Blair said, "Even in prison, w.i.l.l.y's got the Christmas spirit."

"Even in prison, w.i.l.l.y's got you conned," Clayton said. "w.i.l.l.y can con anybody he wants to, and from any distance."

"He might be a con man," Blair said petulantly, "but he's also a decent person." Left hanging heavy in the air was the implication that Clayton was not a decent sort; he was the kind of miser who wouldn't even let his family have a genuine Christmas tree. That irritated him. Wasn't he an excellent provider? A faithful and sober husband? A good father to their son, if perhaps a stricter one than Blair would have liked? And how was w.i.l.l.y-a convicted criminal-a decent person? Wasn't that just what a con artist needed you to believe-that he was basically decent?

Blair began opening the Christmas cards, using a long red fingernail to pry beneath envelope flaps. "Well, when are you going to buy this artificial tree?" she asked resignedly, without meeting his gaze.

"In a little while."

Still not looking up, she said, "Andy was looking forward to picking out a real one with us over at the lot on Elm Avenue."

Clayton didn't answer. He actually didn't even want to go to the trouble of buying and setting up even an artificial tree. Some of them were complicated and the branches didn't fit right. What he really wanted was a window shade with a picture of a tree on it. He could pull it down during the holidays, then roll it up sometime around the new year. Better not tell Blair about that idea, though.

Andy said, "Pweese, Daddy!" from the sofa.

"You can get up now, son," Clayton said just as the doorbell rang. "But behave. No more temper tantrums."

He took two steps to the door and opened it. Stood with his mouth hanging open, breathing in cold air.

His brother, w.i.l.l.y, was standing on the porch.

"w.i.l.l.y, how'd you-"

"I'm let out on a good behavior program till after Christmas," w.i.l.l.y said. "They're doing that now for trusties convicted of nonviolent crimes." He grinned. "n.o.body'll skip. Not this time of year. That's why they call us trusties."

Clayton didn't know what to say. He wasn't actually all that glad to see his brother. They'd never gotten along well.

"w.i.l.l.y!" Blair said behind Clayton. "For G.o.d's sake, come on in!"

"Yeah!" Clayton said, pulling out of his shock. "Get in here, w.i.l.l.y. Cold out there."

w.i.l.l.y the master criminal smiled. He was a shorter, bulkier version of Clayton, but with a face that perpetually beamed and a nose red from hanging over too many highball gla.s.ses. While Clayton's features were lean and intense, giving him the look of a concerned headmaster, w.i.l.l.y resembled a life-coa.r.s.ened department store Santa out of uniform and on his way to a bar. Clayton wondered if w.i.l.l.y had been drinking before coming here. Did Santa's reindeer have antlers?

w.i.l.l.y hadn't moved. He said, "I got something with me." Reached off to his left and tugged at an obviously heavy and resisting object.

A Christmas tree came into view.

Not only a tree, but a large one. Almost six feet tall and also big around.

Not only a large tree, but a live one. Its roots still surrounded by a ma.s.sive clump of earth that was wrapped in burlap tied with twine.

What was going on here? Clayton wondered. Had w.i.l.l.y conned a tree from a nursery in the spirit of Christmas? He was capable of it, and that was sure how it appeared.

Blair almost screamed, "A real tree!"

"Weal twee!" Andy scampered across the living room and bounced off Clayton's leg.

Clayton cleared his throat and said, "This is your uncle w.i.l.l.y, son."

Andy said, "Wi-wee."

w.i.l.l.y was beaming down at Andy with an expression so tender it surprised Clayton. He'd been in prison since before Andy's birth. "Finally get to see you, little buddy."

Clayton said, "Leave the tree on the porch for now and come inside, w.i.l.l.y. You're so cold you're white." Except for the drinker's nose.

As w.i.l.l.y leaned the tree against the house and stepped through the door, Blair said, "You sure you're feeling okay, w.i.l.l.y? You are kind of pale."

"Oh, yeah. Pri-where I been does that to the complexion. You know me, always healthy. Never even a cold."

Germs slain by alcohol, Clayton thought, but he kept the opinion to himself.

w.i.l.l.y peeled off his coat. He was wearing a cheap blue suit. Scuffed black shoes. Prison issue.

w.i.l.l.y handed his coat to Clayton and glanced around. "Good. I was hoping you hadn't bought a tree yet. Wanted to surprise you. We gotta get it in a washtub with some water in it pretty soon. Then, after Christmas, you can plant it someplace in your yard. It'll grow tall and strong right along with Andy, here."

Clayton wasn't surprised to see that Andy, like all things warm-blooded, had taken an immediate liking to w.i.l.l.y. He was standing close and gazing up at him as if w.i.l.l.y were a life-size G.I. Joe. War toys, Clayton thought. At least w.i.l.l.y hadn't brought Andy war toys.

Blair bustled off to get w.i.l.l.y a cup of hot chocolate. w.i.l.l.y settled down on the sofa with Andy next to him. Old pals already.

Clayton said, "Where you staying, w.i.l.l.y?"

w.i.l.l.y waited until Blair had returned. He said, "Well, I thought maybe here. I gotta report back in right after Christmas."

Clayton had barely opened his mouth when Blair said, "Great, w.i.l.l.y. We've got a guest room."

Andy said, "Back in where, Uncle Wi-wee?"

"Uncle w.i.l.l.y meant he had to go back home," Clayton said quickly. "Soon as Christmas is over."

w.i.l.l.y sat back in the softness of the sofa and looked around. "Great place, Clayt. Great family. Great cup of chocolate. You know how lucky you are?"

Clayton said he knew.

They went out for supper at a family-style restaurant that served fried chicken and was decorated with holly and pine rope and red bows. w.i.l.l.y was his usual mesmerizing self and Andy behaved beautifully. Clayton was surprised to be enjoying himself. Actually glad to see w.i.l.l.y, the older brother of whom he'd always been so jealous. In high school w.i.l.l.y had stolen from Clayton the affections of Janet Gerinski, a cheerleader whose good looks transcended even the glinting metal orthodontic braces of the era. Janet had interested w.i.l.l.y for about two pa.s.sionate weeks, and was now married to an insurance man and living in an even more expensive part of town than the Blakes.

Clayton knew he'd never really forgiven w.i.l.l.y, who, after dropping Janet, left school and hitchhiked to California. There w.i.l.l.y's intended career in rock music had quickly fallen through. That was when w.i.l.l.y began plying his charm in pursuit of illegal profits. From the record industry to telephone boiler rooms to plush hotel suites in Reno, w.i.l.l.y had bilked thousands of dollars from unsuspecting admirers and business a.s.sociates.

Odd, Clayton thought, how n.o.body liked what w.i.l.l.y had done, but everybody seemed to like w.i.l.l.y. It was something Clayton had never understood.

The next morning was Sat.u.r.day, and the three adults, with Andy's help, stood the live pine tree more or less straight in a washtub and decorated it. Clayton felt good watching Andy. Thought for the first time that maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to deprive the boy of a real Christmas tree at only four years old.

"Hey, Clayt!" w.i.l.l.y said that evening after Blair's home-cooked dinner. "Let's all drive downtown and show Andy the display windows. They got a train about a mile long in one of the department stores." He grinned over at Andy. "You sat on Santa's lap yet, buddy?"

"Not since he was a year old," Blair said, shooting a glance at Clayton Scrooge.

w.i.l.l.y shoved his chair back and stood up. "Well, we can fix that tonight. Stores are open late. C'mon, folks. I got some shopping to do anyway."

Clayton was surprised. "Where would you get money in-"

Blair raised a hand palm out to silence Clayton.

"Aw, you know me, Clayt," w.i.l.l.y said. "How I always been able to play cards."

Cheat at cards, Clayton thought. But again he kept his silence.

After w.i.l.l.y helped Blair load the dishwasher, they set off in the station wagon for the highway leading downtown. w.i.l.l.y suggested they sing. Clayton objected only briefly before being overruled. By the time they got downtown he was actually enjoying belting out Christmas carols, listening to Andy sing with lisping soprano gusto. Blair was smiling and looking-well, angelic.

w.i.l.l.y winked at Clayton in the rearview mirror. "Holiday spirit, Clayt."

Clayt. Clayton had always hated that nickname. And now only w.i.l.l.y called him that.

Andy was enthralled by the colorful display windows. Sat beaming on Santa's lap and asked for a model plane. Which amazed Clayton; he and Blair were giving Andy a simple plastic model plane for Christmas.

An hour before the stores were due to close, w.i.l.l.y told the rest of the family to drive home without him. He wanted to do some shopping and then he'd take a cab back to the house.

Clayton agreed, and they said good-bye and went outside to walk the short, cold two blocks to the parking lot.

No one said anything. Even Clayton thought the drive home was comparatively dull.

And during the drive he began to think. Why was w.i.l.l.y laying on the charm? Was he trying to work some kind of con? Clayton couldn't be sure, but he was determined to be careful.

Christmas morning was a delight. Clayton felt a warmth he hadn't thought possible watching Andy open the many presents placed under the tree by his uncle w.i.l.l.y. With the warmth was an unexpected melancholy yearning for Christmas mornings years ago when he and w.i.l.l.y had been held in check at the top of the stairs and then allowed to race downstairs and examine their own presents. He remembered the pungent scent of the real Christmas tree, the same scent that was now Andy's to remember. The years at home with w.i.l.l.y might not have been as bad as Clayton usually recalled them. Besides, shouldn't there be a time limit, a statute of limitations on ancient injuries?

It had snowed that morning, as if the weather knew one of w.i.l.l.y's gifts to Andy would be a sled. That afternoon, after a meal of ham and sweet potatoes, with apple pie for dessert, w.i.l.l.y suggested they all go to a hill in a nearby park and test the sled. Clayton was reluctant at first, but he went along and had a marvelous time even though he suspected three or four fingers might be frostbitten. He even soloed downhill with the sled, something he hadn't done since he was twelve. "Got carried away," he explained to a grinning Blair when he'd clomped uphill, snow-speckled and trailing the sled on its rope.

As they were trudging through the snow back to the car, Clayton and Andy fell behind w.i.l.l.y and Blair. Andy looked up at Clayton, his reddened face curious beneath his ski cap. "How come Uncle Wi-wee don't get cold?"

"He does get cold, I'm sure."

"Don't act cold."

Which was true, Clayton realized. Maybe w.i.l.l.y was fortified with alcohol, he thought, and then immediately felt guilty. As far as he knew, w.i.l.l.y hadn't touched anything alcoholic since he'd arrived for his Christmas visit.

That night, after an exhausted Andy had fallen asleep on the sofa next to w.i.l.l.y and then been carried upstairs to bed, Blair made some eggnog and the three adults sat around talking.

"I always envied you, Clayt," w.i.l.l.y said, wiping eggnog from his upper lip.

Clayton was surprised.

"Still do. The roots you put down early. You oughta take stock of what's yours in this world and appreciate it. I mean, nothing lasts forever, and you got this time with Blair and Andy ..."

Now Clayton was astonished. For a moment it appeared that w.i.l.l.y might actually break down and weep. w.i.l.l.y a family man?

Then w.i.l.l.y sat up straighter and asked for a refill on the eggnog. The familiar w.i.l.l.y; there was alcohol in eggnog. He was again the charming con man who'd bilked thousands from people who strangely wouldn't count him among their enemies.

After w.i.l.l.y had gone to bed, Blair said, "He knows he's getting older, and he has to go back to prison tomorrow. I feel terrible about that, don't you? Clay?"

For the first time in years, Clayton said without reservation, "I pity him."

The morning after Christmas, w.i.l.l.y was gone.

They hadn't heard him depart.

He'd left no note.

His bed was made and there was no sign that he'd even visited them. When Andy woke up and asked about him, Clayton told him his uncle w.i.l.l.y had gone back to where he worked in another country. Peru, Clayton had finally said, when pressed. Andy didn't like it. Cried for a while. Then accepted this explanation and got interested in the array of toys he'd received yesterday.

Two days later Clayton was reading the morning paper when Blair said, "Clay!" Something in her voice alarmed him. He put down the paper and saw her standing by the table in the foyer, where she'd been sorting through the mail. Her face was pale and puzzled. "I found this still unopened," she said, and held out a white envelope and the letter that had been inside.

Clayton stood up and walked over to her. Saw she was holding the envelope that had come from the state prison. "w.i.l.l.y's Christmas card," he said.

He'd never before seen such a look in her blue, blue eyes. "But it's not a card. It's ..." As he gently took the letter from her hand she said, "... a death notice."

Clayton stood paralyzed and read. Blair was right. The state penitentiary had written to inform Clayton as w.i.l.l.y's next of kin that one Willard Blake had died of pneumonia. They were awaiting word concerning the disposition of the body.

Clayton stood with his arms limp, the hand holding the letter and envelope dangling at his side.

"Look at the postmark," Blair said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, crossing her arms and cupping her elbows in her palms, as if she were cold. "Look at the date on the letter. It's three days before w.i.l.l.y's visit."

Something with a thousand tiny legs seemed to crawl up the back of Clayton's neck. He drew a deep breath. Exhaled. "A mistake, that's all. Some kind of mistake at the prison."

He looked again at the letterhead. Found a phone number. Strode into the kitchen and called the prison.

It hadn't been a mistake, the woman he talked to said. She told him she was sorry about his brother. Said, "About the remains ..."

Clayton slowly replaced the receiver and sat staring at the phone. Blair walked into the kitchen and saw the expression on his face. Slumped down opposite him.

They stared at each other.

Andy helped Clayton plant the live tree in the backyard. Every Christmas they lovingly decorated it with strings of outdoor colored lights.

There was something-something he knew was absurd-that Clayton couldn't shake from his mind. In a place beyond lies, w.i.l.l.y had come face to face either with St. Peter or with the devil. Could w.i.l.l.y-even the magnificent faker w.i.l.l.y-con either of those two? Maybe.

Only maybe.

Which was what nagged unreasonably at Clayton. If w.i.l.l.y hadn't worked a con to buy his extra time on earth, had he worked a trade?

Even after Andy had grown up and left home for college, Clayton continued to decorate the stately pine tree every Christmas. And in the summer he'd unreel the garden hose and stand patiently in the glaring sun, watering the ground around its thick trunk. He'd thoroughly soak the earth beneath the carpet of brown dried needles.

It was impossible to know how deep the roots of such a tree might reach.

THREE-DOT PO.