I have only been to Connor’s house a few times, and most of those were before we started dating. His mother mostly knows me as one of a group of friends, a body on the couch or a face over a bowl of chips, because Connor and I were very much part of a six before we decided to become a two. Every now and then, Riley would visit our adolescent playground, steal some of our snacks, flirt with whoever would pay attention to her. Lana, meanwhile, would stay in her room and blast her music loud enough to haunt any sound we were trying to make.
I feel strange pulling up the driveway in a Santa suit, so I park at the curb, in front of the house next door. I can only imagine what I must look like as I step out of the car—the street is eerily quiet, its own midnight mass. Instead of feeling like a roly-poly emissary of cheer and good will, I picture myself as the killer from a Z-grade horror movie—Santa’s Slay Ride!—about to wreak havoc on some upstanding citizens and a few underintelligent, underdressed youth. Then I realize I’ve left Connor’s key in my jeans, so I have to go back and fetch it—making myself look like an incompetent serial killer.
Plus, the beard itches.
* * *
—
Even though we’re Jewish, my parents insisted at first that Santa did, in fact, exist. He just never came to our house. The way they presented it, it was a time-management issue.
“He can only go to so many houses in one night,” they told me. “So he skips over the boys and girls who already had eight days of Chanukah. But you can wave to him as he flies past, if you want.”
This meant that at a young age I would stay up late on Christmas Eve to wave to Santa before he visited our neighbors’ house. These neighbors, who had a boy my age, were the real reason I wasn’t told the truth about Santa—my parents assumed that I would share my myth-busting knowledge the minute I learned it, which was not an incorrect assumption. I had already ruined the Easter Bunny for most of my friends—while a fat man flying around the world to give presents seemed rational to me, the idea of a bunny handing out eggs just seemed stupid.
In the end, it was the neighbor boy who gave me the information I needed to expose the truth. Our conversation went something like this:
Him: “Santa’s other name is Saint Nick.”
Me: “Saint Nick Claus?”
Him: “No. Just Saint Nick. For Saint Nicholas.”
Me: “But aren’t all saints dead? Like, if Santa Claus is a saint, doesn’t that mean he’s dead?”
I could see the truth hitting him. Then he burst into tears.
* * *
—
I have been given very explicit instructions, as if this is some one-man production of Ocean’s Eleven. The presents have already been placed under the tree, and the stockings have already been stuffed, and I am supposed to undo this to some degree, then jostle Riley’s door frame so she wakes up, sneaks out, and sees me put everything in place. I have made Connor assure me at least a half dozen times that his mom doesn’t keep a firearm under her bed. He swears that she does not, and that she will be so tranq’d up that I could ride a full coterie of reindeer through her bedroom and she still wouldn’t wake up. I fear this has implications for fire safety, but keep that fear to myself.
I want Connor to be awake. I want him to be with me in his house. It’s strange to tiptoe through the kitchen without him. It’s strange to be hearing the shelter-silence of the hallway without having his breathing there as well. I know his presence would ruin the charade, but I want him whispering from the wings, my own yuletide Cyrano.
Instead I have pictures of him watching over me, pictures of him and his sisters, with an occasional cameo by their mom. A photographic growth chart as I get closer to the living room. I am waiting for one of the photos to start laughing at me—the left leg of my pants keeps getting caught beneath my boot. I fear a rip at any time.
The room is lit by the tree, and the tree is lit by strings of colored lights. There’s a star at the top, and I think that, yes, this is how it’s supposed to be—the point of a Christmas tree is for it to look like all the other Christmas trees, but still be a little bit your own. There aren’t as many presents underneath as I imagined there would be. I have to remind myself that we aren’t dealing with von Trapps here—there are only four people in this house. And there’s only one day of Christmas, not eight.
I feel somewhat ridiculous moving the presents to the base of the fireplace—but if I’m going to fake this, I’m going to have to fake it authentically, and make it look like the chimney was my entryway, despite my—Santa’s—girth. I keep my stirrings to a sub-mouse level, because the last thing I want is Riley waking up and seeing Santa pulling her presents from under the tree, which would totally bedevil our plans. When the right number of gifts have been safely stationed, I add my present for Connor into the mix—I haven’t told him I’m going to leave it, and I like the idea of surprising him.
I am not usually up this late without a computer open in front of me. The heat in the room draws up into my armpits to remind me all over again of what I’m wearing. I decide not to take things out of the stockings, because I’m worried I won’t remember how to put everything back in the right place.
Now I have to go jostle Riley’s door and alert her to my presence. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do if she doesn’t come out of her room. Am I supposed to go in and get her? Waking up to Santa leaning over your bed would probably be traumatizing. The last thing I want is for her to scream. The last thing I want is to have to explain any of this to her mother.
At least her door is easy to identify—Connor may be the gay one, but Riley’s cornered the market on the Disney princesses. I wish I’d brought a bell to jingle, or a reindeer to make the appropriate hoof-roof sounds. Knocking seems wrong. From the door, Elsa gives me an icy stare, and Ariel looks at me like I’m drowning. Even perky Belle’s smile seems to say, The only thing worse than being Santa is being a half-assed Santa. Do your job or you’re only getting five nights of Chanukah next year.
Quietly, I lean into Belle so that my beard is brushing her cheek. Then, louder with each syllable, I release a “ho…Ho…HO!” I hear a rustling on the other side of the door—Riley’s clearly been waiting for this moment. Treading with the authority of a man a couple hundred pounds larger than me, I move back to the living room.
When I’m out of the hall, a doorway squeaks open. Pint-size footsteps patter behind me, trying to be silent but not quite managing it.
I have to ask myself: What would Santa do? I head to where I stashed the presents, and start returning them to their places under the tree. This seems a little menial for Santa—surely there are elves to do this kind of thing? But I suppose since he travels solo, this is part of the gig. I think about whistling a tune, but “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” seems too egotistical, and “Jingle Bells” makes me think of—
“Excuse me,” a small voice interrupts.
I look down, and there’s Riley in a nightgown that makes me think of Wendy from Peter Pan. Only it’s Tinker Bell who’s wearing it. Riley is a sleepy-eyed wisp of a girl at this hour. But her voice is wide awake.
Connor had told me she wouldn’t interrupt. He’d sworn she’d see me and run back to bed, pleased to have her Christmas wishes confirmed.
“Yes, little girl,” I say. I am very conscious that this makes me sound like the Big Bad Wolf, so I cheer it up about halfway through, which makes me sound like the Big Bad Wolf after three Red Bulls.
“Are you real?”
“Of course I’m real! I’m right here!”
This logic seems to satisfy her…momentarily.
“But who are you?” she asks.
Who do you want me to be? I almost ask back. But I know the answer. And it isn’t me. And it isn’t Santa Claus.
I am grateful for the dimness of the room, and the tenacity of my beard. I am grateful that I remem
bered to change out of my sneakers. And I am scared that I am going to fuck this up for her anyway. If I don’t answer well, I am going to give her the amazing gracelessness of the hour she first disbelieved.
And at the same time…I can’t bring myself to say I am Santa Claus. Because I know I am not Santa Claus. And I know I am not a good enough liar to make her believe it.
So I say, jolly as a jelly donut, “You know who I am. I came all the way from the North Pole to be with you tonight.”
Her eyes widen. And in that moment, in that momentary loss of logic to wonder, I see the family resemblance. I see Connor and the way he is never too cool to show that something is special to him—whether it’s his glee as we’re watching Harold and Maude, or his beaming when a favorite song comes on the radio, or the simple smile he gets when I walk into the room and he’s been waiting for me. There is no cynicism there. It’s as if he hasn’t even heard of the concept of cynicism. Which allows me to retreat from it, from time to time.
Now here’s Riley, at that age when the delicate shell of childhood is starting to show its cracks. I know all of the department-store questions I could be asking her—Have you been a good girl this year? What would you like Santa to bring you? But that’s not what I want to say.
“Don’t stop believing,” I tell her.
She looks at me quizzically. “Like the song?”
I chortle out a “ho ho ho!” and then say, “Yes. Exactly like the song.”
I am bending over so I can look her in the eye as I say this. Before I can rise up, she reaches out for my beard. I flinch, expecting the yank, the unmasking. But instead she reaches past it to pat me on the shoulder.
“You’re doing a very good job,” she says.
I have no idea if she’s talking to me or to Santa. In order for the former to continue to do a good job, I have to act as if it’s the latter.
“Ho ho ho! Thank you, Riley!”
She’s happily surprised. “You know my name!”
“Of course! How else would I know which presents to bring?”
This statement pleases her. She nods and takes a step back.
I smile.
She smiles.
I smile some more. Shuffle a little.
She smiles back. Doesn’t move.
I wonder if it would be rude for Santa to glance at his watch.
She keeps looking at me.
“So…um…I’m not supposed to deliver the presents while you’re in the room. It’s against the Santa rules.”
“But you’re the only Santa. Don’t you make the rules?”
I shake my head. “Nope. They’re passed down from Santa to Santa.”
“And who was the Santa before you?”
I think for a second before I say, “My mom.”
She giggles at that.
I smile.
She smiles.
She will not leave the room.
I imagine Connor watching us, thoroughly amused.
You’re so bad at goodbyes, he whispers in my ear. Which is true. There is an average of about forty-seven minutes between the time we first type goodnight and the moment we actually stop sending our words back and forth.
“The reindeer need me,” I say. “Other kids need me. This is actually near the start of my route.”
I know that six-year-olds are rarely moved by an appeal to the greater good. But Riley seems to get it. She backs up a little. Thinks about it.
Then, before I can prepare myself, she runs in for a hug. Her head snuggles against the pillow of my stomach. Her arms link behind my legs. There’s no way she can’t tell the pillow is a pillow. There’s no way she can avoid how baggy the pants are around my legs. But that’s not what she’s thinking about. Right now, all she’s thinking about is holding on. I feel it in the way she puts all of her six-year-old strength into it.
She wants me to be real.
“Merry Christmas, Riley,” Santa says. “Merry, merry Christmas.”
She pulls away, looks up at me, and says, with complete earnestness, “I’m gonna go to sleep now.”
“Sweet dreams,” Santa wishes her. Then I add another “Ho ho ho!” for good measure.
She returns to her room with the same careful footsteps as before. She wants to keep the secret from the rest of the house.
I watch her go, and wait until I hear the determined close of her door. Then I move more presents back under the tree. Within a minute, though, there’s another noise. It sounds like…clapping.
“Bravo, Santa,” a sarcastic voice says. “That must make you feel awesome, fooling little girls like that.”
Lana is in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. She’s got on a nightshirt and sweatpants, but doesn’t look like she’s slept yet tonight—she’s vampiric even on a full night’s sleep, so it’s hard to tell for sure.
“Hi, Lana,” I say quietly. I don’t want Riley to hear us.
“Hi, Santa.” She steps into the room and looks me over. I am not used to such scrutiny from a twelve-year-old. “I have no idea what sexual favors my brother promised you to do this, but really? You look like a dumbfuck asshat.”
“It’s wonderful to see you, too!” I chirp, and continue to put the presents back under the tree.
“What, no ‘ho ho ho’ for me? Is it because I’ve been a bad girl this year? It seems so entirely fair that an old white guy would get to judge that. Haven’t you at least brought me my lump of coal?”
“Shhh. She’ll hear you.”
“And that would be a bad thing why? I know Connor is a big fan of maintaining illusions, but I think that’s bullshit. I can’t believe he gave you that costume. He had no right to do that.”
I have not been dating Connor long enough to yell at his sister. I know this. Which is why I don’t answer her, don’t look at her. The presents are almost all under the tree by now. Then I can go.
“What…reindeer got your tongue?” Lana taunts. “Oh, I see how it is. Indulge Riley in whatever delusion you want. But you don’t have to pay attention to me. None of you do.”
“Lana, really. Keep your voice down, please.”
“Please! Santa, you’re so polite.” She’s coming closer now. “No wonder Connor likes you.”
Normally, it would make me really happy to hear that Connor likes me. But she says it like it’s an accusation.
“You know who always did this, right?” she goes on. “You know whose suit that is? You know that for years I was just as stupid as Riley, thinking that it was Santa, thinking that it would always be this way. But now I’m guessing Connor was the stupidest, if he thought he could just dress you up and make it like he wasn’t abandoned like the rest of us.”
I move the last present back into place.
“What? Aren’t you going to defend him? Aren’t you going to tell me that it makes sense? I’m dying to hear how you can justify being here. How you pretend this is normal when everything has completely fallen apart.”
I look at her in the eye for the first time. But the way she’s looking at me is so unfriendly that I have to look away.
“I’m here because he asked me to,” I say. “That’s all.”
“Awwww,” she says, as if I were a kitten video. “You’re in wuv.”
And this time I can’t stand it. This time I have to say something. So I look her in the eye again, and this time, unwavering, I say, “Yes. I am. In love.”
For a second, she is silent. For a second, I think this has placated her. For a second, I think she’ll understand. But her recovery is so smooth it doesn’t even seem like she’s recovering.
“I hate you,” she says.
Now I’m the one who’s stunned.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you can’t have him. You can’t just start dating him and then have him. You
can’t be this to him. You’re not important enough to be this.”
My natural inclination is to say I’m sorry. To apologize for being here. To apologize for tricking her sister into believing for one last year.
But I’m not really sorry, I find. So instead I say, “You’re so angry.”
“Duh! I think I have reason to be.”
“But not with me.”
As soon as I say it, I realize it’s the wrong thing to say. Because it’s not about me at all.
“It’s not because you’re gay,” Lana says. “You know that, right? I’d be just as pissed if you were a girl.”
It’s a strange concession to get.
“So what do you want for Christmas, little girl?” I resume in my Santa voice.
I figure she’ll give me shit for the little girl part. But instead she says, “I want it to not be you in that suit.”
I nod. I go back to my own voice. “I get that. But you’ve got to tell me something Santa can actually give you.”
“It’s not like you brought any presents.”
“I brought one.”
“For Riley? Oh, for Connor.”
“I hope you understand why I didn’t bring one for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re always so goddamn fucking mean to me.”
She laughs out in surprise, then says, “Fair enough.”
We stand in silence for a moment. Then we both hear it.
A door opening. We stay silent.
Small footsteps.
“Shit,” Lana whispers.
Riley reappears, and only seems a little bothered to see that Lana’s with me.
“Are you getting him cookies?” the younger sister asks of the older. “I was going to sleep, but I remembered I didn’t give him any cookies.”
And the older sister, without missing a beat, replies, “I’ll go get them.”
She leaves for the kitchen. Riley, unable to help herself, stares at the presents under the tree. I remember doing the same thing with the presents around the menorah—trying to calculate which ones were for me, and what could be inside. My mother would often wrap things in boxes larger than they needed, just to throw me off.
19 Love Songs Page 8
