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The first nine, ten, twelve, attempts resulted in disaster, but lucky number thirteen proves to be the one: the one that makes it. The one that got all the proportions right. The one that didn’t turn into tangled disasters of ruined yarn and more than one painful poke to the finger. That one that should be bronzed and mounted on the wall with a shiny gold plaque so all the world can behold and pay proper homage to its perfection.
Mikey pats the finished product with affection. He puts the needles, yarn, and instructional book away in the brightly colored cloth basket (a belated birthday gift from Angel-Face) and tucks it away under his bed. The fruits of his labor, he carefully stores in his dresser drawer until the precise moment of its reveal is scheduled to come.
The moment comes exactly three days later, on a rather chilly Christmas morning when the cold is warded away by the roaring hearth and thick blankets and steaming mugs of hot chocolate – all in abundance at April’s loft. She and Donnie were hard at work on the décor this year: that tree is a work of art.
Ordinarily, Mikey would volunteer his gift first. Might as well get the absolute best up front, right? But then again, better let everyone else go first. No need to make the others feel bad about themselves. So he sits back, basks in the hot cocoa running through his veins, and watches the gathering of packages accumulate around various feet throughout the cozy living room.
Finally, his moment arrives. “April,” he grins and proudly presents the box, neatly wrapped in bright green paper, “cheers.”
Her blue eyes seem to sparkle even brighter these days, matched by her cheery smile as she accepted the box and wastes no time getting it open. The contents are revealed, nestled in white tissue paper, and April gasps softly.
“Mikey…” she whispers; pale fingers reach inside and withdraw the crème de la crème of the Christmas offerings this year: a hand-knitted stocking with velvet-soft fur trim, a luscious purple backdrop, and a tiny turtle wearing an equally tiny Santa hat – which was the direct cause of all prior disastrous attempts.
“What can I say?” Mikey grins, all beaming delight and proud accomplishment, “The lil’ guy – or girl – needs a little something too! Santa’s gotta have a stocking to stuff for everyone!!”
April can’t move quite as fast as she once did, out of concern for the growing swell of her belly, but she still manages to throw her arms around his neck, “It’s perfect!” she declares, eyes outmatching the radiance of every light in the room. “Absolutely perfect. He – or she – will love it.”
“I know.” Mikey answers, with no small satisfaction. Angel-Face responds with an affection cuff upside the head, reminding him to keep the ego in check, then goes to get a refill on her cocoa.
Meanwhile, Daddy-To-Be picks up on the cue from April and carefully hangs the little stocking with the rest: right in the middle of the rest, right where the little one will be, once it – he or she – makes its grand entrance into the world.
“So,” Mikey says, after the appropriate time of ten seconds has passed, “if it’s a boy, you’re totally gonna name him ‘Mikey’, right? After his best and favorite uncle?”
From across the room, Raphael throws a pillow in his face.