George turned back to him. “I see where you’re going... and you’re not wrong. He has definitely brought me out of a funk. May helped too. And the restaurant has helped as well. But like Alec did with you, Mikey came out of the blue.Dropped in,as you said.”
“Yeah.” Tyler nodded. “Like an angel.”
Michelangelo, George thought. He sipped from his wine, relishing the warmth it brought. “Thank you, Tyler.”
Tyler shrugged. “It’s all good. I just saw something in your expression, something I used to see in the mirror from time to time, though less often now. So, yeah, to answer your question, it gets easier. If you’re willing to let it.”
* * *
The restaurant went dark, except for candles and the glow of shelf-lighting behind the bar. A bright flash came from behind them, and George turned to see Jack was manning a flashlight—a makeshift, handheld spotlight. He shrugged, as if to say—sorry, George, they made me do it.
“You’re gonna love this,” Tyler said, and a swell of familiar music came washing over them:All I Want for Christmas Is You, by Mariah Carey.
Wilson sauntered out from the kitchen in full-drag, his auburn wig teased high and wide, comic in proportion to his skinny little body. He was wearing a leotard with fishnet tights and heels—using an over-sized Santa coat sashed to give the appearance of a miniskirt. There was a tiny Santa hat clipped to his coif. He knew the words verbatim, pantomiming the articulation of every single syllable of the familiar Christmas anthem. When he hit the final note of the lead in, the music swelled again, and Demarco and Alec trotted out with jingling reindeer antlers, red noses, and little fluffy tails on their wiggling behinds.
Everybody rose. Tyler whistled, May catcalled, and the room was filled with applause.
Though it appeared that Demarco and Alec would steal the show with their synchronized Supremes-esque girl-group backup, Wilson was having none of it. He worked that room with hips, eyelashes, lips, and over-the-top gestures, spinning like a professional dancer and not missing one single lyric.
When the song was winding down—Wilson miming those impossibly high Mariah-notes, he fell into Alec’s arms, Demarco scooped up his legs, and they lifted him high and horizontal as they sang their way through the finale, dancing with the song’s fade back the way they came.
The room roared with applause. Jack, shining the flashlight around like a mini Hollywood premier.
When it was finally quiet again, Mikey came out of the shadows and stood in front of the bar.
“I think I’m next,” he said, reluctantly. “It’s hard to follow that—so, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bring the tempo down a little.”
“YOU GO, MIKEY!” May hollered as folks sat back down. “Let her rip.”
Mikey pressed a button on his phone and set it down on the bar. A quiet string arrangement began, familiar, but not immediately recognizable... one of those classical numbers it takes a moment to identify as a Christmas song.
Then the music stopped, and Mikey sang the first five notes ofAve Maria.
George’s heart swelled with emotion. There he was, his Michelangelo, dressed down for opera in jeans and flannel, but only on the outside. From inside came a voice that soared as if he really were a messenger from God. George watched him again as he had done the night of the soft-opening—mesmerized. Tears came, involuntary and copious Not strained, just naturally flowing like the beautiful notes from Mikey’s lips.
George stole a glance at Tyler, who returned it, misty-eyed.
Ave Mariais a simple classical song. It’s short, with just the right swell, build, and fade. When Mikey finished, George went to him and they embraced, neither hearing the applause in the room.
“I love you, Mikey,” George whispered to him. “If you ever think otherwise, you just sing to me like that. You touch my soul.”
“If I lost you, I wouldn’t sing anymore. I don’t think I could.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
They parted, facing the crowd. Some time had passed, but George wasn’t sure how much. The applause had ended. Demarco, Wilson, and Tommy were now at the vacated table and Alec was sitting where Tyler had been. He felt a touch on his shoulder.
Tyler was standing there with his guitar strapped on. “It’s my turn,” he said with a wink.
George and Mikey sat down with Alec.
Tyler strummed his guitar a few times. Crisp, clean chords echoed throughout the room. Again, with just the single strummed instrument, the song was only recognizable when he arrived at and sang the introductory lyric.
Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
Tyler had a deep speaking voice, but George noticed it lightened a bit—smooth, graceful, and effortless—when he sang. His accent and approach predictably countrified the song, and he lightened it—mostly—with his intonation and the occasional smile, but it still kept that same nostalgic sadness that permeated from Judy Garland’s delivery of it long ago. George watched Alec watching Tyler, wondering if he too saw a light.
When the song was done, Tyler spoke, “I have something else, but I don’t need the guitar for it.”
