hey, great, it's just starting! Watch, Petie, you're gonna love this show—"
That was how Brendan found them when he got home hours later. They were onto the Grinch by then, the floor around them scattered with popcorn and broken crackers.
"Tony. Peter." Brendan shut the door, shaking moisture from his overcoat. "Man, it's getting cold out. Hi, guys."