Page 12 of A Christmas Harbor

“A request.” Paul put on what felt like an overly broad smile, as if friendliness would work with a guy like this. “But first of all, Martin, we wanted to say how much we’re enjoying your performance tonight.”

“Thanks,” Martin said flatly, no doubt aware how miserable his repertoire was. “And second?”

“Second,” Paul said, “I was wondering—we were wondering—if you knew how to play ‘The Friendly Beasts’?”

Martin took a sip of beer, squinting at Paul over his pint glass. “Sorry,” he said, smacking his lips. “Never heard it.”

“See, the thing is…” Paul leaned in and lowered his voice. “It was David’s favorite childhood carol, and I think he kinda has his heart set on it.”

David cleared his throat. Paul turned to see him pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet.

“Maybe if you think a little harder,” David said to Martin, “it’ll come to you?”

Martin watched the Benjamin flutter to the bottom of his tip jar, where it knocked the one-dollar bill off the treasure chest. Then he picked up his tablet from the sheet-music holder. “I’ll Google it.”

As Martin searched for the music, Paul found the lyrics on his phone.

“Here we go.” He sidled in close to David. “Do you need this or do you remember the words?”

“Hold on.” David stepped back, palms out. “I remember the words, but I’m not singing.”

“Then I’ll sing, which I promise you will regret.” Paul grabbed the spare microphone from atop the piano and switched it on. “Good evening, everyone.” His voice boomed from the amp and echoed back from the walls. “Welcome to our annual Christmas Eve Cheer-the-Fuck-Up Singalong.”

“Yeah!” Behind the bar, Jackie pumped both fists high in the air.

Paul pointed at him. “That’s the spirit. So we’re gonna start with ‘The Friendly Beasts,’ which was written way back in public-domain years but popularized by Garth Brooks when I was a kid.” He gestured to David. “When we were kids.”

“I was more of a teenager,” David muttered.

“When we were young,” Paul said, “and of course, oh so brave and foolish. I remember this one Christmas pageant when I asked my least favorite nun if the three Wise Men could all be boyfriends—like a throuple, although I don’t think that word was around back then. I just wanted to add a little camp, you know? I mean, every year it’s the same damn story—sorry, same darn story.” He quickly crossed himself, accidentally banging his phone against his forehead. “Ow. So my new friend David and I going to sing—”

“We’re not,” David said.

“—and we invite every single one of you…” he counted, then double-checked his total “…four lovely people to join us. Ready, Martin?”

“Ready.” The piano player plucked his microphone out of its stand and held it out to David. “You asked for it, Navy Davy.”

David took the mic but held it down by his side, his face growing stormy. Maybe this was Paul’s worst idea yet, but sometimes ideas just had to be believed in long enough to reveal themselves as good. Or something like that.

Martin’s intro made part of the melody resurface in Paul’s memory—but definitely not all of it. Oh well, someone would surely jump in and help him.

He sang,

“Jesus our brother kind and good

Was humbly born in a stable rude.”

As the correct tune left his head, Paul improvised, singing louder to make up for his unsureness:

“And the friendly beasts around him stood

Jesus—”

“Wait, wait, wait, stop!” David turned to Paul as Martin’s notes faded. “That’s not even close to the right melody. Do you actually know this song?”

“It’s been a few years,” Paul said. “Maybe you could—”

“We’ll start over and I’ll show you.”

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