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“
It’s a Wonderful Life
, my ass,” I said to Joe. “Jimmy Stewart has nothing on Cary Grant.”

My mother and I used to debate this every year, neither of us willing to budge an inch. Joe cocked his head from side to side while I talked, but offered no opinion. I hadn’t rented
It’s a Wonderful Life
and I regretted it. I wanted to lie on the couch with my eyes closed, listening to it, so I could pretend my mom was sitting in the chair next to me getting teary at the end and mouthing all her favorite lines.

I scanned the channels for Jimmy after I finished watching the movies I rented, but I couldn’t find him on any channel. I ended up watching
A Christmas Story
again, with commercials, even though I’d just watched it without. Joe sprawled out on his side on the floor. I slid off the couch onto the floor next to him and curled up against his chest. He kicked me a few times before settling back to sleep with his paw over my arm. I closed my eyes and listened to him snore until I fell asleep too.

When I woke up, I realized Diane hadn’t called to wish my voice mail a merry Christmas, the way she had the years before. I wouldn’t have picked up anyway. My heart would have pounded long after the phone stopped ringing, and I would have spent the rest of the night arguing with her in my head. The fact that she didn’t call made me feel panicky in a different way.

I picked up the phone and dialed the carriage house. It was the first time I’d called there since my mom died. The answering machine picked up. “Hi,” my mom’s voice said. “This is Natalie.” There was a pause. “And Van,” I chimed in. I think I was all of sixteen the last time we changed the message. “We can’t come to the phone,” she said. “You know what to do,” I added, in my best TV announcer voice. There was an extra beat before the beep, and I could hear us stifling giggles in the background. I hung up and called back to listen to the message. I called six or seven times. The last time I called, Diane picked up.

“Hello?” she said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Van?”

I hung up the phone. A few minutes later my phone rang, but I let it go to voice mail.

I went back to watching TV with Joe. I channel-surfed until I found Jimmy Stewart, then I curled up on the couch, closed my eyes, and pretended I was back at the carriage house with my mom.

F
our days after Christmas, Peter called and begged me to meet him at the bar down the road from me. He was drunk, and when I told him I didn’t feel like going out, he slurred, “No, no, no, you have to, Van.” Eventually I agreed to meet him, because it was easier than arguing.

I thought about sending a cab so I wouldn’t have to deal with him, but I didn’t know the name of the bar. Peter hadn’t said the name of the bar when he called; he just said he was at the bar with the big blue anchor.

It was just down the road from my condo. Even though I drove past it all the time, I’d never looked at the sign to see what it was called, although I’d never understood why it had an enormous anchor out front when the only nearby body of water was the algae- filled pond at the entrance of the condo development.

When I got to the bar, Peter was sitting on a stool at a counter against the window. He looked completely out of place. He was holding an empty glass close to his chest, staring longingly at a full drink on the counter. His hair was sticking up, like it was trying to run away from his face. The green neon Heineken sign in the window cast deep shadows in the pockets under his eyes and the wrinkles in his brow.

I stood in front of him outside the window and stared, but he didn’t notice. Finally, I tapped on the window. All at once, he was animated, like someone had just wound him up and let him go. He slammed the empty glass down on the counter and waved madly, gesturing for me to come in.

When I opened the door, he smiled, showing his teeth and the lines he was starting to get around his mouth. “I took the liberty of ordering you a drink,” he said, like he’d been rehearsing it in his head while he waited for me. He slurred even more than on the phone. He took his cashmere coat off the stool next to him and slid the full drink over to me. It was the color of weak tea and swam in the condensation that surrounded it, leaving a trail like a slug on the sticky counter. He put his coat up on the bar, but it fell to the floor immediately. He didn’t even notice.

“No, thanks,” I said, pushing the drink back to him. I picked up his coat and hung it on a hook on the wall next to a grease-stained blue uniform jacket. The bar was empty except for the bartender and two guys in the corner playing darts. I sat down next to Peter.

He picked up the drink and took a sip. “Did you want a T and T? I think there’s a bottle of Tanqueray behind the bar. They didn’t have real bourbon. Well, crap and Jack.” He gulped down half the glass and shook his head. He stood up and waved at the bartender. “Hey, hey, do you have any real gin back there?” He lurched over to the bar. “Not that crap in the well. I’m keeping my eye on you.”

I was certain that between the bartender and the two men playing darts in the corner, Peter was going to leave with a black eye. I went over to collect him, but as I got closer, I realized that the bartender was amused.

“I mean, it’s not like I expect you to have Kensington,” Peter said, shaking his head, “but something that isn’t crap would be nice.”

The bartender pulled a green bottle off the shelf behind him and held it out to Peter by the neck, holding it up with his forearm, like it was a bottle of fine wine. “Will this suffice?” I got the impression that they’d spent a few hours together perfecting their repartee.

“That will suffice.” Peter got stuck on the
f
’s in
suffice
.

The bartender laughed.

“I’m fine, Pete,” I said. “I don’t want a drink.”

“You don’t want a drink?” He held his arms up on either side, making a giant
W
out of himself. “But you’re Van.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me close, making me trip over my own feet. “You’re Van. Have a drink!”

“No, thanks.” I pulled his hand off of my arm and put it down by his side, patting it to tell him to keep it there.

“‘No, thanks,’ she says.” Peter leaned in to the bartender to conspire.

“‘No, thanks.’ What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know, bud,” the bartender said absentmindedly, slapping Peter on the shoulder.

“What say we buy these boys another round? And I’ll have a T and T.” Peter patted at his chest and then the back of his pants. “Where’s my wallet? I’m not wearing my coat?”

“I’ve got his credit card over here,” the bartender said to me, pointing to the register.

“Can you close him out after that round?” I asked.

He nodded, handing Peter a drink that was heavy on ice.

“He’s a nice guy,” Peter said to me in a loud whisper. “I told him he should dress better.”

I grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the counter by the window.

“Have some.” He pushed his drink into my hand. It was almost empty already.

“What is this? Why are you here?” I asked, putting his drink down on the counter.

“What is this?” He picked up the drink again, held it up, and tipped the glass back until an ice cube fell into his mouth. He slurped at it. “What’s you not having a drink? What’s that?” He cracked the ice to bits with his molars like Joe with a biscuit.

“I’m your DD.”

“You?” He poked my shoulder. “I’m the one who carries you home.”

“Your scrawny ass is too weak to carry me home,” I said, waving his hand away.

“I was speaking- ” He hiccupped. “I was speaking figuratively.”

“Your figurative ass is weak too.”

“Don’t be mean. Don’t.” He poured more ice in his mouth. A few of the cubes fell from either side of his mouth. He brushed them off his pants, and looked into his glass like he couldn’t figure out where the ice came from to begin with.

“Let’s get you home,” I said.

“Not yet,” Peter said, crunching another ice cube.

He sat there for a moment, his brow furrowed, like he was concentrating hard. Then he looked at me and said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here.” He gestured around the room, and the movement appeared to make him dizzy. I was starting to worry that my ass was too weak to drag him home. He gripped the edge of the bar and his knuckles turned white. “I asked you here so I could tell you to stop fucking with me.”

“How am I fucking with you?”

“I’m trying, Van. I’m trying so hard.” He leaned his elbow on the bar and rubbed his head into his hand hard, leaving red marks on his forehead. “And then I hear it all day. On Christmas. Van this, Van that. I’m helping Van house hunt, and we went out to dinner and she’s so funny.”

“Agnes?”

“Yes, Agnes! What do you think I’m talking about?” He clenched his teeth. “You don’t even like Agnes.”

“Not true.”

“You used to call her Aunt Agony.”

“That was different,” I said.

The bartender dropped off Peter’s credit card and the slip.

“How? How was it different?” Peter said.

“I was different.” I handed Peter his card and grabbed the slip. His tab was almost seventy bucks. I added up the tip and signed his name as a squiggle.

“You’re just fucking with me.”

“I like Agnes. She’s my- We’re friends.”

“Bullshit, Van.” He picked up his glass. “Bull”-he took a sip and swallowed- “shit.” He slammed the glass down on the counter so hard that I was surprised it didn’t break.

“Let’s get you home. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“No! Nooooo!”

“Janie’s going to be worried about you.”

“She went to her parents’ house on Saturday. I said I had to work on a brief, so I wouldn’t have to see Diane.” He laughed like he’d just told a joke.

“Nice.”

“Diane’s not nice.”

“You got me there.” I got his jacket from the hook, fished his keys out of the pocket, and dropped them in mine. “Come on.”

He stood up and put his arms back like he wanted me to put his coat on for him. I threw it over his shoulder and slapped him on the back.

“You can’t stay here, and you can’t drive.” I dangled his keys in front of him. “Get in my car or call a cab.” I started walking, but he didn’t follow me. “Or walk.”

He fumbled with his jacket, reaching in to pull his shirtsleeve back to his wrist. By the time I got to my car, he was running to catch up.

I brought Peter home with me. I wasn’t really comfortable with the idea, but I knew he shouldn’t be alone when he was so wasted.

“You have a Christmas tree!” he said, when I got him in the house. He tripped on the carpet and fell to his knees.

Joe must have been sleeping upstairs, but the thud woke him up. He came barreling down the stairs, barking. He jumped down from the landing, clearing the rest of the steps, and pushed Peter over, pinning him to the floor.

I worried for a minute that Joe might attack him, but he put his paws on Peter’s shoulders and licked his face with furious conviction.

Peter sputtered and shook his head back and forth trying to get Joe off him, but it only served to get Joe more wound up. Peter squealed, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips tightly shut. I thought he was panicking until he opened his mouth and let out a full, loud belly laugh. “Ah! Ah!” Peter panted, rubbing his hands on either side of Joe’s neck. Joe jumped off him and pulled a green rubber ring toy from under the coffee table. Peter grabbed for it and Joe pulled back and dragged Peter onto his belly and halfway across the living room.

I’d never seen Pete like this. His shirt was riding up to his armpits and he was getting rug burn on his belly, but he didn’t care. His face was shiny with tears and slobber. I laughed along.

I got a blanket out of the closet and left it on the couch for him. He was so busy playing with Joe that he didn’t even notice when I got up to go to bed. I left the Christmas tree lights on for Peter, because he’d seemed so excited about the tree. I watched them play for a few minutes from the top of the stairs. I had to admit that it was kind of nice to have another person in the house.

W
hen I got up the next morning to take Joe out, Peter was lying on his back on the couch with one foot on the floor. He was in his undershirt, his dress shirt wadded up under his head like a pillow and his jacket draped over him. He hugged the blanket I’d left him like a teddy bear. He was breathing through his mouth in a combination of snoring and sputtering.

I ran Joe out to pee and when I came back Pete was still asleep. I started a pot of coffee and fed Joe, trying to be quiet about it, which, of course, made every
clink
,
clank
, and
clunk
sound ten times louder than it was. But Pete kept snoring away.