The Couriers of Magic

The disadvantage to delivering miracles is that the collection of gasps, the breathless wonder at apex, the brilliant convergence of tiny simultaneous serendipitous coincidences goes unwitnessed by the person who actually delivers the magic.

I know this because I’ve borne witness to the delivery of miracles before. It's true.

One year, my family gathered--for the first time--at Alan Number Two’s house to celebrate Christmas. He welcomed us through dual front doors of beveled glass and led us through rooms with soaring white ceilings and marble slated fireplaces. We shepherded into a kitchen containing invisible cabinets. Cobalt blown-glass pendants swung over a large island. Etched plates buoyed tiny, round bits of food skewered in slender toothpicks. The howl of a singular trumpet bled through a boom box lighting up in the corner of the kitchen.

Alan Number Two catered to my entire family. He donned an apron over cream cashmere and cradled thick medallions of filet between knife and carving fork, tucking meat atop beds of truffles. He pinched rosemary over each steak’s charred flesh and jollied, “Merry Christmas!” then ushered us guests to a seat at a round, glass table. Black sleek napkins slid in our laps, silverware twinkled across porcelain, and rings of precious stone clinked against crystal glasses. We ate in silence. Rudolf, from the blinking boombox, horned in the distance.

The Aunties blotted at corners of rouged lips with the black silk napkins and laid compliments to the doneness of Alan Number Two’s steak. Alan Number Two’s lips spread wide and waxy. His skin, baked brown, sprayed into linear design around the temples. He raised a Château Bordeaux between fingertips, “Please, Aunties. No. Credit goes to the chef, June. My bride… so elegant.”

Everyone around the table turned heads to moan endearments. We raised crystal to June, my cousin. June pressed palms into her lap and batted lashes at her husband. Alan Number Two stood up, bent down, and kissed June’s cheek. Everyone round the table moaned endearments again.

Except the children. Presents, they demanded with fists. Presents, they bucked knees beneath the table to rattle the silverware. Presents, a child pulled at June’s chiffon gown with sugar glazed fingers. Presents. Presents. Presents, they clawed in unison.

“Presents!” June popped, jumping up. Alan Number Two filed us guests back through the rooms with high-white ceilings until we congregated before a polished stone fireplace. Children belonging to multiple branches clamored across uptight furniture and began digging decorated boxes from purses, crevices, and pockets as parents tripped over points and redirections.

“Santa!” One child gasped and froze. The room fell still.

“Santa,” shrieked another child, scrambling to the windows.

“Santa!” bleated another. “Oh! Santa!” repeated the child, becoming tangled amongst the curtains. The Aunties muttered and flung back their chairs. They stood and shooed children from the upholstery and sills and cupped decorated fingers upon the windows. Their breath on glass, over rouged lips, danced in oscillating patterns. The Aunties peered into darkness.

“A man in a Santa suit is running about the yard!” one auntie hollered over a silk scarf. The children shrieked in cacophony.

“I saw him!” another auntie exclaimed from a separate window. The children’s shrill increased in intensity. The other adults performed head counts.

“Everyone is accounted for,” Alan Number Two grimaced. A grin wrestled with his neck and forced itself onto his face; the reflection of canned lights bounced off hair shellac as his head jolted. While the children scurried throughout, flinging boots over bare feet and throwing on upside down coats, Alan Number Two extended arms outward. “Children,” he spoke without intonation, “children, children, order, please.” But the melee of youth swirled in whoops and yowls throughout the white halls and then tumbled out the back door to investigate.

One auntie, draped in velvet, rapidly tapped the window with a sharply-filed fingernail, “That’s Alan running around in a Santa suit!” she proclaimed.

“Nonsense,” Alan Number Two tuttered, readjusting his head tilt and the hem of his cashmere sweater.

“June!” the velveted auntie swooned, “Oh! June, Alan is running about the yard.”

Alan Number Two sat down rigid and rested a leathery hand upon June’s knee. He closed his eyes and released a long, irritated sigh. “Yes, Auntie,” he patted June’s knee, “Alan is most likely running about in a Santa suit.”

The Aunties remained cupped to the windows, so Alan Number Two fixated his attention on me. So did June, her eyes wide with horror. “My ex,” she mouthed.

“Yes, June’s ex-husband dressed as Santa every year,” Alan Number Two gave June’s knee one last pat, stood and stepped forward. “He’d sneak outside and tap at the windows to excite all the children. He ensured they caught him, in glimpses, before dropping presents at the back door. Then he’d enter through the front, in normal clothes, and inquire after the uproar.” Alan Number Two paused, “His name is also Alan.”

I knew this. We all knew this. We spent Christmas Eve, for the good part of a decade, with Alan Number One before he and June divorced. I assisted in the delivery of a miracle at the house of Alan Number One long before I bore witness to the delivery of a miracle on Alan Number Two’s front porch.

Somewhere in my early teens, my mother held to years of threats and finally quit hosting for Christmas. My cousin, June, newly married to Alan Number One, overtook the responsibility. That Christmas Eve, before driving us two hours north, my mother handed over a plastic bag, “Change clothes. Your cousin’s fancy.”

My cousin, June, and Alan Number One greeted us at the end of a fir-lined driveway. They stood before two wooden doors laden in iron work. They led us down dimly ensconced hallways into a finished basement where girthy columns of etched walnut gleamed and cabinets illuminated trophies. Alan Number One handed each man a handcrafted billiard cue.

“Shots to the winner.” He cracked the rack with one eye closed and his tongue curled.

After a dinner of roasted heirloom vegetables and a slow-roasted round roast, I wandered through travertine tiled hallways in search of a bathroom. I followed the curve of stucco walls and stumbled upon the shadow of someone hunched and grunting with trousers pooled around the ankles. I squeaked and attempted to retreat, but the shadow pled, “Stop!” and stammered, “No! No! No no no!” when I felt for a light switch.

“Keep the lights off,” the figure tugged felted pants up over denim, “It’s me, Alan, June’s husband. Listen. I need you to return to the party. I need you to act normal for five minutes. When you hear a tap at the window, make a big deal out of it. I’m Santa. See. Be interesting.” I followed Alan Number One’s directions and, after five minutes, halted the adults’ conversation.

“Did you hear that?” I fumbled with louvered shutters and peered out the window. The young children pawed and mewed around my legs and The Aunties exchanged looks of exasperation. I put my mouth to glass and onto the pane blew breath, “Santa! It’s Santa! I see him!”

And I did. Flashing through the trees. I caught streaks of Alan Number One’s red and white trimmed jacket. I ran with the children to another window. I saw his bootprints.

“Santa!” the young children warbled at my feet.

“Santa?” the adults mumbled.

“Santa,” one auntie huffed, “a goddamned miracle's happened.”

“Alan’s missing,” another auntie whispered between glittering rings. The adults performed head counts and everyone nodded. The children, spinning in tizzies, opened the walk-out basement backdoor to discover a sack full of presents. They clamored atop each other with glee. Alan Number One stepped through a front hall dusting off his vicuña wool, “What is all this commotion?” he jollied.

“Cheers to Santa!” one auntie hollered in admiration.

“To Santa!” the other aunties winked and clinked glasses. June giggled. Her cheeks sparkled with a newly wedded sheen. And thus began the tradition that lasted most of a decade. Alan Number One dressed as Santa to deliver the children presents.

However, after June filed for divorce, no one expected the Christmas Eve tradition to continue. And nobody could ever guess it would live on at the house of Alan Number Two, June’s new husband. So when June mouthed, “My ex,” I sat stone still to bear witness to the delivery of yet another miracle on my cousin’s new door step.

“Alan is running throughout the yard dressed as Santa Claus,” an auntie in dark taffeta scoffed, huffing fog onto Alan Number Two’s reflection in the window’s glass. She turned from the pane and pointed a bejeweled finger at him, “But this is your home, Alan. Your house.”

Alan Number Two produced an off-tune chuckle and spread his arms about without purpose. His wife, June, sat frozen in a plexi-chair-like-sculpture. Suddenly the room exploded in parka jackets, snow boots, and the cherub rubbed cheeks of shouting children. “Santa! I saw him. He’s real,” the children cried, dragging a red felt bag inside and pulling it open with mouths. The octaves of hoots increased to the foray of flying presents.

“Looks like Santa left a sack of presents at the front door,” June quipped, her lips squeezed into tight crevices. She shifted in the see-through plexi-seat, making a squeak with the back of her thigh.

“But this is Alan’s house,” the same auntie bellowed, turning from the window again. She wagged her finger around the cathedral ceiling, “This is your home, Alan.”

“Yes, auntie,” said Alan Number Two. He stood behind June and rested a hand on each of her shoulders. June’s leg squeaked again; he patted her. “But it appears, now, Santa is gone."

A small child made rest atop a pile of shredded wrapping paper at my feet. He batted a shirt of athletic fabric between fingers. I recognized him as June’s son. The boy possessed the same dark eyes and crop of curls as Alan Number One.

“A miracle,” the child sighed. 

I swirled my crystal tumbler until my cocktail clouded. I thought of Alan Number One flashing through the yard, a sack in gloved hands, traversing the unfamiliar layout of Alan Number Two’s bushes. Then I thought of Alan Number One — in that very moment — walking alone down a slushed edged road holding a fur-trimmed hat and car keys: Santa Claus, the Courier of Magic.

The small boy curled up and nuzzled into the specifically requested jersey. Then he spread out his treasure, looked up at me, and traced the uniform’s number. Three. “An absolute miracle,” the son sighed again. I leaned forward, set my drink next to a coaster and patted my cousin’s child’s curly head.

“That’s right, kid. You witnessed a goddamn miracle.”

I congratulated him.