Jack squinted at him between the holes in his mask. Finally, he slowly lowered the M16.

“Okay, Mr. Rooney,” the hijacker said. “Point taken. I’ll take measures to tone down the aggressive crowd control. Now, if you would please release my colleague. If he dies, I’m afraid it’ll start quite a bad precedent.”

Rooney released the big man and stood up, breathing loudly. His cheek was bleeding from where a boot lace had scratched it, and his right arm felt like it had been in an industrial accident, but his blood sang. He’d actually done something about this outrage.

Jack checked Little John in the chest with the rifle when he leapt up like a Doberman off the floor. “Go get something to eat and some rest,” he told him.

“Mr. Rooney, please retake your seat. I’d like to address everyone.”

Rooney sat as Jack went to the podium and cleared his throat. Then he smiled, and with his suddenly cheerful demeanor, he could have been an airline spokesman updating terminal passengers about a delay.

“Hi, everybody,” he said. “We’ve started the negotiation process, and things seem to be working quite smoothly. If things continue to go this well, there’s a shot of getting you back home to your families by Christmas morning.”

There was no applause, but Rooney definitely thought he detected a collective sigh.

“Now, unfortunately, the bad news,” Jack went on. “If things deteriorate, we’ll more likely than not be forced to kill a number of you.”

A low moan rose from the back of the chapel.

“Since we are here in a house of worship,” Jack continued, “I’d advise any of you who have religious aspirations to get your prayers in now.”

Linda London, the reality TV socialite, doubled over and began sobbing.

“People,” Jack chided amiably. “People, please. You act like we’re going to torture you. You have my word. All executions will consist of a quick, humane shot to the back of the head.”

Jack stepped back down from the pulpit and stopped beside where Rooney sat.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said, stabbing Rooney in the throat with a stun gun. Rooney’s eyes shut of their own accord as every muscle in his body clenched at once. But instead of black, all he saw was sizzling television fuzz. A dry heave of a scream was lost in his throat as he bounced numbly off the floor and rolled under the seat.

“We’re not your lifestyle coaches or your Pilates instructors, and this isn’t Letterman’s greenroom.” Rooney heard Jack through his semiconsciousness. He even came up with one coherent idea when he managed to gather the scraps of his pain-ravaged thoughts: I should have let him shoot me.

“I thought you had to have some brains to be successful in this country,” Jack complained. “Which part of ‘step out of line and we’ll kill you’ are you morons not getting?”

IT WAS TEN TO SEVEN in the morning when eleven-year-old Brian Bennett tapped on his sister’s door.

“Julia?” he whispered. “You up?”

Julia came out, combing her wet hair. Already showered, Brian thought with disappointment. He’d wanted to be the first one up, the leader of the family. He was the oldest boy, after all. When had Julia the Great woken up? Six?

“I was just about to get you,” Julia said. “Dad still sleeping?”

“Like a dead… I mean, like a rock,” Brian said quickly. “Who knows when he came in last night. You want me to start getting the cereal out and you wake the monsters?”

“Okay, but if you get finished before I get the girls up, go in and get Trent and Eddie and Ricky,” Julia said. “It’s going to take me a while to get the girls dressed right and do their hair.”

“Okay,” Brian said. He began to turn in the dim hall, but then stopped.

“Hey, Julia,” he said.

“What?”

“I feel bad about when Dad came in last night and busted us. I really think this will make it up to him. Great idea to get up early and get everyone ready.”

“Why thanks, Bri,” Julia said. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

Man! Brian thought, wincing. She was right. What the hell was he doing being all fuzzy and nice to his sister?

“Last one to get their team ready is a retarded loser,” Brian called over his shoulder as he left.

He threw open the door to the boys’ room after he had quickly set the kitchen table. He was shaking Ricky’s foot at the bottom bunk when Trent swung out from the top and hung upside down like a bat.

“Did he come? Did he come?” Trent asked urgently.

“Did who come?” Brian said, flipping his five-year-old brother out of his bed and onto his bare feet.

“SANTA!” Trent screamed.

“Shhhh!” Brian said. “No.”

“What?” Trent said sadly. “Santa didn’t come? Why not? Are you lying, Bri? I know I was a little naughty, but I was nice, too.”

“It’s not Christmas yet, you little maniac,” Brian said, heading toward the closet. “Wake up Ricky and go brush your teeth. Brush and flush. Now.”

Brian smiled when he opened the bedroom door five minutes later. The girls were just coming out of their room. He’d thought Ms. Perfect in Every Way Julia would have the little ladies doing calisthenics or something by this time. But no. Snag. It was a tie.

Brian laughed when he flicked on the kitchen light. Even though it was corny, he had to admit, seeing everyone with their costumes on was also hilarious.

It was dress rehearsal today at Holy Name for the Christmas pageant, and everyone had a part to play. Chrissy, Shawna, Bridget, and Fiona were garland-haloed angels. Trent and Eddie were shepherds. Ricky had scored the part of Joseph and was sporting a totally fake and funny black beard. Even Jane and Julia, who were in the choir, were wearing long silver robes. Of course he, himself, had the coolest, most uncorny costume, being one of the three wise men.

“Look at them,” Brian said, standing at the head of the table next to Julia. “They’re almost, like, cute or something.”

Julia took a camera out of her robe and snapped a picture of the little Bennetts. What was up with girls? Brian thought. How did they always know the right things to do?

Julia showed Brian the screen on her camera.

“Do you think Mom will like that one?” she said.

“Maybe,” Brian said. “How the heck should I know?”

WHEN THE MUTED clunk and giggles and bangs and cries of my family getting ready woke me that morning, I sensed the absence on my wife’s side of the bed and was grateful. The workday-morning deal between Maeve and me was that she would get them dressed and I would take them to school. To let me sleep in while she did the much heavier work of getting our double-digit familia together was the type of kindness by omission only people who are long married can understand.

I tossed around and was reaching for the warmth of her body pillow when I felt the cold, stiff sheets beside me, and I remembered.

As I lay there, taking my first morning sip of personal horror, a chilling question occurred to me.

I swung my bare feet onto the cold hardwood and grabbed my tattered and holey robe off the bedpost.

If Maeve wasn’t getting the kids ready, who was?

It’s hard to describe how I felt when I stepped into the kitchen and saw my children fully dressed for their Christmas pageant. I was convinced I was dreaming, or maybe even dead, seeing the kids transformed around our breakfast table into some surreal Renaissance painting of a heavenly multitude. Then Trent knocked his SpongeBob cereal bowl off the table-and everyone turned around.

“DAD!” they said at once.

How could they have gotten themselves ready? I thought. What a bad father I was. I hadn’t even remembered about the play. I didn’t know why I started crying when I stooped to pick up Froot Loops off the linoleum. Then I did know.