Father Christmas

by Judith Arnold

  She hated herself for even thinking such a thing.

  “No,” John said. “The sidewalk was too crowded.”

  “He could have killed you.”

  John’s gaze merged with hers. The opaque darkness of his irises let nothing out, or in. “Yes,” he said laconically. “He could have killed me.”

  The scent of burning cheese summoned her back to the stove—which was just as well, since looking at him, seeing the torment in his eyes and hearing the detachment in his voice disturbed her too much. She couldn’t stand to think of him risking his life as he had that afternoon. Nor could she stand to think that he could have protected himself and defeated his enemy only by risking other lives. What an agonizing equation to live by.

  “Michael?” she hollered, busying herself with the sandwiches. “Could you please come to the kitchen? Dinner’s ready.”

  Michael raced into the kitchen, skating across the smooth floor tiles in his socks. “You gonna eat with us?” he asked Molly. “Daddy, is Molly gonna eat with us?”

  “Yes,” he said so firmly, she turned off the stove and pulled another bowl and plate from the cabinet. It seemed easier than arguing with him.

  Once the food was on the table and Michael was strapped into his booster seat, he asked John, “How’s your boo-boo?”

  “It’s okay,” John said stoically.

  “Did you get hurt?”

  “Not much.”

  “Who hurt you?”

  Molly could practically feel the waves of tension emanating from John. He didn’t want to have this discussion. “Some guy,” he answered vaguely.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did some guy hurt you?”

  John shifted in his seat and downed a spoonful of soup. “I don’t know,” he said. “Someone from the Public Defender’s office will find a reason, I’m sure.” He must have noticed Molly stiffening as she thought of her sister nobly defending thugs just like the one who’d gone at John with a knife. But he didn’t retract the statement.

  Disloyal though it was, she couldn’t blame him.

  Michael beamed a smile at Molly. “Musta been a bad guy.”

  “Musta been,” she said weakly. Her mind was churning. She wanted to defend her sister. She wanted to point out that, while John hadn’t fired at the bad guy, another cop might have shot him, just to prove he had the law on his side. Another cop might have killed the bad guy without a moment’s regret, just because being a cop automatically made him the good guy, and being the good guy automatically entitled him to shoot a gun.

  Right now, her sympathies lay with John. John, who listened before he spoke, who thought before he acted. John, who forced himself to consume his soup for Molly, even though he wasn’t hungry. John, who was sore and battered and had every right to resent bad guys and the lawyers who defended them—and the sisters of those lawyers.

  Maybe she was a traitor. But tonight, she’d seen John’s pain. She’d perceived his fear. She’d comprehended his strength.

  Tonight, she was on his side.

  Chapter Ten

  BY THE TIME they’d finished their supper, it was already nearly eight-thirty—Michael’s bed time. Molly offered to stay long enough to get Michael settled for the night, and John accepted the offer.

  “Daddy don’t like to give me a bath,” Michael related as Molly helped him into the tub.

  “Doesn’t like to,” she corrected him. “Why not?”

  “I make it wet everywhere.” He proceeded to demonstrate, splashing the water with his hands and sending a spray over the side of the tub, where it landed half on the floor and half on Molly.

  “Stop!” Snaring his slippery-wet wrists, she reached behind her for a towel, blotted the dampness from her sweater and dried the floor. “If you want to play, you’ve got to keep the water in the tub.” She found a plastic cup by the sink and handed it to Michael. “You can fill this with water and empty it out back into the tub.”

  “ I dump it!” Michael boasted, then poured a cupful of water over his head and shrieked with delight.

  “As long as you keep the water in the tub.” She lifted his washcloth and swirled it around under the water. “Look. It’s a fish!”

  “No, it’s not,” he said, staring at her as if he considered her an idiot.

  “It’s a washcloth fish. Whoosh!” She pulled it through the water and around his knees.

  He giggled. “I catch the fish!”

  But the fish eluded him long enough to swipe the bar of soap, and when he did finally catch the fish, it managed to wriggle around, spreading suds across his belly and under his chin, where grime striped the creases. The fish floated through his fingers, swam down his back, plunged under the water and then rose again to saturate his hair for a quick shampoo.

  By the time Michael was toweled off and in his pajamas, his teeth brushed, his time on the potty profitably spent and his hair combed, Molly’s sweater was almost dry. “Bedtime,” she announced.

  “No, no, no! I get a book,” he insisted, darting down the hall ahead of her and into his bedroom.

  She followed as far as his open door, trying hard to ignore the room across the hall. That was probably John’s bedroom, a sight she would be better off avoiding. As it was, she was going to spend her night dreaming about his bare chest, his strong, graceful arms, the bruises staining the arch of his ribcage, the flat stretch of his abdomen. She didn’t want a vision of his bed encroaching on her dreams, too. She didn’t want to know how big it was, what color the linens were, how many pillows he used.

  Michael emerged from his room carrying a “Curious George” book. “He has a man in a big yellow hat,” he informed her, trotting in his pajamas back down the hall. “Daddy reads it to me.”

  “Daddy is resting,” Molly said. She hadn’t seen John since he’d taken his half-consumed glass of scotch and, at her insistence, retired to the den. She hoped he’d fallen asleep—sleep was essential for healing. “I’ll read the book to you, Michael.”

  But the boy was way ahead of her, prancing toward the den and shouting, “No, no, no! Daddy read the book.”

  She chased him into the den, hoping to catch him before he woke his father. She was too late, though. If John had been asleep before, he wasn’t now.

  He lay sprawled out on the sofa, his tall body barely fitting across the cushions. As Molly entered the room, he was laboriously pushing himself up into a seated position. His movements were wooden and cautious, and his left hand shook slightly under his weight. His hair was mussed, his eyes gradually coming into focus.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, entering the room hesitantly. “I tried to stop him from waking you.”

  “That’s all right.” His voice was low and hoarse, and his gaze lingered on her for a brief moment before shifting to his son. “Did Molly give you a bath?”

  Michael nodded, then commanded, “You read me this book.”

  John took the book and patted the cushion beside him. Michael scrambled onto the couch and snuggled up next to John. He cast a superior look toward Molly, then turned back to his father and pulled John’s uninjured left arm around his shoulders. John started to read.

  Molly tiptoed to a chair and sat. Perhaps this was a moment the Russo men might have preferred to share without her, but they hadn’t asked her to leave, so she stayed. She listened as John read about the man in the yellow hat finding Curious George in the jungle and bringing him home to live in the city. He read about how George got in trouble while the man was out of the house. Michael laughed, pointed to the pictures and offered a running critique: “That’s bad, to smoke a pipe. It makes you cough,” and “The firemens have silly hats.”

  By the time John reached the last page, Michael seemed to have melted into his side. The child was warm and malleable, half asleep. “Okay, Mike. Bedtime,” said John, closing the book.

  Michael shut his eyes, mumbled something and sank into slumber. One of the great talents of two-year-olds was
their ability to fall asleep any time, anywhere, without any warning.

  “I can carry him,” Molly said, springing to her feet.

  “That’s all right.” John tossed the book onto the coffee table, nudged Michael onto his lap, then tightened his left arm around the child’s limp body and balanced it up against his shoulder. He stood, swaying on weak legs and embracing Michael even more tightly.

  Molly clamped her mouth shut so she wouldn’t argue with him about whether he had the strength to carry his son. Obviously, carrying Michael was something he needed to do. If the risk of swooning and dropping the kid couldn’t stop him, Molly’s nagging certainly wouldn’t.

  She followed him out of the den and down the hall, just in case John stumbled. At the doorway to Michael’s room she halted while John tucked his son into bed. She heard the rustle of sheets, the flap of a blanket and John’s voice murmuring, “Here’s your bear. Go to sleep now. Daddy loves you.”

  She moved down the hall to the living room, allowing John a bit of privacy. Pacing to the window, she eased back the drapes and peered out at the snow-dusted front yard. She didn’t turn until she heard John’s footsteps, soft against the maroon carpet. Her eyes met John’s for less than a second before she steered them toward the fireplace mantel, which held a set of brass candlesticks and an empty crystal vase.

  “If everything’s okay, I guess I’ll head for home,” she said, wondering why the prospect of leaving made her so melancholy.

  John’s silence lured her gaze back to him. He raked his left hand through his mussed hair. His bandaged right hand hung awkwardly at his side.

  “You’ll be all right, won’t you?” she asked, then wondered what sort of response she hoped for. Even if he wouldn’t be all right, she couldn’t stay. This was his home. She ran his son’s preschool. She didn’t belong here.

  He said nothing. His eyes, so sleepy just a few minutes ago, were lucid now, burning. Above his unshaven jaw his cheeks regained a touch of color, the sickly pallor waning. Of course he would be all right. He didn’t need her to stay.

  So why didn’t he tell her to leave? Why didn’t he thank her and walk her to the door? Why did he keep staring at her, as if waiting for her to say something more?

  “Did someone bring your car back from the police station?” She cringed inwardly, wondering why she was stalling, putting off her departure by asking such an inane question.

  He nodded. “While you were giving Mike a bath.”

  Hearing his voice was something of a relief. She just wished he’d say what had to be said: Good-night. Good-bye. Thanks for your help.

  But his mention of the bath reminded her of something. “Michael needs a bath toy,” she told him. “If he had something to play with in the tub, he wouldn’t be so busy splashing water out of it.”

  “A bath toy.”

  She must have been insane to bring it up. She was supposed to be easing herself out the door, saying the good-byes John seemed reluctant to utter. She was supposed to be detaching herself from the Russos, not including herself in their lives any more than absolutely necessary.

  “A plastic boat, maybe,” she went on, unable to stop herself. “Or a duck, or a frog. Something that would keep him occupied while he’s soaking in the tub.”

  John’s gaze seemed to pin her in place. He looked earnest and bemused, more desperate for help than he’d been when he’d walked out of the hospital a couple of hours ago.

  “They’re sold in toy stores,” she went on, wishing he wouldn’t look at her like that, wishing she had the willpower to say farewell and leave. “A bath toy would make a good, inexpensive Christmas present, and I’m sure he’d love it.”

  “Okay.”

  That brought the bath toy discussion to a conclusion. Molly could go now. She could march into the kitchen for her jacket, then march out the front door. She could say good-bye...if only he didn’t keep staring at her that way, his eyes so dark, his face so gaunt, his mere presence reminding her of the way he’d looked without a shirt on.

  “I’ll get my jacket,” she said bluntly, an anxious attempt to save herself from her own overheated thoughts.

  “I’ll get it.” He pivoted and walked out of the living room. His steps were slow but certain. He wasn’t going to stagger and wind up in a dizzy heap on the floor, but he was lacking the purposeful grace he usually displayed, the sense that he couldn’t be deterred or distracted, that he was in charge of his own world.

  It seemed important to him that he get her jacket, one small gesture of courtesy for his guest. Molly wouldn’t deprive him of that. She waited where she was until he returned with the parka. He held it up as if to help her into it, but with only one hand functioning he couldn’t present it for her to slide her arms through the sleeves. She smiled gently, took it from him and put it on.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She knew he wasn’t referring to her having donned her jacket. “No problem. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

  He smiled wistfully, lifted his heavily bandaged right hand and brushed his thumb across her lower lip. The bandages smelled sterile, bitter with antiseptic, but he was close enough that she could also smell the heady aroma of scotch on his breath, and the faint tang of his after-shave. It took all her self-control not to flick her tongue over her lips where he’d touched them, not to reach up and pull his face down to hers.

  She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  “I’d better go,” she said.

  He sighed, let his hand fall, and took a step back. “The roads might be messy,” he warned. “Take it slow.”

  She knew how to drive on slippery winter roads; she didn’t need his admonition, at least not when it came to her journey home. But there were other hazards tonight, hazards much more dangerous than the rare icy patch on the road. Gazing into his eyes, remembering the feel of his lips on hers, picturing his lean, virile chest...

  There were plenty of hazards, all right. She ought to be grateful that John was cautioning her—and himself—to take it slow.

  She ought to be, but she wasn’t.

  ***

  HE WOKE UP feeling like crud. His arm was on fire and the drum solo playing inside his skull was loud enough to drown out an arena rock concert. None of that bothered him as much as Molly’s absence.

  She’d fit in too well last night. Having her around had seemed too natural. When he’d tucked Mike into bed, he’d had to stop himself from waving Molly into the room and asking her if she wanted to give the kid a kiss good-night.

  From the moment a couple of ETM’s had strapped him onto a gurney for the ambulance ride to the hospital until now, the only useful thing he’d done with his right hand was to touch Molly’s mouth. And touching it hadn’t been what he’d truly wanted to do. He’d wanted to kiss her, wanted it in a crazy way. But his hand needed healing, so he’d touched it to her.

  Just thinking about the velvet texture of her lips made him hard. Which was an embarrassing state to be in when his son was standing at the foot of his bed, gaping at him. “I go to school,” Mike said.

  John twisted to look at his alarm clock. The digits 9-4-3 glowed bright red at him.

  He swore under his breath, then forced himself to sit. Another curse filled his mouth as pain burned like a laser through every nerve between his elbow and his fingertips. Even his upper arm and shoulder were sore. And his ribs. They flared with a feverish ache every time he inhaled. Maybe the doctors had read his x-rays wrong. Ribs that were only bruised couldn’t possibly hurt this bad, could they?

  “I go to school now,” Mike said.

  John forced himself to tune out the pain—and that other ache, the one in his groin, caused not by a knife-wielding skell but by a kind, tough, wise woman loaded with more sex appeal than he could handle in his weakened state. He shoved back the covers, eased his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the faded terry-cloth robe that he’d tossed on the nearest chair last night. Before Mike was born, he used to sleep na
ked, but he’d learned, from incidents like this morning, that Mike didn’t always respect a closed bedroom door. For discretion’s sake, he’d gotten into the habit of sleeping in a T-shirt and boxers, and keeping his robe close at hand.

  “You take me to school?” Mike asked.

  John tied the robe’s sash around his waist, blinked to clear his foggy vision, and studied the small boy gazing up at him. Mike wasn’t going anywhere dressed the way he was, in his football pj’s with the built-in slippers attached to the legs. And he wasn’t going anywhere that would require driving. John’s hand was on fire. The mere thought of sliding the key into the ignition was enough to nauseate him.

  “No school today,” he said.

  “No school?”

  “We’re both taking a day off.”

  Mike mulled that over, then grinned and skipped around the room. “Molly comes here! Molly’s gonna come!”

  If that were true, John might well have joined Mike in a little skipping. “No Molly,” he said grimly. “Just you and me.”

  It took him forever to fix a pot of coffee left-handed, but he didn’t trust himself to call Coffey before he’d gotten some caffeine into his system. While the coffee brewed, he trudged into his bathroom, took one look at himself in the mirror above the sink, and discovered a few curses he hadn’t realized he knew. His jaw was dark with stubble, his eyes pocketed in shadow, his brow pinched. If he’d looked even half as bad last night, Molly ought to be grateful he hadn’t tried to kiss her.

  Hell. Even if he’d looked his absolute best she’d have been grateful. With a failed marriage behind him, a scrappy kid underfoot, and a career that required the occasional ambulance ride to a hospital emergency room to get various parts of his body sewn back together, he was no one’s idea of Mr. Right.

  He brushed his teeth left-handed, which felt weird, and took a leak left-handed, which felt even weirder. Returning to the kitchen, he down a pain pill, filled a mug with coffee, heaped a bowl with Cheerios for Mike and lifted him into his booster seat. Then he dialed headquarters to report that he was taking a sick day.