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says. “The hired man does all the really heavy work, but Grandpa looks exhaustedevery time I see him. You know, they only came to one basketball game this year, and it was just down the road, in Vale.”
    “The cold is hard on him,” Pete says. “Look how skinny he's gotten.”
    Now being skinny is a crime? I scoop up an extra spoonful of whipped cream and drown it in my cocoa.
    “Remember when Dad and Grandpa used to take us out on the hay wagon Christmas Eve to look for the Christmas star?”
    And then they go on about all the great things that happened at Christmas in their childhood but not in mine, Christmases when Dad and Mom were both home. My gut starts churning, and even the hot chocolate doesn't sweeten me up.
    Then conversation switches back to all the things that need doing around the ranch and whether Grandpa will be strong enough to do them. Pete says, in his most annoying trying-to-be-Dad voice, “We should make a plan for what to do, just in case—”
    That's it. I can't take another word.
    “We're fine!” I shout. “We're doing just fine. It's you—all of you. You're the ones who are gone!”
    And then I just can't cry in front of my brothers, so I attack.
    I kick Frank in the shins as hard as I can and he falls down, cussing as he goes. He knocks into Jim, so I ram Jim in the gut with my head. Jim trips over Frank and goes down laughing, which makes me even madder. I swing punches at Pete and land some good ones, but he won't even fight back. Then John comes up behind me and scoops me off the floor, pinning my left hand to my ribs. I flail around with my legs and reach for the only weapon I can find, the hot chocolate pot. I grab it and crash it down on Pete's head as hard as I can.
    It explodes in my hand.
    Frank and Jim start howling as the rest of the hot chocolate rains down on them, and John drops me so I'm standing on Jim's hand. Pete staggers over to the sink, groaning.
    “Dude,” John almost whispers, “you assaulted an officer, and he's bleeding!”
    “Explain this,” Grandpa says in a voice that is even more scary because it's calm and comes out of nowhere.
    I turn around and there he is, standing in the doorway looking bone-weary, and I am standing in a puddle of brothers and hot chocolate with the broken handle of a coffeepot in my hand and blood on my knuckles.
    “Ignatius kicked the shit out of us, Grandpa,” Pete says with his back turned. “He did a hell of a job.”
    Groans of agreement come from the floor.
    “Dude,” John says again a little louder, “you are really bleeding.”
    It's true. Still gripping the edge of the sink, Pete lifts his head up. Two rivers of blood roll down either side of his face.
    “John,” Grandpa says, “my medical kit is in the barn.”
    John's out the door so fast, he doesn't stop for a coat. Frank and Jim untangle themselves and stagger to their feet. Grandpa walks around the pool of cocoa. He looks from the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter to each of us in turn, and that's about all the scolding I need. I feel terrible, and I didn't even touch a drop.
    Grandma is not at a loss for words. She starts in on the scolding, full volume from her bedroom at the far end of the hall. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! For heaven's sake, boys—brawling on the holiest night of the year! What would your father—Lord help us!”
    She comes into the kitchen, and we quick line up, tall to short, because the truth is, we've been in trouble with Grandma before. She looks up the row—fromme, still holding the coffeepot handle, past Frank and Jim, to Pete, bleeding down into his collar.
    “Angels and saints,” she says, not shouting now.
    The front door bangs and John dashes in, breathing hard and shivering, with the medical kit in hand.
    “Set it by my chair, John,” Grandpa says. “I'll wash first. Pete, lean over the sink. Boys, I want all the broken pieces off the floor.”
    Grandpa washes his hands and then takes Pete's head and rinses it