I can’t see either of them.
I have to go.
I start to lower myself down to Paxton’s level, still holding his hand, to explain why he’s about to see a woman’s head explode as she sprints out the back gate.
But then the band starts to play a jazzy nightclub version of a Christmas song, and Elijah Abrams raises the microphone to his lips. “Let’s have ourselves a groovy, old-fashioned kind of Christmas now, shall we?”
Well.
I will obviously be postponing my leave until after I have observed this delightful act of holiday merriment.
Oh my lord, he’s snapping his fingers. Not in aring-a-ding-dinglaid-back swinging rhythm Rat Pack style. More like he’s scolding a dog to stop eating a steak that fell on the floor or impatiently hailing a cab in New York during a hail storm. The party guests all seem to know him, though, so they don’t appear to be horrified by his aggressively joyful performance.
“Hey! Hark! The herald angels sing!
Glory to the newborn king.
Sing it with me now!
Peace on Earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled
Are we, though?
Joyful all ye nations wide
Join the triumph of the skies
Let’s hear some angelic hosts proclaim
Come on.
Christ is born in Bethlehem.
Yeah he was!
All right—stop, stop, stop.” He waves a hand at the band. “Arresté fideles—get it?”
Amused groans from the crowd.
“That was hilarious, and you loved it, Shane Miller, youlovedit! How do you get your hair to stand up like that, Shane Miller? This fucking guy. Shit, this is a family show. Happy holidays—you didn’t hear me say that! Now it’s time for me to sing you a festive family-friendly story about gambling and a little something I made out of clay…”
There are cheers from at least half of the guests.
The band strikes up the dreidel song, and although I am standing here next to Paxton, I am mentally making myself popcorn and settling into a comfy chair.
“He doesn’t usually sing unless it’s my birthday,” Paxton tells me, sighing, as he lets go of my hand and rests his little fists on his little hips like an old man. “I can’t tell if he’s happy or if he’s going kind of crazy.”
“Well, I have a little dreidel
I made it out of clay
And when it’s dry and ready
Then dreidel I will…”
And then he spots me, from across the patio. We lock eyes. He stops singing. The band keeps playing. Other guests continue singing and dancing around. “You…” he says into the microphone, and then he literally drops the mic and makes a beeline for me.
