His mother stayed with him and did not return immediately to make their dinner, leaving Jack Peter alone downstairs. He gazed at the strings of colored lights on the Christmas tree, touching the different ones to feel if blue was hotter than red or if green was as cool as grass, but the bulbs were all the same, the heat as tiny as the heart of a bird. When he tired of that experiment, he wandered to the kitchen and found the bloodied dishcloths soaking in the sink next to the dirty dishes from his feast with Nick. Battle wounds from the wars of the toy soldiers. On the refrigerator door, the boy in the picture seemed to be following him with his eyes, so Jack Peter turned his back on him and saw at once in the opposite window a white flash of movement. A face watching him had turned away. The man was in the yard. Jack Peter ran to the glass, but all he could see was the pitch of night and his own reflection smattered with light from the kitchen. His warm hands on the cold surface left ghost impressions when he withdrew, a sign on the windowpane, hello, good-bye. He decided that he would not tell them about the visitor, that he would not let on that he was losing control. Better to keep some secrets to yourself.
An hour after she had said she would be right back, his mother came down to the kitchen in a bathrobe, her wet hair turbaned in a high towel, her face flushed against her white smile. His father followed shortly thereafter, he too in a robe and slippers, moving with rejuvenated assurance, as if nothing had happened. Only the bandage at his neck hinted otherwise. Each parent nodded upon first seeing their son but was otherwise indifferent to his presence. They worked together at the stove and counter, throwing together a boiling pot of pasta and a jar of tomato sauce, a casual salad, and frozen rolls heated and brushed with olive oil and garlic. Believing himself invisible, Jack Peter was surprised when they remembered to invite him to the table. He saw how they had changed. They were a team again, and he would have to see what he should do about that. The blush of red wine filled the room when his father uncorked the bottle. Piping hot, the spaghetti was no sooner set on the table than they were at it like a pair of wild beasts. They chomped at the bread, slurped at the sauce, and drained their glasses to the lees. They ate as though they had been starving, abandoning themselves to desire, as if the raw act of eating was somehow wicked when true wickedness was just outside the door.
Three
The man next to Holly took the light from his son, a boy of Jack’s age, and passed it to her, tipping the small candle to her wick, a drop of wax falling to the circle of cardboard protecting her hand against just such accidents, and then she turned to the stranger on the other side to send the dot of flame on down the pew. Soon the darkened church was illuminated by hundreds of such candles, and at the altar the priest, resplendent in his white and gold vestments, was saying something about the child who brought light into the world, but Holly could not understand his prayer, for she was caught in the yellow and blue flickering before her eyes, remembering similar ceremonies with her parents and sisters at the midnight Masses of her youth. She had nearly forgotten how it felt to be so carefree and filled with expectation. The congregation listened to the first measure from the organ and then all voices rose in song, and the music carried the altar boys and the deacon and Father Bolden on their recessional along the center aisle. She had just found her place in the hymnal when it all ended, the carol complete, the parishioners blew out their candles and wished friends and fellows alike a Merry Christmas.
In mere moments, the flock had flown, leaving behind a few kneeling penitents, heads bowed, whispering their prayers. In front of her an elderly woman in a lace mantilla reminded Holly of her grandmother. Across the aisle, a family with six children as well dressed and well behaved as the von Trapps were putting on their overcoats atop their suits and dresses, the youngest crying softly as he was roused to be bundled up. A toddler in a tiny vest and red bow tie could not keep from staring at Holly, and when she smiled back and waved, he buried his head on his father’s shoulder. The crowd at the rear of the church thinned to a manageable few, so she slipped into her coat and headed toward the vestibule. She hovered at the edge so she could be among the last people there, greeting the priest.
Father Bolden brightened when she came into view and grabbed her extended hand with both of his and pulled her to him, close enough so that she could smell the wine on his breath and the incense lingering in the folds of his vestments. She was aware of a few souls around her, but at the same time, his gesture created an intimate space, perfect for what she had come to say.
“A very Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Keenan. I’m so delighted to see you here.” He squeezed her hand in his. “After you left so suddenly, I was afraid I had scared you off and would never see you again.” Noticing someone over her shoulder, he let go with his right hand but held on to her arm with his left. “Just who I was looking for.”
Bundled in her winter coat, Miss Tiramaku shuffled to his side. She gave Father Bolden a kiss on his cheek and offered her hand to Holly. In the soft light of the church, Miss Tiramaku was no more substantial than a will-o’-the-wisp, but Holly felt a strange warmth in her touch.
“Mrs. Keenan,” she said. “Merry Christmas. I was hoping to see you tonight. I think I may have left you with a bad impression.”
“No,” Holly said. “I was just a little thrown by our talk. And that painting of the shipwreck. And your ghosts.”
Miss Tiramaku was massaging her hand. “I’d like to talk with you about your son. He and I share the same condition, that is to say, we’re on the same spectrum, though they never called it autism when I was a child.”
“Asperger’s,” Holly said. “But you are fine now? Functioning?”