I Am the Messenger

Just me and the Doorman.

The tragedy is that as I sleep, I believe it. Waking up is a rude shock because I'm no longer on the open road. Instead, the Doorman's snoring and his back leg is stretched across the card on the floor. I couldn't get my hands on it now even if I wanted to. I don't like moving the Doorman when he's asleep.

In my drawer, the other cards wait now for the last one.

Each is complete in its own right.

Just one more, I think, and I get to my knees on the bed, burying my head deep in the pillow.

I don't pray, but I come close.

When I get up, I shift the Doorman and read the card again. The black lettering is the same as all the other words I've been given. This time they say the following titles:

The Suitcase

Cat Ballou

Roman Holiday

I'm quite confident that they're all movie titles, though I haven't seen any of them. I recall that The Suitcase was a fairly recent one. It wouldn't have been on at the Bell Street Cinema, but I'm sure it got a run at one of those obscure yet popular theaters in the city. I remember seeing some poster ads. It was a Spanish remake, I think--a comedy-gangster movie, full of hit men, bullets, and a suitcase full of stolen Swiss francs. The other two films are unknown to me, but I'm sure I know the man who can help.

I'm ready to begin, but in the few days leading up to Christmas I allow work to get in the way. It's always busy around this time, so I take

on some extra shifts and drive a lot of nights. I keep the Ace of Hearts in my shirt pocket. It travels with me wherever I go, and I won't let go of it until this is finished.

But will it end with this? I ask myself. Will it let go of me? Already, I know that all of this will stay with me forever. It'll haunt me, but I also fear it will make me feel grateful. I say fear because at times I really don't want this to be a fond memory until it's over. I also fear that nothing really ends at the end. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

For the first time in years, I give out Christmas cards.

The only difference is that I don't give out cards with little Santas or Christmas trees on them. I find a few old packs of playing cards and pull out all the aces. I write a short note on the card for each place I've visited, stick it in a small envelope, and write Merry Christmas from Ed. Even for the Rose boys.

It's before a night shift that I drive around and deliver them, and at most places I escape unnoticed. It's at Sophie's that I'm seen, and I must confess, I kind of wanted her to find me.

For some reason, there's something special in me for Sophie. Maybe a part of me loves her because she's the eternal also-ran, a lot like me. But I also know it's more than that.

She's beautiful.

In the way she is.

When I put the envelope in her letter box, I turn and walk purposefully away, just like everywhere else, but her voice finds me from up above, at her window.

"Ed?" she calls down.

When I turn back around, she calls again for me to wait, and she's soon out the front door. She wears a white T-shirt and a pair of small blue running shorts. Her hair's tied back, but her fringe floats to her face.

"Just brought you a card," I say, "for Christmas." A sudden stupidity overcomes me, and I feel awkward standing there on her driveway.

She opens the envelope and reads the card.

On hers, I wrote something extra below the diamond.

You've got beauty, I wrote, and I see her eyes melt a little as she reads it. It's what I said to her on the day of the bare feet and the blood at the athletic field.

"Thank you, Ed," she says, and she looks intently at the card. "I've never been given a card like this before."

"They were all out of Santas and Christmas trees," I answer.

It feels strange delivering the cards to these people. They'll never really know what it means and in some cases will have no idea who in the hell this Ed person is. In the end, I decide it doesn't matter, and Sophie and I say our goodbyes.