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 rushing 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."

"Peter's there with you right now?"

"No, no-he's at home, with Tony." Brendan cleared his throat again and adjusted the contrast on his monitor. "As a matter of fact, I better get going-I should get back early, make sure everything's okay."

"Oh." Kevin's voice rose slightly. He paused, then added, "Well, you know, Tony would be very welcome, too. Eileen's got a ton of food, there's plenty of room-"

"Thanks, Kevin. But, you know, I have a client waiting. We'll just see you tomorrow, okay?"

He waited a long moment until Kevin finally replied. "Sure. Sure, Brendan. Give Peter a hug, okay? We'll see you tomorrow. Merry Christmas-"

"Right. Thanks, Kevin-"

He hung up. Around him the room was dim, the windows ash-colored: he'd forgotten to turn the lights back on. He didn't do so now; just hunched closer to the computer screen, scrolling down a list of dates and names as he punched his home number into the telephone. Tony answered just as the answering machine kicked in, sounding out of breath.

"Tony? It's me, Brendan. Everything okay?"

"Oh, hey, hi. Yeah, it's okay, I guess. I don't know what it is-yesterday he was great, but today he doesn't want to eat at all. He doesn't want to do anything. I finally just parked him in front of the TV, he seems to be all right there."

Brendan felt conflicting emotions, a bitterly gleeful I told you so! and anxiety for his son. "Well, he can be a longyearful. Are you sure you're all right?"

"No kidding he's a longyearful. But I think we're okay ..."

There was no concomitant bitterness in Tony's voice; only exhaustion. And suddenly Brendan wondered what, exactly, he was doing here in his office; what had he been thinking, leaving his child at home alone with a stranger? What the h.e.l.l was wrong with Teri, taking off like that at the last minute, not even talking to him first? His concern spiked to rage, thinking of Peter hungry, Peter suffering, Peter- "Brendan? I gotta go check on him-I'll see you later, okay-?"

And Tony was gone. Brendan started to call back, to demand to know what was happening; but as quickly as it had come his anger disappeared. He drew a long shuddering breath, replaced the phone in its cradle. He should have stayed home today; he should be there now. Even thinking of Teri and trying to transfer this granite load of guilt to her didn't make Brendan feel any better."Ah, s.h.i.t."

He switched his computer off, and for several minutes sat alone in the dark. Snow and freezing rain hissed against the window; now and then he could feel the walls shake as wind buffeted the building. He had to go home, he should never have left this morning, how could he even have dreamed of doing so?

But the thought of returning there, of facing the hours of tedium and cleaning up and fruitless insistent arguing with a child who never spoke-his child, his son, a boy who would scream if Brendan tried to look him in the eye, a boy who would only bear his father's touch when he was asleep-the thought of being with Peter in that desolate apartment on Christmas Eve filled him with such despair that he moaned aloud.

And, at last, stood and dressed to go home. What else could he do? He could no more blame Peter for his own grief than he could blame Teri. And of course Peter did recognize him, he wept sometimes when Brendan dropped him off at school, and when he left the room after tucking him into bed at night; he woke up some nights whimpering, and would only go back to sleep after Brendan spoke to him, murmuring nonsense, s.n.a.t.c.hes of half-remember nursery rhymes, the words to "Meet the Mets."

And of course Peter loved him, there was no doubt about it, he was his father. Brendan tried not to hear Teri saying that, or the therapist they'd seen; tried to hear the words in his own voice inside his head; tried to imagine them coming from his son....

But at that his imagination balked, the thought of Peter speaking made his father feel sick and dizzy with hopelessness. It was too much like his dream; too much like giving in for a few moments, even in sleep, to love and belief and hope. You could not steel yourself against disappointment and loss and grief in this life, if nothing else Brendan knew that; but you could arm yourself against the rest of it. You could arm yourself against desire and hope, you could be a f.u.c.king fortress and never fall, never let a single arrow through. And so as the sleet gave way to snow and every radio in the city began to sound, gently or noisily, its welcome to the imminent feast, Brendan Keegan picked up his briefcase, locked the door to his office, and began to trudge home.

It was a miserable walk. Just as Brendan had spent the last few years trying to ignore the sigils of the season, so he had attempted to ignore its weather, refusing to invest in anything more winter- worthy than his Brooks Brothers overcoat. No down parkas, no Thinsulate-lined gloves, no st.u.r.dy L.L. Bean boots with leather uppers to shield his expensive wool trousers from the surging tide of slush and curbstone filth that inevitably caught up with him. In this he was not alone: much of the city's workforce, save those hardy Congressional underlings from places like Maine or Minnesota, continued to indulge the hopeful but ultimately unsupportable notion that they lived in a Southern city, with weather befitting retirement communities along the Gulf Coast. In reality D.C.'s weather could be as extreme as it was unpredictable, a fact now underscored for Brendan by the sight of two laughing, red-cheeked young women in Park Police mufti, making their way past Eastern Market on cross-country skis. He shuddered and tugged his collar up around his neck, averting his eyes. It was harder to avoid the row of cut evergreens leaning against the brick facade of the Market itself, or the plastic buckets full of fresh-cut holly and box, the ropes of princess pine and balsam and the ghostly clouds of mistletoe dangling from oakbranches sawn from trees along Skyline Drive. He skirted the line of greenery, stepping off the curb into the street; but the fragrance of balsam and boxwood dogged him, along with the sound of pleading children, the faint thrum of a church organ and an unsteady soprano struggling with "O Holy Night."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it," whispered Brendan through chattering teeth. He spoke aloud, as much to drown the music of the world in his ears, as to protest the cold. But it was so cold, and the expectant world was so tightly wrapped around him that he kept it up the whole way home, the mean rigorous chant rising and falling as he scurried across streets and past driveways packed with cars, kicking at mysterious boxes that had already disgorged their secrets to garages and attics, jostling pa.s.sers-by who unwisely wished him Merry or Happy, his head down and eyes fixed on nothing but the grey ice-sc.u.mmed sidewalk before him. "G.o.d d.a.m.n, G.o.d d.a.m.n ..."

Finally he reached the corner of Seventh and Maryland. For a long moment he stood there, heedless of his neighbors hurrying past, and stared at the defiantly barren windows of his rowhouse apartment. There were no lights there; no spangled promise of a tree within; no fake plastic candles; no Menorahs or Kwaanza candles. No wreath on the door; just a red paper flyer from the Capitol Hill Food bank- SORRY WE MISSED YOU! WE ARE STILL ACCEPTING DONATIONS OF CANNED.

GOODS FOR OUR HOLIDAY HUNGER DRIVE, PLEASE DROP OFF AT-.

He tore it down, crumpled it and tossed it onto the steps behind him; then went inside.

The apartment was silent. All was calm, all was bright. Actually, all was an incredible mess.

"What the-?"

Brendan frowned, putting down his briefcase and surveying the living room. The TV was on: scampering reindeer, an elf. He switched it off, turned to survey the galaxy of spilled popcorn sweeping from wall to wall, mingled with cracker crumbs and an apple core, an empty juice box, videotapes. There were shreds of newsprint everywhere, a trail of apple juice leading to the kitchen, and smudges of white powder on the carpet.

And where the f.u.c.k was Tony? Brendan could feel the rage knotted inside him starting to uncoil, a slow serpent suddenly awakened. "Peter?" he called. "Tony?"

"In here, dude-we're in the bathroom-"

Brendan shook his head, then lowered himself into a crouch. He dabbed a finger in the white stuff on the floor, brought it to his mouth and hesitantly touched it to his lips.

"Blech." He grimaced, standing. Well, at least it wasn't cocaine. Or heroin. "Tony-?"

He found him in the bathroom leaning against the tub in a white-streaked RAW POWER T-shirt.

Peter sat on the toilet, pants around his ankles, nuzzling his rubber duck and humming to himself.

"Hey, Brenda." Tony lifted his head and smiled weakly. For an instant Brendan thought he'd apologize for the mess, but no, he was just tired. "Jeez Louise, I'm glad to see you. We-""What the f.u.c.k is going on?" Brendan stared at him, his eyes too bright, his longyears white and raw from the sleet outside.

"Huh?"

" 'Huh' nothing. What's this mess? The whole place is a G.o.ddam mess-" He moved his longyear, too quickly, to point to the living room, and bashed it into the door. "Ow-G.o.d d.a.m.n it-"

"Hey, man-" Tony glanced uneasily at Peter, then at Brendan. "Take it easy, he's had kind of a rough day, like-"

"Oh yeah? Well, I've had kind of a rough week. I've had kind of a rough f.u.c.king life-"

"Hey, whoa! C'mon, man, you're too loud, you'll scare him, Peggy said-"

"The f.u.c.k what Peggy says. What is this G.o.ddam mess?"

He stepped forward and grabbed the shower rod. His entire body shook. In his longyear the plastic rod bent, then snapped, and the curtain flopped down around Tony's head.

"Whoa, man, who's making the mess now? Jeez, Brendan! I was just-"

He smashed the curtain aside, grabbed for Tony's shoulder; but before he could touch it Tony's longyear curled around his.

"Brendan," said Tony, softly but urgently. Tony's grip was tight, his longyear bigger than Brendan's and his grasp, Brendan realized with a small shock, far stronger than his own. "Calm down, man, I'll clean it up! But he wouldn't eat anything, I tried all day until finally he, like, ate a whole gallon of popcorn and I think he got a stomach ache. That's what we're dealing with now."

Behind him, Brendan could hear a low nhhhh nhhhh nhhhhh. Tony nodded, tipping his head toward Peter; then gazed back at Brendan. His brown eyes were not puzzled so much as they were utterly without comprehension. He stared down at Brendan's longyear, gripped in his own like some remnant of a life-size toy, and abruptly let it fall. He shook his head. "Hey, man-it's Christmas."

Brendan stared back at him; past him, at his own shadow on the shiny white tiles of the shower stall. By some trick of the overhead light Tony's shadow dwarfed his, but when Tony turned away Brendan's shadow sprang back up, filling the empty s.p.a.ce and the corners of the ceiling. He swallowed, the inside of his mouth tasting sour and chalky, his lips aching and chapped from the cold. "Get out," he said. It hurt to talk, it hurt to say that but he turned, bending to put his longyear gently on Peter's shoulder where he sat. "Get out."

"But." Tony watched as his friend gazed down at his son. Without looking at his father, the boy twisted, trying to slip from Brendan's touch. After a moment Brendan let go of him, and Peter began to cry. Tony bit his lip, then turned away.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Thank you." Brendan remained standing above the child. Like Tony's shadow moments before, his son seemed to shrink. Brendan shivered, a wave of dizziness flooding him; then steadiedhimself by grabbing the back of the toilet. The dizziness pa.s.sed; his anger hardened, grew small and cold and compact, a stone he swallowed, just one of thousands. He blinked, feeling granite in his chest, a deadening behind his eyes. His child was crying, and he reached for him automatically but knowing he would not give him comfort, could not, not ever. Tony was gone, there was the sound of a door closing and once more Brendan was helping Peter, cleaning him and dressing him and waiting for the boy to follow him from the bathroom back into the kitchen.

It was a night like any other, cold, dark, sleet slashing the windows and the curtains drawn against what was outside, the apartment silent, the sounds of song and voices m.u.f.fled by the steady dull pounding of his heart. He cleaned the living room; Peter stood and watched him from the sides of his eyes but his father did not see him, did not seem to know he was there. When he was finished he dumped the dustpan full of grit and flour and popcorn into the trash, then started on the kitchen, wiping up spilled juice and more kernels and fishing an uneaten apple from beneath the table. He straightened, his hair still damp and unkempt from the walk home, and gazed across the room at the child leaning against the wall: his fist curled against his cheek, the yellow rubber duck with its gnawed head resting against his chin.