Up on a Rooftop (cont'd.)

I am driving the company truck, a brand-new Ford E-350 XLT, loaded -- a rolling billboard for AAAA-Keystone Roofing. It's even got a laptop computer, which the boss tells me to turn on when I write up estimates in Yuppie neighborhoods.

I'm about to tell Donnie what a bad idea this is, but everybody else is telling him they think it's great. A couple of guys get to talking about leaving Santa cookies and milk or, in one's case, cookies and a shot. Another, buttoning up his brown corduroy coat to leave so he can take his wife to midnight Mass, tells Spider how one year his old man left black footprints on the living room rug from the fireplace to the Christmas tree and back. "We kids never forgot that. Neither did Mother."

A plan falls together, and it's Jean who seals it. She grabs Spider's boxes and returns from the kitchen with them wrapped in layers of her industrial-strength sandwich wrap. "You don't want your presents getting wet."

It snowed half a foot two days ago, but it's raining -- sprinkling -- as we get into the van: Me at the wheel, Santa riding shotgun and Donnie straddling a toolbox in the back. Spider's so quiet that, even though I already know, I ask him where Leslie lives.

"Lawrenceville," Donnie says.

"I don't know about this," Spider says.

There's hardly any traffic, not even on 28. More lights on outsides than insides as I scan all the little houses on Millvale's hills. I'm trying to see the roofs. I don't see many that still have much snow left on them, but that doesn't surprise me.

"Her place insulated?" I ask. Spider doesn't know. The better insulated a house, the less heat escapes, the more snow on the roof. This time of year, you could drive around without getting out of the truck and find work for the insulation guys.

Spider asks, "What if it's all melted off?"

Donnie sticks his head between our seats so he can see the dashboard. "Mr. Trip Computer says it's 44 degrees out. Hell, that's almost freezing," he says, and disappears into the back. The clock reads 11:35.

I'm waiting for Donnie to say it -- that the temperature could drop and turn these drops to flakes and this could be a white Christmas after all.

But he doesn't. Not until we're rolling over the 40th Street Bridge does he say anything, and you can barely hear it:

"Some Christmases, it snows."

WE PULL UP behind a row of houses in the flats, on a skinny alley. It's still raining, but I think we might be in luck.

The houses are two-story, but like Spider said, a lot of them have one-story additions -- kitchens, garages, other houses -- on the back. Typical Pittsburgh.

"I bet they don't get any sun back here at all," I say.

Donnie bets I'm right and says to Spider, "And a roof's higher elevation. You'll be freakin' skiing up there!"

Spider's got his head out the window like a dog. He points and says, "This is it."

I go up a ways and stop. If we park here, we block the alley, so I tell Donnie to stay in the van in case somebody comes and we have to move.

"I don't know," Spider says, and Donnie shushes him.

Spider whispers, "I don't know."

Hey, we're here, and my door's open, and I'm out.

There's no need to unlock a big ladder from the rack, so I just pop the back door and slide the stepladder out. Donnie's telling Spider something about how he never regrets things he did, just things he didn't, and by the time I come around he's pushing Spider out.

"Hey, Santa," Donnie calls. "Don't forget your hat."

With the hat covering most of the Spider-Man bandanna, and the beard more or less on his face, Spider is a decent enough Santa, at least in low light.

The whole alley is dark except for the lighted, life-size plastic nativity scene and Frosty the Snowman on top of one garage. I push Spider down a walkway to the back door of the house. Peering in, we can see light flickering into the kitchen from the living room -- not from a TV, but from a Christmas tree.

Upstairs both windows are dark. The one on the right is Leslie's room, Spider said. The one on the left is Will's.

Slowly, so it doesn't squeak, I unfold the aluminum ladder and set it gently on the ground. As I push down the legs, there's a crunch of something frozen.

Spider climbs. I can't see his boots, just white puffs of trim, as he goes up and onto the roof.

The plan is for him to walk around and leave footprints if there's snow. Leave the presents by Will's window for the kid to find in the morning. Come back down, and we're all back in time for the toast Jean always makes to Pete.

I stay on the ground, holding the ladder. Looking up through a gap in the gutter, I worry: What if Spider falls through this crappy roof? I hold my breath and try to hear.

The rest happens in a flash.

I almost pee my pants when the floodlight blasts on in my face. The lights go on inside, too, and there's a woman -- Leslie -- in the kitchen window right in front of me. She's as shocked as I am and runs around the corner into the living room.

I run toward Donnie, but he's already got the van started. I dash halfway up the ladder to where my head clears the edge and hiss, "WIFE!" just as the light comes on in the window of Leslie's room. The shade tears up and it's her, in her nightgown, looking out at Santa Claus.

Spider's like a spot-lit deer. He's holding the presents in both hands.

Leslie just stands there, too, for what seems like an hour. Then her hands fall from her hips. She shakes her head. She raises a hand, like she's saying, Don't move. Then she's gone.

"C'MON!" I hiss to Spider. The cops probably are on the way.

Spider doesn't move, just stands there, with his back to me.

I'm having a hard time adjusting, and don't see everything at first. Then I see there is some snow, and Spider's footprints in a circle in front of Will's window. Spider seems to be staring at that window, so I stare at it, too, and I think I see a faint light come on inside, like from a hallway. I think I see some movement. The glass is dark, and a little foggy, but after a while I think I see a face looking out. Then I think I see two.

Slowly I step back down the ladder to the ground, to wait.

I don't know what I'll tell Donnie happened. I don't know what Spider will. I'm hoping maybe Spider'll find out what happened inside tomorrow -- or no, make that later on today.

By the blue glow of the dial on my good watch, it's Christmas.

Bob Batz Jr. is a staff writer at the Post-Gazette, his second daily newspaper in Pittsburgh, where he's been writing non-fiction features for 19 years. He aspires to make up more stories.