I'll tell him. Thanks."
He pressed the dial-tone button, then picked up a hammer from the counter and smashed the phone into pieces--just as he'd done with the phone in his office and the one in the master bedroom.
Chunks of plastic flew across the kitchen.
"There," the man said unsteadily. He dropped the hammer, opened a woman's purse that was lying on the counter, and took out a cell phone, shoving it into his coat pocket. "That takes care of everything." He crossed the kitchen and yanked open the side door, the motion so violent that it sucked snow into the house. While the flakes settled over the woman lying on the floor, he raged outside and slammed the door behind him.
Pressed against a kitchen cupboard, the boy was so stunned that for a moment he couldn't speak. Finally, he found his voice.
"Mom?" Tears burned his eyes. "Are you okay?" He moved toward her. Although the heel on his right shoe was higher than the one on the left, it didn't fully compensate for his short right leg, giving him a slight limp.
He knelt and touched her arm, feeling dampness where the snow that had blown in was already melting on her.
"I'm . . ." His mother took a deep breath and found the strength to raise herself to a sitting position. "I'm . . . going to be all right." Her right hand touched the side of her cheek, causing her to wince. "Get me . . . some ice cubes, would you, sweetheart? Put them in a dishcloth."
Moving quickly despite his limp, the boy grabbed a dish towel from the counter and went to the side-by-side. He tugged the freezer door open, reaching in. The ice cubes chilled his fingers. While his mother groaned, making the
effort to stand, he wrapped the ice cubes in the towel and hurried back to her.
"You're always a help," she murmured. "I don't know what I'd do without you." She put the ice pack against her cheek. Blood from her lips smeared the cloth.
Music played in the background, a jolly man singing, "Here comes Santa Claus." In the living room, logs crackled in the fireplace. Lights glowed on the Christmas tree. Colorfully wrapped presents lay under it. They only made the boy feel worse.
"Should I call the hospital?" he asked.
"The phones are broken."
"I can go down the street and try to find a pay phone, or ask a neighbor."
"Don't. I want you to stay close."
"But your cheek ..."
"The ice is helping."
The boy frowned toward the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the counter.
"He promised."
"Yes," the woman said. "He promised." She took another deep breath. "Well. . ." She stood straighter, mustering determination. "We can't let him ruin our Christmas Eve. I'll. . ." She searched for an idea, but the look on her face told the boy she had trouble concentrating. "I'll make us some hot cocoa."
"Mom, you ought to sit down."
"I'm fine. All I need are some aspirins."
"Let me make the cocoa."
Still holding the ice pack to her cheek, she studied him.
"Yes, I don't know what I'd do without you." When she smiled, the effort hurt her injured cheek, and she winced again. She peered down. "My dress . . ." Its green had blood on it. "I'd better put on something else. Can't spend Christmas Eve looking like this."
The boy watched as she wavered into the living room, along the hallway, and into the bedroom on the left.
The music changed to "Frosty, the Snowman."
Cole limped into the living room and stared at the Christmas tree. He turned to the right toward the big picture window and peered out toward the falling snow.
Behind his eyeglasses, tears blurred what he saw. Nonetheless, he was able to distinguish the footprints in the snow where his father had crossed the front yard and opened the gate. The lane beyond the fence was deserted. The cheerless lights from the Christmas tree in the living room reflected off the inside of the window.
He promised, the boy thought. He promised!
* * *
ANDREI MOVED closer through the crowd, only ten people away now. The snowfall persisted, dimming the candles that burned in
He pressed the dial-tone button, then picked up a hammer from the counter and smashed the phone into pieces--just as he'd done with the phone in his office and the one in the master bedroom.
Chunks of plastic flew across the kitchen.
"There," the man said unsteadily. He dropped the hammer, opened a woman's purse that was lying on the counter, and took out a cell phone, shoving it into his coat pocket. "That takes care of everything." He crossed the kitchen and yanked open the side door, the motion so violent that it sucked snow into the house. While the flakes settled over the woman lying on the floor, he raged outside and slammed the door behind him.
Pressed against a kitchen cupboard, the boy was so stunned that for a moment he couldn't speak. Finally, he found his voice.
"Mom?" Tears burned his eyes. "Are you okay?" He moved toward her. Although the heel on his right shoe was higher than the one on the left, it didn't fully compensate for his short right leg, giving him a slight limp.
He knelt and touched her arm, feeling dampness where the snow that had blown in was already melting on her.
"I'm . . ." His mother took a deep breath and found the strength to raise herself to a sitting position. "I'm . . . going to be all right." Her right hand touched the side of her cheek, causing her to wince. "Get me . . . some ice cubes, would you, sweetheart? Put them in a dishcloth."
Moving quickly despite his limp, the boy grabbed a dish towel from the counter and went to the side-by-side. He tugged the freezer door open, reaching in. The ice cubes chilled his fingers. While his mother groaned, making the
effort to stand, he wrapped the ice cubes in the towel and hurried back to her.
"You're always a help," she murmured. "I don't know what I'd do without you." She put the ice pack against her cheek. Blood from her lips smeared the cloth.
Music played in the background, a jolly man singing, "Here comes Santa Claus." In the living room, logs crackled in the fireplace. Lights glowed on the Christmas tree. Colorfully wrapped presents lay under it. They only made the boy feel worse.
"Should I call the hospital?" he asked.
"The phones are broken."
"I can go down the street and try to find a pay phone, or ask a neighbor."
"Don't. I want you to stay close."
"But your cheek ..."
"The ice is helping."
The boy frowned toward the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the counter.
"He promised."
"Yes," the woman said. "He promised." She took another deep breath. "Well. . ." She stood straighter, mustering determination. "We can't let him ruin our Christmas Eve. I'll. . ." She searched for an idea, but the look on her face told the boy she had trouble concentrating. "I'll make us some hot cocoa."
"Mom, you ought to sit down."
"I'm fine. All I need are some aspirins."
"Let me make the cocoa."
Still holding the ice pack to her cheek, she studied him.
"Yes, I don't know what I'd do without you." When she smiled, the effort hurt her injured cheek, and she winced again. She peered down. "My dress . . ." Its green had blood on it. "I'd better put on something else. Can't spend Christmas Eve looking like this."
The boy watched as she wavered into the living room, along the hallway, and into the bedroom on the left.
The music changed to "Frosty, the Snowman."
Cole limped into the living room and stared at the Christmas tree. He turned to the right toward the big picture window and peered out toward the falling snow.
Behind his eyeglasses, tears blurred what he saw. Nonetheless, he was able to distinguish the footprints in the snow where his father had crossed the front yard and opened the gate. The lane beyond the fence was deserted. The cheerless lights from the Christmas tree in the living room reflected off the inside of the window.
He promised, the boy thought. He promised!
* * *
ANDREI MOVED closer through the crowd, only ten people away now. The snowfall persisted, dimming the candles that burned in
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