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, muffled 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, recordings announcing We Will Be Closed Until; receptionists answering phones with breathless voices, already anticipating the afternoon's office party, early release, Midnight Mass.
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 passengers.
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 God 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 glass 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's tomorrow 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 hell 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.