Snow Angels (31 page)

That night as Joe reaches into PJ’s crib to say good night, he flashes back to Garo Boghosian cradling his son’s body in the long shadows of the apartment that evening.

With a dull ache in his chest Joe ruffles the tuft of hair on PJ’s forehead, then kisses him on the cheek. “Good night, buddy.”

PJ’s eyes shine, circles of sleepy speculation. He doesn’t answer, but when Joe pats his back the boy reaches up and pats Joe’s arm in return.

The simple gesture makes Joe want to bawl like a baby, though he’s not sure why. He turns his face away and cuts out of the room fast so that he isn’t asked to explain tears that are unexplainable. He dives for the stairs, but Katie calls out as he passes her bedroom.

“Dad?” She folds her hands over her quilt. “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking I hear Santa’s sleigh outside my window.”

Joe pulls his lips into a halfhearted grin. The kid has some imagination. “Don’t worry. He won’t come ’till after you fall asleep. You know that.”

“I know, but I’m too excited to sleep.” The pillow is fat beneath her head. Her cheeks are rosy pink, the pearl buttons of her nightgown iridescent in the scrim of light. Geez, she’s like one of those kids with sugarplums in her head.

Her sweet anticipation scares him, knowing that one day she’ll find out the truth. It’s a ruse, all a big lie. He rubs his forehead, sick about the fact that his little girl was in for a huge disappointment.

“Daddy, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

When he leans down to kiss her good night her arms snake around his neck for a hefty hug. He gives her a squeeze, growling like the old days. “Bear hug.”

Her laughter covers his bad mood until he is out of the room and bounding down the stairs.

Under the jeweled lights of the tree, Sheila reigns over her Christmas kingdom. Flames dance in the little candles on the shelf. The house smells of cinnamon and clove and sugar cookies. Carols take the edge off the quiet, and his wife hums along, her dark head bent over some last-minute gifts to wrap. She loves this holiday so much.

He hates to disappoint her, but his head is in a different place right now, miles away from this cozy Christmas scene.

“Hey, honey. Take a load off and tell me what you think about this awesome car we got for PJ. Where did I hide that sucker? Hold on a sec, let me find it. Want a beer?”

“No, thanks.” Right now alcohol would put him over the edge. He sinks into the leather recliner and tries to relax. He’s always been able to close his locker at work and leave the job behind, and that’s what he needs to do tonight. Enjoy the whole Christmas world that Sheila put together for them. Close your eyes and relax…

But when he closes his eyes he sees Garo Boghosian rocking the body of his son, sobbing over the curled, stiff body.

When he tries to shake it off the image morphs to Katie cradling the doll in the Christmas pageant, rocking the baby Jesus. The connection jars him, sends him flying out of the chair.

“What is wrong with you?” Sheila smirks up at him. “Did you and Mack share a Christmas toast on the way home?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He paces in front of the tree. “I’m just strung up tight, thinking about the kids. Do you ever wonder about the Santa thing, Sheila? The big fat lie we tell our kids. The way we jack them up with candy and hope around the holidays. ‘Santa knows what you’re thinking. He sees you when you’re sleeping. Santa brings toys to good girls and boys.’ We pump them all up with the Santa stories, big fat lies, then, their balloon gets popped. They fall hard and fast, figure out that it’s all a parental conspiracy. Yeah, we set ’em up, then deck ’em, like a bunch of bowling pins.”

“Bowling pins?” Sheila is shaking her head in disbelief. “Hello? Did you get bitten by the Grinch? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“The big lie, Shee. The whole Santa debacle, which just sets them up for more fallacies, like telling them that God listens to your prayers and takes care of you. The big lie; that’s what I’m talking about.”

She pushes up from the floor and straightens, her eyes dark with concern as he paces past her. “Joe, you’re scaring me.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a scary realization that’s going to hit our kids eventually. They’re going to wonder what the point is. What’s the point?”

“Honey—” She reaches for him but he paces past her, her hand slips from his shoulder.

He moves away from her, lingering in the shadows by the window because he can’t have her touching him when he feels this way. He’s not going to let this all go, not going to soften at her touch. He’s way beyond that. “The thing is, I learned an important lesson out there today. If there even is a God, he’s not up there cheering anybody on. Nothing matters. Nobody can make a difference. You can get down on your knees at mass and pray to God all you want, but at the end of the day there’s a kid dead out there. The homeless are still homeless and people treat each other like animals and kids OD on drugs before they even have a chance to begin their lives. And I gotta get up on Christmas morning and leave my family and go out and do it all over again.” His voice catches, a tight barb in his throat.

“Aw, Joe…” She comes toward him, stepping carefully over the wrapping paper and bows, but he holds his arm out.

“Don’t touch me, Sheila. You can’t make this any better.” A fury burns through him, a flash-fire of pain and resentment as he paces the living room, hating every bow and garland and snow-covered crèche in his path.

“Was that what your overtime was about? A kid died?”

He shakes his head and paces, an image of death blooming in his mind: Armand’s body curled up, just as his own son tucked in a fetal position, asleep upstairs. That could be his son someday, his PJ. One bad choice and it’s all over.

“Tell me about it, Joe.” She steps into his path. Sheila never can let go of something. “You need to talk about it. We talk about stuff, remember? We don’t hold back, and we don’t go to bed mad. Those are the rules.”

He glares at her, then skirts around her. “It was a nineteen-year-old kid, a drug overdose. An adult, legally, but if you saw him…he’s a kid. But the kicker was that his old man called us in the morning to report that the son had stolen his cash. Stolen it to buy drugs, that’s what he told us. The father wanted us to go after the kid. Pick him up and throw him in jail. Sort of a fake arrest like Andy Griffith used to do on TV. Scare him straight.”

“Oh, man. And you told him you couldn’t do it? That you’d lose your job and get sued by the ACLU?”

“Basically.” He remembers filling out the complaint report with Mr. B. Filling in the captions, just another piece of paperwork to land in the detective squad’s in-box upstairs in the precinct. “So we blow the father off, basically. We follow procedure, file the report. A few hours later, the kid turns up dead.”

Sheila’s lips press together in a slash. “How awful.”

“And when the father ID’d the body…I’ll never forget it. He lifted the kid in his arms and cradled him like a newborn baby. Rocked the body in his arms as he cried over him.”

Tears glimmer in Sheila’s dark eyes as she silently shakes her head.

Joe is pissed off at himself for bringing her into this, spreading the pain. He’s pissed at her for prying, as usual. He’s just basically pissed.

He pivots away, back to pacing the room while Sheila tries to calm him down, says he did the right thing—her usual spiel. It falls around him like melting snow. Something on top of the bookcase catches his eye; a tiny blue bubble, a turret light. He reaches up, his hand closing over metal mounted in half a cardboard box. It’s a foot-long car. A toy police car.

“What the hell?” His gaze snaps over to Sheila. “What is this?”

Her jaw drops. “That’s where I hid it. Man, am I glad you found that. It’s for PJ, a police car. Or a peeze car, as he puts it. It was a gift for him from the precinct Christmas party, only he was so busy climbing in and out of a real patrol car that he didn’t notice. So I’m wrapping it up to be his Santa gift, since we didn’t really have enough stuff to put under the tree for him. A little short on toys, but I did stay on budget.” She crosses toward him. “Isn’t it cool? Once we plunk in batteries, the lights and sirens will actually work. I know, it’ll be a little annoying, but—”

“No!” Joe cuts her off, acid rising in his throat. “No way! No son of mine is going to be a cop!” As if the car is blazing hot, he flings it across the room. It shatters an ornament at the bottom of the tree. The explosion is just a small ping compared to the fury roaring through his blood. He and Sheila both stare as the car and shards of glass land in a bed of wrapping paper.

“Joe…” Her tone is a mixture of surprise and conciliation. “Easy, there.”

But he will not be soothed. He will not be calmed or pacified. In fact, he’s tempted to pick the toy up and tear its metal doors off with his bare hands. What the hell was Sheila thinking?

If he stays one more minute he’s afraid of what he might do.

So he leaves. Out the front door, into the cold night.

“Oh, my God.” The words are half prayer, half a sigh as Sheila watches the front door close behind her husband.

Outside without a coat he’s going to freeze, but she knows there’s no stopping him. “What was that about?” she says aloud as she steps gingerly toward the shattered ornament.

She has never seen Joe lose his temper, certainly not with that magnitude. Usually she’s the hothead of the pair. She picks up the large shards of glass by hand, then hits the rest with the Dustbuster.

She swipes her hair out of her eyes and stands before the tree, bewildered.

She didn’t see this coming. She didn’t know Joe was crumbling inside. How could she have missed that?

But she heard him tonight, loud and clear, and though she didn’t want to admit it to him, she’s scared.

This kid’s tragic death has pushed Joe over the edge. Of course, the crisis had to be brewing for a long time. And now, it’s come to this…Has he really lost faith in God? The thought of her Joe, so lost and alone, makes her feel queasy. How could he doubt God? How could he not know that God isn’t just “out there” but here, there, and everywhere?

Sheila is scared, but she can’t sit here feeling sorry for herself and Joe. She’s got to pull off this Christmas, at least for the kids. She flashes on the lights and familiar ornaments of the tree as Bing Crosby croons “White Christmas.” She loves that movie. Got to watch it every year. Joe pretends to tolerate it, but she suspects he secretly enjoys the guys’ attempts to boost up their former general.

Galvanized by the crisis, Sheila wraps two more presents, starts sifting the ingredients for cinnamon crumb cake, and puts away the baklava from that nice man at the Shuka. She’d been looking forward to indulging in a piece, the phyllo dough drizzled with honey and pistachios, but her appetite has fled. Geez, she didn’t even have a chance to mention the shop owner’s gesture to Joe yet. She stuffs the kids’ stockings with homemade Rice Krispie treats, Matchbox cars, neon-colored toothbrushes, and candy-cane pencils.

With a deep breath she picks up the toy police car and inspects it. The steel cage of the car is solid, but an axel snapped in half, and one wheel is missing. There’s no fixing it. She feels a twinge of guilt as she stashes the car into the back of a closet; she’ll deal with the remnants later, but tomorrow morning PJ will have one less present to open. And really, the police car was to be his big gift. Damned if Joe didn’t pick the worst time to have his meltdown.

One of the songs from “A Charlie Brown Christmas” is playing, and she feels heartened by it as she pours the batter for her crumb cake. As she slides the pan into the oven she hears the front door open, followed by a cold draft.

Joe appears in the kitchen doorway looking more composed but still frazzled.

“Feel better?”

He shakes his head no.

“Come with me.” She yanks off her apron and takes him by the hand. “Sometimes it helps to remember what it’s all about. You gotta focus on our priorities: the future,” she whispers as she tugs him up the stairs.

First stop, Katie’s room. Princess Katie. Sheila puts a fist to her mouth to suppress a giggle when she sees that her daughter is wearing her fanciest nightgown with its pearlized buttons and lace collar. Trying to impress Rudolph, no doubt.

Sheila drops a light kiss on her forehead, then hauls Joe into PJ’s room, where they both lean on the crib rails and gaze down at their son, who’s got one tiny foot tucked between the slats.

“Next Christmas he’s going to be in a bed,” Sheila says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”

Joe touches his pudgy foot, and his feet stir slightly. “Monster boy. But they’re both little angels when they’re sleeping.”

“Little angels who are here because of you.”

The warmth drains from his face and he turns, heads back downstairs. “Don’t remind me.”

“Joe…” She bounds down the stairs behind him. “Don’t be this way.”

“It’s not something I can help, Shee.” He moves past the tree, as if trying to escape her, trying to avoid a difficult conversation. “You know I love them, which makes me feel that much worse. I brought them onto this spinning planet where there’s no master planner. It’s all a mess, and there’s no guarantee they won’t feed into the frenzy. How do we know they won’t turn into addicts or homicidal maniacs? There’s no guarantee.”

“What’s this about a guarantee? We could all pop off tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean we’re allowed to give up on today.”

“You give up fast when the bottom drops out.” He pulls aside the lace curtain, stares past the glow of colored lights draped around the window. “When you realize there’s no one in control, no God.”

“Joe.” She winces. “You know you don’t mean that.” After all those years of Catholic School and mass, the man she loves can’t be losing all faith in God. “You need to go to confession or say a rosary or something. Talking like that.”

He holds his arms up. “God, I wish it were that easy.”

“Okay, see that? Number one, you just prayed to him. And number two, He can make your wishes come true. It’s that easy when you have faith.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have it. I don’t have faith like you do, and it’s not coming back over a string of rosary beads.” He shakes his head, his dark eyes sad. “Naw, at this point, it would take a miracle to turn me around.”

“Really?” She folds her arms, defiant. “Well, then, that’s what I’m praying for. A miracle. If it’ll take a miracle to bring you back, then I’m on it.” She nods, her dark eyes penetrating. “I’m on it as of now.”

The next morning, with forced cheerfulness, Sheila drags herself out of bed at six A.M. and props the kids at the table so that they can have Christmas breakfast with Dad before he has to go to work. She puts on a Christmas CD and makes warm cocoa for the kids with peppermint-stick stirrers, but PJ’s eyes are still drooping and Katie is cranky.

“Why do we have to wait till Daddy gets home to open the presents?” Katie’s stony gaze is fixed on her crumb cake, which she hasn’t touched yet.

“Because we want to do it together, as a family,” Sheila says with a sugary smile.

Katie’s face puckers in a sneer as she looks from one parent to the other. “We’re together now. Why don’t we open them now?”

“Because Daddy has to go to work soon. But he gets off at four. We’ll open them then, when we can relax together.”

PJ pushes his cocoa along the table. Sheila grabs it before it spills; her fault for not using a sippy cup. He folds his arms and leans one cheek on the table, his eyes glassy.

Sheila stares down into the cocoa, annoyed with herself. Why did she think this would work at six A.M.?

“But Mommy, Daddy…” Katie-the-politician makes eye contact, driving her point home. “I need to open the presents now. We always open our gifts on Christmas morning. It’s trajectional.”

“Traditional,” Sheila corrects her.

Joe’s coffee mug pauses on the way to his mouth. He puts it down, shoots Sheila a pained look. “She’s right…”

“No…no!” Sheila insists. “We’ve waited this long, what’s a few hours?” She turns to her daughter, the little instigator. “There’s a new tradition now. We’re going to celebrate together, wherever and whenever we can be together as a family. You get it? If Daddy has to work on Christmas morning, we’ll celebrate Christmas night.”

Katie tugs on the lace collar of her nightgown, her face puckered with distaste. “I don’t think I like the new tradition.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll get over it.” Sheila stabs at a square of coffee cake and plops it on her plate. Nobody else is eating, and Joe still seems lost, his face pale and sallow. Maybe it’s the early hour. Maybe she was foolish to try and pull together a family breakfast.

When Joe takes his keys from the hook and kisses the kids, she follows him out to the front door. “Kids…they know how to push your buttons.”

“They sure do.” His eyelids are tight, tense, as if it’s painful to keep them open. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Hey…” she calls after him as he opens the door. “Merry Christmas.” She steps toward him for a big hug, but he plants a kiss on her forehead and ducks out the door into the chill of Christmas morning.

“Well…” She folds her arms across her chest, shivering. This has the potential of being the coldest Christmas on record.