‘Hey,’ he says. ‘That huge Christmas tree is hollow.’
They’re in the central court of the mall now, and it’s set up for Christmas. There’s a plush red-and-gold Santa’s throne, looking vaguely degenerate on a stage. There’s tinsel and holly, fake snow, and a bright green three-storey Christmas tree — fifteen metres of plastic pine. I wonder how they assemble those enormous trees, how many pieces there are to them, and where they live for the months they aren’t required. James is wondering this too as he inspects the tree, the globes of red and gold floating in it, the fact of its hidden cavity. His gaze follows it up and up among the shopping-centre levels that are strung together with escalators and boughs of synthetic holly and the cameras whose video screens Tony’s brother is supposed to keep an eye on. And being James he is struck by the tree’s undersea immensity in the half-light. The end of the sun comes through the skylight above them, and it’s like looking up from the other side of water.
Greg is on Santa’s throne. Here comes his voice — girlish and convincing. He’s saying something like ‘I am the lord of all I survey, of half-price CDs and ladies’ underwear and small white fences designed for keeping kids in line while they wait to see Santa.’ Greg is a keen observer of concrete objects and we have high hopes for his sense of irony.
‘James,’ he says. ‘Get up here.’
‘Hey,’ says Tony. ‘Why are all the escalators blocked off? They’re stopped anyway.’
This is when Glenda looks out the window and says, ‘Where are those boys?’
* * *
What’s Tony’s brother doing now? What do security guards do in empty shopping centres? Here are some possibilities: They stroll around with torches, wearing caps and pretending to be burglars. They window-shop. They pluck tiny spiders out of fake foliage. I’ve heard that celebrities sometimes come to malls after hours and things are kept open for them. Princess Diana did, sometime in the eighties, on one of her visits. She strolled and chatted and did some shopping. I’ve also heard that in the eighties, shop mannequins were modelled on her features. It must have been quite a life, shopping amongst yourself in an empty store at night.
Could be Tony’s brother is noticing a lot of things at once. The rain that’s started up — brief, sweaty summer rain, with the sky yellow and no clouds that you’d noticed. Tony fooling with the escalator barriers, trying to swing them back or push them aside. James heading toward his brother on the throne. Something about James is that he’s always neat — no laces undone, nothing creased, never sloppy, like a miniature version of my father. Glenda always says ‘His hair falls in a natural part’ with a kind of subdued wonder, because hers doesn’t. Could be that Tony’s brother is sitting on the raised red stage smoking a cigarette and knowing no one will stop him. He must bring girls here.
‘So, James,’ says Greg, kicking affectionately at his brother, ‘what do you want for Christmas?’
‘A new china cabinet.’
Greg laughs. He has a spooky laugh, man-sized, though he’s not a man. James’s face gets the look it does when he’s made Greg laugh: happy and speculative. There’s always the risk that Greg will stop.
‘Get up here,’ Greg says. ‘I’m Santa.’
James sits on Greg’s knee.
‘Hey,’ calls Tony, halfway up the escalator, ‘this tree’s so big you could sit in it.’
* * *
Glenda makes a call to Bev Wolfson. The rain stops while she dials. Bev says, ‘Glenda! Come for a drink. The boys are probably in the yard. They’ll be among the hordes. Why don’t you come over? Bring Phil.’
Bev’s talking so loud I can hear her. I shake my head at Glenda and Glenda shakes her head into the phone.
‘Do you mind checking, just quickly?’ Glenda asks.
* * *
Where’s Tony’s brother at this moment? Checking out a noise in a loading bay? He may have a walkie-talkie somewhere in his zip-up jacket. The smoke from his cigarette is going up up up.
‘What about you?’ says James. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’
‘I’ve got a list,’ Greg answers. ‘I’ve sent it already.’
This concerns James. He knows, in a solemn and informed way, that Santa Claus isn’t real. He assumes Greg knows this too, but now he isn’t sure. He looks up to the second-floor mezzanine, where a diminished Tony is circling the tree like a compact angel, inspecting it from all directions.
‘Who’d you send your list to?’ James asks.
‘To Grandma and Pop. Who else? They give the best stuff.’
James knows this — we all know this. Even Glenda has buckled under the pressure.
‘Mum and Dad give good stuff,’ says James.
Greg says, ‘Mmm.’ Then he says, ‘It’s all educational.’
Maybe Tony’s brother is right there, thinking about Christmas, the nuts and candles and bad wine, the old people who knew you when they were young. He leans against the stage, removes his jacket, places his walkie-talkie beside him. Tony has finally found himself the perfect position: a bench, the balcony rail, a small step into the tree. He yells down to them, his voice echoing and enormous.
‘I could get into it from here,’ he says. ‘Think it’s stable?’
* * *
Bev hurries in from the yard — imagine her agile steps among the plants.
‘The boys aren’t here,’ she says, and she reports James’s bike. There’s a small moment when you begin to wonder, and in the middle of it, you remain calm.
Glenda finds more phone numbers — the Barters’, the Carrs’. I say I’ll take a drive.
* * *
‘It’s not all educational,’ says James. But he’s scanning through a mental list of every gift we’ve ever given him, and it’s true that there’s always an agenda: Keep quiet! Learn to read! Hand-eye coordination! Ancient cultures!
By now Tony is in the tree. Who but a kid like Tony would think to climb into that tree? He just stepped right into the middle of it — I’ve seen him on the CCTV tape, quiet and at a distance. Tony slightly fuzzy in black and white, stepping into the tree like a chunky Chaplin, slapstick and crazy. He’s got nineteen seconds and he lets out what I’d call a whoop. Some kind of sound that has to do with height and secrecy and finding things out; with disobedience, with being in space — the new view, the absurdity of it. He pockets a bauble, like a thief or a bird, and he’s both, making a place in the tree, rearranging it, shifting things round up there. Tony’s got it — he’s riding that tree, he’s found his footing. What a feeling to be in the middle of all that, a kid like Tony looking around, looking down.
The tree shakes a little, unhappy, like something in a fairy tale waking up.
* * *
I’m driving slowly with my window down, watching pedestrians and making people uncomfortable. Everyone’s out after the rain, walking on the wet grass, following dogs, peering into flower beds. The birds are crazy with the late sun. The houses are transparent and available, curtains open for early Christmas trees, back doors visible through front doors, and pieces of smoke-filled garden. In each house, someone is on the phone. You can hear their phone voices in the street, and it’s as if Glenda has called every one of them, all at the same time. There are small boys kicking soccer balls across yellow front lawns. There are boys climbing trees to retrieve lost objects, and boys at windows pressing their open mouths against cool glass. I wonder when this place got to be so wholesomely full of childhood. None of the boys look like James or Greg, not even for a hopeful moment.
I go through the Hughes Road roundabout twice. The shopping centre rises out of exit ramps and bright banners and the kind of low bushes that can withstand drought and exhaust fumes. There are barriers over all the entrances. In my head, I compose a list of the things I need to buy there tomorrow: a new belt, bulk laundry liquid, stamps. I’ll take the boys for a milkshake before we go to the hardware store. I keep floating the car through our avenues and drives and boulevards and crescents until the streetlights turn on. They say: Nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about.