A Mannequin for Christmas

Prologue

HENRY

Magic takes on many forms. It’s in the thoughtful gift you give a loved one for Christmas. It’s in the kiss of a lover that makes you feel brand-new. It’s in the ombré sunset over the ever-moving ocean.

Many years ago, I found it in the wide eyes of a wonder-struck child taking in a holiday window display.

Her two small hands coated in drippy chocolate smudged up the front window of Isla’s Attic as I stood motionless inside the display with my breath held, hoping not to be caught in the act.

The tip of the young girl’s nose smushed into the glass, making it look like a pig’s snout, as she marveled at the jolly wonderland of wearables showcased before her. Of which I was the star.

No, I wasn’t robbing the place.

It was a game I played often at Great Aunt Isla’s.

Decked out head to toe in the smallest sizes Great Aunt Isla carried in her bohemian vintage shop in Ocean Glen, New Jersey—just south of Asbury Park and only a handful of blocks from the beach—I’d position the mannequins in a whimsical tableau perfect for the season and then, to pass the time, weasel myself into the scene.

In the spring, I played a gardener wearing a wide-brimmed hat and too-big-for-me green overalls.

I hunched over a metal bucket with a trowel in hand while a male mannequin with blond hair and sharp cheekbones stood behind me.

I’d dressed him in a floral shirt and cargo pants.

Over my shoulder, he examined my progress with a pair of rough tan gloves pulled taut over his stationary fingers.

In the summer, I painted my nose white, put on a pair of massive 1960s sunglasses, and lounged on a striped beach chair with my bare feet kicked out and a trifold mirror open in my lap.

The male mannequin from the spring was now clad only in a pair of tiny tan swim trunks that reminded me of Great Aunt Isla’s favorite musical number in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, “Ain’t There Anyone Here for Love?

” My mannequin had the same appealing, worked-out physique of those dancing Olympians in the film.

He cradled a volleyball and was positioned to look like he was midstride. Approaching me.

Sure, he was plastic, yet my heart skipped a beat just the same as I held my pose. Even as the heat from the sun hitting the glass caused sweat to drip into my eyes, I never dared break the magical illusion when shoppers passed by, though I often badly needed to blink.

I was nothing if not committed to the art.

By fall, the mannequin and I morphed into fellow leaf-peepers out on an excursion.

From empty paper towel rolls and wads of tissue paper I stole from the art room at my middle school, I fashioned a tall canopy of reds and golds and oranges.

I wrapped my mannequin-muse’s torso in a plaid button-down and a denim jacket with a sherpa collar.

In his hands, I placed a pair of antique binoculars and adjusted his gaze slightly upward.

I stood as still as possible beside him in a matching ensemble, pointing at the blazing colors of autumn swooping over our heads.

“What’s the holiday window scene going to be this year?” asked Great Aunt Isla on December first.

From the storage room, we hauled out the holly together while whistling along to Christmas carols.

Starting in third grade, I didn’t go to band practice or chess club when school got out. Instead, Great Aunt Isla would cruise up to the pickup lane in her metallic mint-green Buick and take me to the enchanted world of her vintage shop until my parents got off work.

I felt most at home inside that shop and most like myself encased in that window.

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. A bold-faced lie. I knew exactly what I wanted the display to look like for Christmas, exactly how I planned to end our story—the mannequin’s and mine, I mean—for any of the customers who had been following along, of which there weren’t many.

After hours of crafting, with only a single Isla-mandated break for a snack and some water, I stepped back to admire my work.

It was a pleasant domestic scene with an adorned, lit-up tree in one corner and paper fire inside the vintage stand-alone fireplace we’d rolled up a ramp onto the platform.

My mannequin man was in a ruby-red housecoat thrown over flannel pajamas with a pipe in one hand and a small ring box flipped open in the other.

I positioned him on one knee, arm outstretched.

When I took my place inside the window in my own set of thrifted Christmas pajamas, he was popping the big question in front of all my friends and family on Christmas morning, like the final scene I’d watched play out in countless TV movies.

“Mommy! Mommy!” the young, wonder-struck girl with the sticky hands said.

She shifted away from the glass to take in the whole scene.

From my position inside the window, the sound of her voice was warped and muted, but the following words were still distinguishable.

“Those two mannequins are going to get married!”

My extended right hand almost shook from the joy pumping throughout my body, but I muscled through it, remaining rigid.

I’d succeeded in making the girl believe that I, too, was perfection made of plastic.

Yes, we’d frosted the window a bit with some spray to give it a hazy, snowy look, but still. The desired effect had been achieved.

“They certainly are, sweetie,” said the mom, using a wet wipe she produced from her bag to clean her daughter’s hands and then to remove the brown splotches left behind on the shop window.

Right away, I pinpointed the confusion in the girl’s next question. “A boy can marry another boy?”

I tried to relax my lips as they pursed against my will. I braced myself for the mom’s answer.

“If those boys love each other, then of course.”

“But… but…” The girl struggled with her words. “A boy can love another boy?”

“Anybody can love anybody,” the mom said, calmly and simply. A perfect response, and one I needed to hear as much as the impressionable young girl did. “And we should love everybody no matter who they love. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, first slowly, then vigorously.

It warmed my heart. Until she shouted, unprompted, “I LOVE HOT CHOCOLATE!” She shook her flimsy cup so hard that her drink splattered everywhere.

On her bright purple coat, on the tips of her curly red hair, on her mom’s chin, and right back onto the freshly wiped window.

Her declaration and the flying drink surprised me so much that I tumbled out of my practiced stance. For a second, the mom and I locked eyes over the girl’s head. Her jaw dropped down until it was practically touching the sidewalk.

I quickly retook my position in the picture, heart hammering a mile a minute. The last thing I wanted was to give Isla’s Attic a bad reputation. What kind of store lets kids creep around inside their window displays?

Blinking rapidly while still dripping with lukewarm drink, the mom grabbed her daughter by the hand. “Sweetie, let’s go. Quickly, now. Quickly.”

“Are we getting more hot chocolate? I’m all out!” the girl asked with glee as they departed.

“Not a chance!” the mom responded before their footsteps faded around the corner.

Later, right before Mom came to pick me up and Great Aunt Isla retired upstairs to her apartment, Great Aunt Isla showed me the photo she took on her flip phone of the Christmas display with me inside. “Do you want me to send this one to your parents?” she’d asked.

It was our tradition. I designed a window, Great Aunt Isla helped me put it together, and she took a picture with me inside during magic hour.

Before I left, while I fashioned a mannequin to take my place in the display so there wasn’t a discernable hole, she sent the photo to my parents, if I approved.

At thirteen, I knew what she was asking. I also knew that she knew the answer. Through eye contact alone, we had a silent conversation that went something like this:

Are you gay?

Yes.

Are you ready for your parents to know?

I wavered, unsure how to wordlessly answer.

As always, a car horn rang out three times in front of the shop. I zipped up my cold-weather coat and grabbed my doodled-upon JanSport backpack from the floor near the register, pant legs like balloons in the breeze.

“Let’s keep this one between us for now, doll,” Great Aunt Isla said, slapping her cell phone shut.

“Yes, please,” I said mousily. My too-long bangs brushed over my eyes, so she couldn’t fully see my beaming gratitude.

From the door to the shop, Great Aunt Isla called after me, “Hey, wait a second. You never told me.” She nodded her head in the direction of the still-lit window display, the shadows of which glowed on the sidewalk. A female mannequin stood where I had earlier. “Did you say yes?”

I blushed with the weight of a phantom engagement ring around my finger. Hesitantly, I nodded, and then raced into the passenger side of Mom’s car.

As we pulled away from the curb, Mom asked me how my day went. I was unable to answer, though, because as we slowly ramped up to speed, I swore, right before the lights blinked out in the shop, that my mannequin man—my muse, my betrothed—winked at me.