In the morning, he is awakened by a pounding on the front door. His head feels like a crumbling plaster cast of a head. It is both heavy and empty, filled with rocks and something that sloshes like liquid. The bottle of vodka has rolled under the coffee table; the pills are lined up on the glass surface. Ten pills left, which means he took only three. His stomach squelches; whoever is at the door is insistent.
It’s federal marshals, he thinks. He won’t answer, he won’t confess, he won’t surrender. He won’t leave the house; they’ll have to storm him like a SWAT team if they want to get him. He is grateful now that Jen decided to leave with the kids; she wouldn’t take this well at all—a stranger on the front step, pounding on their door, attracting the attention of the neighbors.
And yet, he misses Jen. He needs her. If she were here, she would go to the door and tell whoever it is to GO AWAY. She can be formidable; Patrick can’t imagine anyone intimidating her. Also, Patrick misses the kids—the shooting and helicopter noises of their video games, their screaming and yelling and fighting, their sweet, funky boy smell of sweat and grass and pancake syrup.
Still, the knocking.
Patrick thinks about standing up the way some people think about climbing Mount Everest. Can it be done? He moves his legs to the floor; that much goes okay. The more difficult task is raising his head and torso. Ohhhhhkay. He gets to his feet and hobbles over to the picture window.
At the front door is a man in uniform. Patrick hides behind the Christmas tree and thinks: I’m going to jail.
The man keeps knocking. He has no intention of going away; Patrick can’t escape his fate. Patrick descends the stairs and says, “Who is it?”
“Blahblahblah office,” the man says.
Patrick cracks the door, aware that he is still wearing his suit from the day before—minus his tie, his jacket, and his shoes.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
Patrick nods. The man is about fifty-five, plump, and silver haired. Patrick can take him in a fight, he thinks.
The man starts handing Patrick boxes. Patrick is confused. The man is wearing a uniform, vaguely militaristic, but the packages he’s giving Patrick seem like regular packages. Patrick tries to focus on the labels—he really needs his glasses, he’s so dreadfully hungover—but he makes out CBS Studios, and the relief he feels nearly causes him to levitate.
United States Postal Service. These are Christmas gifts, sent to the kids from Margaret. Every year Margaret has her assistant, Darcy, order gifts using some incredible service that always selects the perfect gift for each boy.
“And this,” the postal worker says, “requires a signature.” He hands Patrick a small cube of a box with luxurious weight. It’s caviar from Petrossian, his mother’s gift each year to him and Jen. Normally, they eat it on New Year’s Eve.
Patrick scribbles his name on the clipboard. He wants to kiss the mailman.
“Thank you!” he shouts. His voice is so loud that the mailman’s head snaps back. His voice is so loud, it echoes across the Common.
The mailman retreats down the steps, and Patrick moves all the packages inside and carries the box with the caviar up to the kitchen. He hopes they have eggs. He is going to scramble them all and dump the caviar on top. It will be his breakfast, and Jen’s punishment for leaving.
His cell phone rings, but Patrick ignores it. That will be Jen, he is certain. But she’s the one who left with his kids two days before Christmas, so let her wonder.
Then the house phone rings. Definitely Jen. Patrick finds eight eggs in the fridge and cracks them all in a stainless steel bowl, trying not to dwell on how the sound of the eggs cracking mimics the pain in his head. He adds cream, and salt and pepper; he butters a frying pan. How many times this year has he actually cooked in this kitchen? He can’t remember any. Jen does the cooking, and she does it perfectly. Everything she makes is fresh and seasonal. She practically reads his mind. On nights he wants roast chicken with her buttery mashed potatoes, there’s roast chicken. On nights he wants Cobb salad with grilled lobster, there it is. They have cheese fondue on Valentine’s Day, beef and broccoli stir-fry for the Chinese New Year. He misses Jen! He wonders if something bad will happen if he eats the caviar on the wrong day. Well, something bad has already happened, which is why he’s doing this.
The eggs sizzle. Patrick grabs a wooden spoon. The eggs have to be soft and creamy; otherwise they will not be suitable for this quality of caviar.
Ava and Kevin think he and Jen are food snobs. Kevin’s favorite food is the ACK Mack pizza from Sophie T’s—located across the street from the Bar—and if it’s a day old, so much the better.
The house phone rings again. Jen is desperate. Patrick likes that at first—he likes the idea of his wife regretting her decision to leave and calling to beg his forgiveness. He moves the eggs around in the pan like an artist dabbing paint on a canvas. He will tell Jen he is about to eat the caviar.
“Hello?” he says.
“Patrick?” a voice says. It’s Gary Grimstead. “Man, I need you to sit down.”