By the third round, Carl was drinking Scotch and water, hold the water. But the medicine was doing its work; the liquid comfort coursed through his veins, numbed his body. After a while he was able to forget the pain-the physical pain, at any rate. The only reminder came every time he bent his elbow, as the sharp stabbing agony reminded him that he had sliced up his arm only hours before.
He tossed back the remains of his shot glass, savoring the sensation of hot burning fluid hitting the back of his throat. Feel the burn, as the boys on the force used to say. Feel it washing away all the hurt, all the misery. It erased everything, Carl realized.
Everything except memory.
He couldn’t forget that it was Christmas Eve. He couldn’t forget that his son would be spending the day with some slimeball who wasn’t his father. He couldn’t forget that his wife would be spending the night with the same slimeball. And he couldn’t forget that he had failed to do a damn thing about it.
“I’ll have another round,” he said, marginally aloud. Was he slurring his words? Damn, he thought maybe he was. And maybe that was a good sign. He’d long since acquired the skill of drinking to excess and not letting the effects show. Maybe this meant he was crossing a new threshold, reaching a new peak.
Or maybe he was just becoming a sloppy drunk. Who the hell knew? Either way, he wanted another drink.
“Hey, Joe!” he shouted. “Hit me!”
The substantial, big-boned man with the white apron around his waist pivoted in Carl’s direction. “My name ain’t Joe.”
“Ain’t-” Carl slapped his forehead, a bit harder than he really intended. “Right, right. Joe tossed me.” He attempted a grin that he hoped might be something like charming. “And your name is-?”
“Mister Bartender to you. And I think you’ve had enough.”
“Aw, don’t start with that. I hate that.” He could tell he was weaving a bit, which could be dangerous on a bar stool. He cleared his throat, concentrated on controlling his body movement and diction. “Come on, please. I’m just getting started.”
“I could get my license yanked if-”
Carl spread his arms wide. “Hey, it’s Christmas!”
Mister Bartender whipped a Scotch bottle out from beneath the counter, a bitter frown on his face. “This is the last one, buddy. And I mean it.”
Carl scooped up the refilled glass and cradled it in his hands. “You’re a Christian saint, pal. A Christian saint.” The glass was mere inches from his lips when he heard a shrill beeping noise from somewhere nearby.
He jumped, almost spilling the precious contents of the glass. He focused his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. Was that some kind of fire alarm? Was there a raid?
He noticed that all the other patrons at the bar were looking at him. Did they know something?
The burly bearded man at the next stool leaned his way. “It’s your phone, you mook.”
He pressed his hands against his chest. Damn! His cell phone; he’d almost forgotten he had the thing. Not like anyone ever called anymore.
He whipped the phone out of his coat pocket. He hoped he had enough battery power to take the call; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d charged it. ’Course, at the moment, he couldn’t remember much of anything.
He flipped the lid open and pressed the Send button. He twisted away from his neighbor, finding some measure of privacy on the other edge of his bar stool. “Yeah?”
“Carl, is that you?”
Carl froze. His lips parted, but he didn’t know what to say, couldn’t think-
“Bonnie?” It was barely a whisper, as if he didn’t dare risk shattering the dream by saying her name out loud. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, baby. Can you talk?”
This can’t be real, he thought to himself. This can’t be happening. “I–I can talk.”
“Carl, I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened. I never meant for things to turn out like this.”
“I–I didn’t either, honey.”
“We shouldn’t be fighting. A family should be together on Christmas Eve.”
Carl’s head was swimming, supercharged with adrenaline and excitement. “I know, honey. That’s what I’ve been saying. That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”
“I’ve been so wrong, Carl. I’ve been so bad. I know I have.”
“No, honey. It was me. All me.”
“No, I’ve treated you like hell. I’ve kept you away from your boy. That was wrong. A boy needs his daddy.”
Tears cascaded down Carl’s cheeks. He couldn’t help himself. She was saying all the right words. “It’s okay, honey.”
“It’s not okay. It was wrong. But I’d like to make it better now. I mean-if you’ll let me.” He could hear her breathing deeply, swallowing her pride. “If you’ll still have me.”
“Of course I will, honey. You know I will.”
“You’re so good to me, Carl. You always have been.”
“Aw, honey, I love you. You know I do.”
“I know, Carl. I want you to come to me. Please. Now.”
“But-” He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Was this a dream or a hallucination? “But what about Frank?”
“Frank is gone, Carl. Gone forever. He’s out of my life.”
“Are-are you sure, honey?”
“I’m sure. That was such a mistake. I don’t know what came over me. But I know this: I want to start doing things right. Starting today. Starting with you.”
“I do too, baby. I do too.”
“And-oh, there’s so much more I want to tell you. To show you. I’ll-well, I’ll let it be my Christmas surprise.”
“I love surprises, baby. Especially from you.”
“Please come to me, Carl. Come now.”
Carl’s hand began trembling. “I–I’ll be right over, sweetheart. Where are you?”
“I’m at home. Don’t ring the bell; I don’t want Tommy to know that we’re together again yet. Let it be his Christmas surprise. He’ll be so happy.”
“Whatever you want, Bonnie.”
“Just come to the house and wait outside. When I see you, I’ll come out to meet you.”
“I’ll be there, Bonnie. I’m leaving right now.”
“Please do, Carl. I can’t wait to be with you. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms, to feel you pressing up against me-”
“I’m coming, Bonnie. I’m coming right now.”
“And Carl?”
He jerked his head back to the receiver. “Yes, baby?”
“I love you, Carl. I–I always did, you know.”
The line disconnected. Carl suddenly realized his face was bathed in tears. He was blubbering like a baby. Everyone in the bar was staring at him-and he didn’t care. He just didn’t care.
It would take him ten minutes to get back to the alley where he’d ditched the pickup. Maybe less if he ran. After that, it wouldn’t take him fifteen minutes to get to Bonnie’s house.
To their house.
He tossed the contents of his wallet down on the counter, wiped his eyes, and raced out the door. The bracing wind gripped him, shook him, roused him, cleared his head.
This was really happening, he told himself. Really, really happening. He was coming home.
He was part of a family again. On Christmas Eve.
Bonnie stretched across the sofa and punched the button disconnecting the speakerphone. “How did I do?”
Frank sat at the end of the sofa, her feet in his lap. “You were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” He bent down and kissed her big toe. “Do you think he’ll come?”
She laughed. “I know he’ll come.” She readjusted the pillow under her head. “Idiot.”
“Good. And all will go as planned?”
“Are you kidding? The stage is set. After that scene you provoked this morning, after the fool tried to kidnap Tommy-hell, by now the police must assume he tried to poison the kid. They’re scouring the city for him, and I’ve got a restraining order in my pocket-which the chump is about to violate. Everything is set up perfectly.”
“I’m so glad.” Frank wriggled the top of her foot into his mouth and nibbled on the tips of her toes.
“Will you be ready?” Bonnie asked pointedly.
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.” He lowered her feet gently to the sofa, then reached across the end table to his black tote bag. Carefully he removed the sturdy wooden box inside, opened it, and took out the shiny silver pistol resting inside.
He checked to make sure it was loaded. “Very ready.”
Bonnie stretched out, her face settling into a happy smile. “That’s good,” she said, curling up like a kitten on the overstuffed cushions. “After all, I did promise the man a Christmas surprise.” She began to laugh. “And boy, is he ever going to get one.”