Because he knows if I do walk out that door now, I won't go after Arthur Gwynne at all. I'll be searching for my son.
Three days later Caleb has not called me. I have tried every hotel and motel in the area, but if he is staying at one, it's not under his own name. It's Christmas Eve, though, and surely they will come back.
Caleb is a big one for having holiday traditions, and to this end I have wrapped all of Nathaniel's Christmas presents-ones I've stored in the attic all year. From the dwindling supply of food in the refrigerator I have cooked a chicken and made celery soup; I have set the table with our fancy wedding china.
I have cleaned up, too, because I want Caleb to notice that the moment he walks through the door.
Maybe if he sees a difference on the outside, he will understand that I'm different within, too. My hair is coiled into a French twist, and I'm wearing black velvet pants and a red blouse. In my ears are the present Nathaniel gave me last Christmas- little snowman earrings made from Sculpy clay.
And yet, this is all just a surface glaze. My eyes are ringed with circles-I have not slept since they left, as if this is some kind of cosmic punishment for dozing away the days when we were all together. I walk the halls at night, trying to find the spots in the carpet that have been worn down by Nathaniel's running feet. I stare at old photographs. I haunt my own home.
We have no tree, because I wasn't able to go out to chop one down. It's a tradition for us to walk our property the Saturday before Christmas and pick one out as a family. But then, we have not been much of a family this holiday season.
By four P.M. I've lit candles and put on a Christmas CD. I sit with my hands folded in my lap and wait.
It's something I'm working on.
At four-thirty, it begins to snow. I rearrange all of Nathaniel's presents in size order. I wonder if there will be enough of an accumulation for him to sled down the back hill on the Flexible Flyer that stands propped against the wall, festooned with a bow.
Ten minutes later, I hear the heavy chug of a truck coming down the driveway. I leap to my feet, take one last nervous look around, and throw open the door with a bright smile. The UPS man, weary and dusted with snowflakes, stands on my porch with a package. "Nina Frost?" he asks in a monotone.
I take the parcel as he wishes me a Merry Christmas. Inside, on the couch, I tear it open. A leather-bound desk calendar for the year 2002, stamped on the inner cover with the name of Fisher's law office.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS from Carrington, Whitcomb, Horoby, and Platt, Esqs. "This will come in so handy," I say aloud, "after I'm sentenced."
When the stars shyly push through the night sky, I turn off the stereo. I look out the window, watch the driveway get erased by snow.
Even before Patrick got his divorce, he'd sign up to work on Christmas. Sometimes, he even does double shifts. The calls most often bring him to the homes of the elderly, reporting a strange bump or a suspicious car that's disappeared by the time Patrick arrives. What these people want is the company on a night when no one else is alone.
"Merry Christmas," he says, backing away from the home of Maisie Jenkins, eighty-two years old, a recent widow.
"God bless," she calls back, and goes into a home as empty as the one that Patrick is about to return to.
He could go visit Nina, but surely Caleb has brought Nathaniel back for the night. No, Patrick wouldn't interrupt that. Instead he gets into his car and drives down the slick streets of Biddeford. Christmas lights glitter like jewels on porches, inside windows, as if the world has been strewn with an embarrassment of riches. Cruising slowly, he imagines children asleep. What the hell are sugar plums, anyway?
Suddenly, a bright blur barrels across the range of Patrick's headlights, and he brakes hard. He steers into the skid and avoids hitting the person who's run across the road. Getting out of the car, he rushes to the side of the fallen man. "Sir," Patrick asks, "are you all right?"
The man rolls over. He is dressed in a Santa suit, and alcohol fumes rise from his phony cotton beard.
"St. Nick, to you, boyo. Get it straight."
Patrick helps him sit up. "Did you hurt anything?"
"Lay off." Santa struggles away from him. "I could sue you."
"For not hitting you? I doubt it."
"Reckless operation of a vehicle. You're probably drunk."
At that, Patrick laughs. "As opposed to you?"
"I haven't had a drop!"
"Okay, Santa." Patrick hauls him to his feet. "You got somewhere to call home?"
"I gotta get my sleigh."
"Sure you do." With a bracing arm, he steers the man toward his cruiser.
