places open this time of the morning, and on Christmas Eve, no less. Most people weren’t bar-hopping on the twenty-fourth of December. Even most rummies had someplace else to go. Even the most pathetic drunks usually had a family.
But not Carl. Not anymore.
I’m all alone, he thought. The words were a relentless pounding inside his brain. I’m all alone.
He banged the empty shot glass down on the table, making it rock back and forth on its not-on-the-level legs. It wasn’t right. Not right at all. Sure, he’d been going through a rough patch. Times were hard. But that was no reason for Bonnie to bail out. That was no reason to take away his son, his Tommy, the only thing that still mattered in his life.
He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed a creased and slightly torn photo. Tommy and him, three Christmases ago. They were standing in front of the tree, Tommy in his jammies going ape over the Dinosaur Mountain play set Santa had brought him. Carl sitting just beside him, grinning from ear to ear like the proud daddy he was.
Three Christmases ago. And in three short years, the whole damn world had changed. Tommy didn’t even look like this now.
Carl picked up the shot glass and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the wall on the opposite side, leaving a dark, dripping stain on the fading wallpaper.
Joe hustled out of the shadows. “I want you gone, Carl! Now!”
“I’m goin’. I’m goin’.”
“I’ll give you thirty seconds. Then I’m calling the cops.”
“The cops?”
“Yeah, the cops. You remember them, don’t you, Carl? The boys in blue. That nice shiny uniform you used to wear? Well, they’re gonna be in here to haul your butt to the pokey if you’re still around in thirty seconds!” He checked his watch. “Make that twenty.”
“I’m gone,” Carl muttered. “Thanks for everything.”
He shoved the photo back in his wallet, threw some money on the table, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. His arm twinged as he twisted it back into the coat sleeve, but the whiskey had deadened the pain just enough to make it bearable.
He stepped onto the sidewalk and was nearly bowled over by shoppers rushing both ways at once. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Of course they were, Carl thought. Everyone has places to go, people to be with. Everyone but me.
He spotted a group of carolers on the opposite corner, teenagers mostly. They were singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Whatever happened to the classic Christmas carols-“Silent Night” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem”? Nothing was what it was supposed to be these days. Nothing worked right.
He would have to fix things, that was all.
He remembered the look on Bonnie’s face when she finally told him Tommy wasn’t at home. Sad, pathetic, desperate. No doubt in his mind-she was telling the truth.
But if he wasn’t home, where was he? Neither he nor Bonnie had parents living in the area.
Day care? It was pretty pathetic, thinking she would put the kid in day care on Christmas Eve, but that had to be the answer. He knew the private school she sent Tommy to provided child care during nonschool hours.
He shook his head. What a sorry thing to do. She probably wanted Tommy out of her hair. Probably just wanted him gone so she could celebrate the holidays one-on-one with Frank. How sick, and … and …
And how interesting. How interesting.
He zipped up his coat and headed down the street where he had parked his pickup. I will not let Christmas pass without seeing my son, he told himself. I will not allow that to happen. It isn’t right.
He sucked in the bracing air, letting it swirl in his throat and lungs with the last traces of whiskey. I will see Tommy, he muttered resolutely. No matter what.
I will see Tommy.
Or no one will.
4
Megan fingered the small cameo-encased photograph. My dear sweet mother, she thought, as she had every day for weeks now. Who would have ever thought I could miss you so? When you were alive, it seemed like all we ever did was argue. And now that you’re gone, I feel like someone cut a hole in my chest and ripped my heart out.
She turned down the photo and forced herself to look away. It wasn’t healthy, she told herself. All this moaning and whining. Especially on Christmas Eve. The holidays were tough enough on a single woman without this kind of self-indulgence.
But that was the head talking, not the heart. The heart was telling her that her mother, her only family, was dead, and that she would spend Christmas Eve alone.
A growling, spitting noise erupted from the corner of her office. Jasper scooted forward and wiped his wet face against her exposed ankles.
Yes, she would be spending Christmas Eve alone. Or worse.
Her hand pressed against her forehead. How could this happen? How could she let it happen?
I’m all alone, she whispered quietly to herself. I’m all alone.
Before she had gone to law school, Megan had been an Episcopal priest. Technically she still was, she supposed, but people rarely thought of priests and lawyers as inhabiting the same body. During her eight years at St. Paul’s, she had comforted any number of lonely and despondent persons, patted their hands, said the words they needed to hear. But today those words held no meaning for her. She just didn’t believe them anymore.
Not now. Not after April 19, 1995.
Without thinking, her eyes rose to the row of ceramic Kewpie dolls lined up on a shelf just above her law books. The hula girl. The Eskimo. All the others.
So many memories. So many times shared.
And all of that was over now.
She sat up in her chair and scanned the cluttered surface of her desk. What was she doing here in the office, anyway? She had meant to stop in for only a minute to pick up a few things, since she was downtown anyway after finishing her cookie deliveries. There was no reason for her to stay.
But the sad thing was, there was no reason for her to go home, either.
She heard a knock on the door. A familiar head poked through. “Is Santa in?”
Megan looked up and tried to smile. “Ho, ho, ho.”
Cindy Kendall strolled into Megan’s office. She was tall, with shoulder-length ink-black hair and legs that went on to infinity. She was wearing a dignified but attractive beige suit-a Harold’s special, probably. She looked like a million bucks, Megan thought, which was a value of roughly $999,999.00 more than Megan would’ve appraised herself.
Megan rose from her chair. “What’s happening, Cindy-Lou Who?”
“Just came by to see if you finished the cookie rounds. Looks like you did. And survived to tell the tale.”
Megan smiled. She liked Cindy a lot, even if she was devastatingly attractive. Whenever the teenage boys who worked in the firm as clerks ran their errands, they invented excuses to linger in Cindy’s office. Megan was lucky if she got her morning mail.
“Completed my appointed rounds, and with no injury to self or others, I’m proud to say. Even made a bit of profit.”
“Don’t tell me one of those pro bono buddies paid you.”
“In a way.” Megan pointed toward the picture frame leaning face forward against the wall. “See for yourself.”
Cindy took a step toward the picture, but Jasper scooted forward on his hindquarters and began howling. Spittle flew in all directions.
