My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(49)
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 doorframe 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 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 identity—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, Jewboy.
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 place 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 Coming to Town” seems too egotistical, and “Jingle Bells” makes me think of …
“Excuse me,” a small voice interrupts.