15. A Surprising Offer

15

A SURPRISING OFFER

PATRICK

On the roof of a house somewhere in snowy Canada, I'm sad.

The sleigh is finally empty.

After an entire evening of outrunning frisky pets, hiding from inquisitive kids, and taste-testing cookies on both sides of the delicious spectrum, it looks like our work is complete. Geographically dizzy, we've delivered gifts all over the world. Defied time, space, and all other such logic I thought to be proven fact only this morning.

My worldview is cracked open.

For the first time in a long time, I'm vibrantly alive. And it's not just the cloak's power. It's this surging sense of purpose that fizzles in my fingertips. And the way Quinn played my teammate all evening.

I'm hoping this experience has eradicated any worries about our future and any unnecessary thoughts about divorce. Though he is still keeping distance between us in the front seat, I can tell his resolve has melted a bit. His sleepy eyes keep flicking toward me with contentment, not upset. That's a start.

"All right, sleigh. Take us on home." Hobart's command comes from the back seat. He's stuffing away his pocket watch and sending an alert to the elves back in the North Pole. Without the massive gift sack, he can sprawl out. He lies supine with his hat brim tugged down to cover his eyes.

"What a night," I murmur. Mostly to myself.

Quinn does a sluggish little nod into the fabric of the seat. He's tuckered out. His eyes are struggling to stay open. I can't wait to get home and curl up in our bed beside him. If he doesn't migrate back to the guest room, that is. If he lets me hold him like I used to. Like I want to.

If our brains don't remember this wacky experience in the morning, I have a strange premonition our bodies will. That my muscles are locking in all these preternatural sensations. This night will live between my bones. Vibrate forever around my cells. It's a part of me.

A part of me that I wish I didn't have to let go of so soon.

Some minutes later, I check out the GPS and alarmingly notice that we're heading north.

"Hey, Hobart, I think we're going the wrong direction." I can't fully turn around to look at him because Quinn has dozed off. His head lolled onto my shoulder. I like the comforting position too much to risk waking him.

"Uhhhh…" In the several hours I've known Hobart, he doesn't seem like the kind of man who's ever at a loss for words. The sky continues to grow lighter. Oranges and yellows paint broad brushstrokes around the arc of the Earth. It would be beautiful and mesmerizing if I weren't suffering nervousness.

Abruptly, the sleigh and the reindeer, as if they sense my severe confusion and are in cahoots together, slingshot back. We whoosh through some sort of portal.

All I see is color. All I feel is floaty.

Then, there in the distance is the sort of village you have to see to believe. It's a snowy enclave that's backed by the northern lights. They dance to the tune of a song that rises through the otherwise quiet night. As we fly closer, I can tell it's singing. A horde of voices grows stronger as we approach an unexpected destination.

Quinn stirs awake at my side. "Where are we?" he asks, groggy.

The speckled landscape comes into sharper focus. A-framed buildings with snow-dusted roofs. Windows glowing with the most uplifting amber light. A massive decorated tree presiding over a town square. Dozens of rambling cobblestone streets creating a maze.

We whizz by towers and turrets and a large chalet up on the hill with its own chairlift.

"I think we're in the North Pole," I say. It's both exactly as I imagined it as a child and somehow even more magical. "Hobart, what are we doing here? You told us we were headed home."

"Yeah, about that," Hobart says. " My home. We have some business to attend to."

"Business?" Quinn asks. He sits up and tries to fix his messy hair. "What kind of business?"

"I think it's best the Council of Priors tells you about it."

The sleigh does a victory loop around the centerpiece tree. Below, elves of every kind raise their glasses while singing a song with indistinguishable lyrics over the roar of the sleigh. They dance and smile. I guess I'd be this jolly, too, if I only had a few days off a year and this was one of them.

My unemployment status wallops me at the worst moment.

We pull into a stable in what is surely the main workshop given its massive structure and several wings. We are helped down by a gaggle of elves congratulating us on a great run.

At the end of a lengthy hallway lined with painted portraits of Santas past, there are bright red Tudor-style double doors with rounded tops and wrought-iron, ornate handles. Hobart leads us inside a capacious room. It has dark stone floors and a cathedral roof. There are several chairs at the far end occupied by imposing-looking people. Anxiety jolts up my spine as we're instructed to walk the rolled-out strip of plush red carpet and stop in front of them.

"The cloak, please," Hobart says. He holds his outstretched arms to me. I feel around for a zipper or a drawstring. "Just snap."

With the flick of my fingers, the Santa mirage dematerializes into a cloud of dust and forms the enchanted cloak again. It lies pooled around my feet. I pick it up shakily and hand it to Hobart. Are we in trouble with a legion of magical beings right now?

"Welcome, Patrick and Quinn," says the man closest to the center. He's Black with tight-clipped gray hair and round eyes. "My name is Chris. The North Pole and the world at large thank you for your service this evening."

I don't know what else to do so I bow. Awkwardly.

"You're welcome?" Quinn says. He sounds as wobbly as I feel. "Sorry, but, um, no offense. Who are you?"

My eyes scan down the line as Quinn speaks. There's a Black woman with her hair in a dark green bonnet to Chris's right. Beside them is a younger white couple. She has blond hair and he has a shaved head. I slowly recognize each of these couples from the quick glimpses I got of their paintings in the hallway.

"We are the Council of Priors," Buzzed Head says. "We have all served as Santa and Mrs. Claus at one point or another and have decided to retire here to act as a governing body. We preside over the village and ensure the seamless passing down of the Santa position."

A brown-skinned woman whose feet don't quite reach the floor with wavy hair wearing a flowing green robe says, "We have brought you here to call on you, once more, to make a decision about the fate of Christmases to come."

Quinn's eyebrows shoot up as he looks at me. Totally stricken. "Christmases to come? I thought this was a one-night thing."

I find Hobart in the assembled crowd. He is emphatically not meeting my eyes. Clearly, he left out a key component earlier. I can't tell if I should be worried or excited. "I'm not following, either."

The woman that appears to be the youngest—the pale blonde—pipes up next. "Basically, the Santa role must be filled by the stroke of midnight on Christmas Day or the following year's Christmas is in jeopardy. Are you in or out?"

Chris speaks again. He's calmer than his blond counterpart. "What Ashley is trying to say is that we are in a bit of a bind. We've never had a Santa quit mid-run before. Most Santas, when they're ready to move on, do their final Christmas and have a predecessor already in place. Kyle, the gentleman you met earlier this evening…" It's all too clear what he means by met . Knocked out. Angered. Forced to quit. Damn, we're in so much shit. I'm a chaos magnet. "Well, he and his wife never quite gelled with their roles here and didn't notify the council that they'd be departing after only one Christmas, which means we had no forewarning or time to find suitable replacements."

"We wouldn't ask you if it weren't absolutely necessary," says the woman in the bonnet. She wears an almost pleading smile to match.

My fingers vibrate with purpose once more. I realize that this is the same fizzy feeling I got back when I started at Carver & Associates, when I began architecture classes in college, and when I created all those dream-house drawings for my classmates back in elementary school. I always laughed it off when someone referred to their job as their calling . But what if this is what they meant? A physical impulse to act. Could I—Patrick Hargrave of sound mind and queer heart from suburban New Jersey—be Santa Claus?

Yes, chimes a little voice inside my head. It's a voice I recognize but haven't heard in some time.

"And what would I be doing?" Quinn asks. He sounds nearly annoyed. I know that tone well. It's come out more than a dozen times over the several months since we bought the house. Every time something new has broken or gone bust.

"Well, you'd be Mrs. Cla—" Ashley peers around to the others (there are eight of them total) in puzzlement.

"Darling," says the oldest white woman in the bunch. She has wispy white hair and age spots on her hands. She reminds me of my Nan Hargrave. She's got gumption, I can tell by her assured posture. She sits next to a man who looks like the closest to Santa without needing the cloak. "If you'll excuse us, in the uncountable years this operation has been going on, we've never had a same-sex couple in these roles before. Emmanuella, you were in politics in your past life, any ideas on what we could call Quinn?"

Emmanuella, who has been anxiously braiding her long wavy hair, doesn't even glance up as she says, "How about the Merriest Mister? Like the First Mister, but merrier!"

"Oh, that's wonderful!" White Hair says. She claps her hands together in delight.

Chris speaks again. "Rest assured, should you assume the roles, everything will be provided for you, from housing to clothing to anything your heart desires. Your lives in the normal world will be put on pause."

"Put on pause? Paused, how?" I ask. The fizzing inside me has moved from my fingertips into my elbows. It edges gradually toward my shoulders.

"Careers, payments, et cetera. We take care of everything while you're away," he says.

Ashley adds, "It's a bit like when you have student loans and work for a nonprofit."

"Think of it as forbearance," Emmanuella says.

"For your whole life," Buzzed Head says.

An albatross of bills lifts off my shoulders. No applying for unemployment. No paying our mortgage with that ridiculous, variable interest rate. No worrying about repairs or pipes or shoddy wiring.

What's less settled and bored than a major move to a magic village?

"At least for one year," says White Hair's presumed husband. "There's a trial period. Some Santas stay on for the long haul like me and Colleen or Yvonne and Chris. Others work for a year or two and then retire like Ashley and Samson. Others return to their regular lives like Emmanuella and Jorge almost did. It's what suits you, the community, and the needs of Christmas the best."

This austere room, their thrones and stares. It all should feel so stiflingly formal. And yet this feels more like a golden ticket to wide-open freedom. An adventure for Quinn and me to go on. Together. To leave the constraints of our life behind for a little while and play new roles. Fun, jolly, completely unexpected roles.

"We understand this is a huge decision," Yvonne says, reaching out a hand to her husband, Chris. "It will come with sacrifices including not leaving the North Pole once you've committed."

"Jeez," Quinn utters.

"Of course we don't expect an answer right this second." Chris squeezes his wife's hand. "Go home, get some rest, enjoy Christmas with your family and friends, and talk it over. We look forward to hearing what you decide."

Part of me wants to jump up and say yes immediately. Thank them for this amazing opportunity. But I can sense Quinn's uncertainty beside me growing larger.

Instead of making any rash decisions in the moment, we let Hobart escort us out and back to the garage area where we parked the sleigh earlier. The reindeer have been untethered. Probably brought to their stables for food and rest.

Beside the sleigh we rode in tonight, there is a smaller sleigh. Nearly a sidecar. It only has two seats.

Over the rev of the magical flying machine whirring to life, Hobart says, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you the full scope of what was happening here. I'm new at this job. Unprecedented times call for desperate measures. I hope you can forgive me." The tops of his pointy ears go pink.

Perhaps seeing Hobart as he sees one of his students—overwhelmed but trying his best—Quinn steps forward and hugs Hobart. "It's okay. Thanks for keeping us safe tonight."

Hobart is stiff at first. His arms stick out forward, held at the elbow in apparent shock. But then he relaxes into it and wraps his arms around Quinn. He hugs me next, then helps us settle inside the flying contraption.

"It's a small but mighty machine. You'll be home in the blink of an eye." I try not to cringe when he slaps the front of the machine, and something not-good-sounding clangs inside. "Sorry, again. Hope to see you both soon."

As Hobart backs away, the coordinates he punched in lock and load on a screen. The machine, without any coaxing, does a half circle as two barn doors open automatically. Strapped in with harnesses and seat belts, we clasp hands and hold on tightly.

For the gazillionth time this evening, we launch off into the sky, and perhaps a brand-new future for us.