His father’s defense was his practice. Even when he was home, he stayed in his study, a room strictly forbidden to all, even the cleaning lady. He’d done better than his wife—his accent was pure Baltimore except when he lapsed on purpose. Traditional glum father. Peter couldn’t remember what his father looked like when he smiled.
Peter scrunched his eyes. Maybe he could remember. He saw a young, bright face, midnight blue eyes, a five o’clock shadow, and a smile—large and broad, showing white, perfectly shaped teeth—like Peter’s. A light slick of sweat on the unlined forehead, cheeks still flushed from a romp. Yes, it was his father in a different time. After a tickle fest. And then there was decorating the Christmas tree, maybe more than once. He saw his father switching off all the lights in the living room except for the little twinkly tree bulbs. He bent over until his face was close to Peter’s, and he said, “Are you ready for the star, bruiser?” Peter clasped his hands and nodded quickly. His father put a silver star in Peter’s hands. “Ready to fly like a plane?” Peter nodded again. “Turn around.” His father slipped his huge hairy hands under Peter’s armpits and lifted him, as if he weighed nothing, high in the air and set him on his shoulders. Peter recalled the scary feeling of his stomach pressed hard against the back of his father’s head, his hands clinging to his father’s massive forehead. The big hands slid down to Peter’s waist and held him. “Go ahead,” his father’s voice said. Peter leaned toward the top of the tree. “Closer, Daddy.” His father shuffled against the tree. Peter stretched until he could get the base of the ornament over the tip of the tree. He straightened the star. “Go around.” Peter’s father stepped first to one side of the tree, then the other. “Straight now?” said the voice from below. Since Peter was sure his father could see him, even when he wasn’t looking at him, he nodded. His father scooted his arms back to Peter’s armpits, flew him to the floor, and set him on his feet. Father and son stood hand-in-hand gazing up at the star in the soft light. “Looks good,” Peter’s father said. He stooped until his face was next to Peter’s. “Nice goin’, son. You done good.”
Did that really happen? Peter wasn’t sure. Why had his father changed into a wrinkled, misanthropic Mencken? That’s the way he was in later Christmases when he came home and found Peter’s mother drunk, burning dinner, breaking things. One of those Christmases, Peter found a half-empty bottle of gin behind the garbage pail under the sink. “So that’s where Betty put it,” his mother said, hands on hips. “Really. The help nowadays.” They’d fired Betty. Peter fought off an impulse to cover his ears, as he had in those days when he lay in bed while his parents yelled at each other downstairs.
Much later, long after polite silence had iced over the quarrels, came the Christmas Peter would never forget, the Christmas Robbie died. Peter’s cousin, two years older than him, Bud and Helen’s only son, tall, lean, dark, sexy, funny. And wild. Stunning track athlete, football hero, the darling of his high school class, with a physique that made Peter’s heart clench. Robbie had all the girls he ever wanted, while Peter, sickened at himself, wanted no girls at all. Robbie was the first man to make Peter hurt in that special way, knowing that he could never be Robbie, yet never possess him, either. At the beginning of Peter’s senior year, Robbie rebelled, ran off, joined the Marines. He risked his life, not once but many times, the reports said. The last time, he’d volunteered to be pointman, to lead his squad on patrol through the jungles of Ca Mau. He was a hero again. There’d be a medal. Posthumously.
Peter was at the high school Christmas Ball the night the news came. In the dimly lit gym, all decorated with clear plastic three-dimensional stars and real pine trees and red tissue paper bells, he sat alone against the wall watching the dancers. The principal and two teachers found him, told him his father telephoned the school. He was to go right home. For reasons Peter didn’t understand, his father had been enraged. Peter could still see him, pacing in the living room.
“Why are you so angry?” Peter asked, close to tears. “I didn’t do anything!”
His father stopped, scowled at him, and said with steely softness, “You didn’t do anything. And you ask why I’m angry?”
Peter had been rigid with terror without knowing why.
The following summer he sneaked into his father’s study. Over the desk, he found a framed plaque, with a quote from Teddy Roosevelt:
Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.
He’s ashamed of me. I’m a poor spirit. He liked Robbie better. Everybody loved Robbie. Robbie, who never felt the special hurt. Who got himself killed. Robbie dared mighty things.
“Well?” the gritty voice on the telephone said.
“What?”
“Peter, you sound extremely odd.”
“Sorry, Mom. Ask me again.”
“What I said was, will Tuesday evening be okay for us to drop by?”
Peter clutched. “Tuesday?”
“About seven.”
Jesus. “I’d love to have you, Mom, but I’ll be working. You know I work nights.”
“You told us that the Riche is never open on Tuesdays.”
Peter stalled. “Tuesdays?”
“Didn’t you hear anything? Let me re-it-er-ate. Your father has to be in Washington Tuesday afternoon, and I’m planning to come along and shop for drapery fabrics at Sloan’s. So we thought we’d drop by and see you after dinner, but if you’re working, we’ll come by the restaurant.”
Panic flickered in Peter’s belly. “Right, I’m not working. Of course. Tuesday. I was confused.” He laughed. “Anyway,” he said, feeling his way, “anyway, I haven’t been to work for . . . three days, and I got mixed up.”
“Vacation?”
“Sick.”
“Sick?” Alarm rose in her voice.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a fast laugh, “I’m much better now. It was pretty serious, actually.”
“What was it?”
“Pneumonia.”
“Pneu . . . Why didn’t you call me?”
“Mom, I knew I’d be over it in a jiffy.”
“Peter,” she said, “how could you be so thoughtless?”
“Hey, it was no big deal.”
“You said it was serious.”
He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t fatal or anything.”
“Promise me,” she said, “promise me that if you ever get seriously ill again you’ll call me. I’d better drive right down there.”
“Mom, please. Look, the doctor says I should rest and not have a lot of company and excitement and all.”
“Were you in the hospital?”
“No,” he said, thinking fast, “no, I stayed here.”
“Who’s taking care of you?”
“I’m taking care of myself.”
“Peter, you don’t have the sense God gave a chigger.”
“Mom,” he said, “I’m fine now. I need rest.”
“All right. I’ll put off seeing you until Tuesday.”
“Might be better if you waited until I was mended.”
“Not a chance. I’m your mother, remember? And when a person’s baby’s