Christmas Eve for me has always been about my family figuring out which movies we’re going to see the next day. (The way we deliberate, I think it’s easier to choose a Pope.) Once that’s done, we retreat to our separate corners to do our separate things.
Nobody in my family is particularly religious, but there’s still no way I’m letting them see me leave the house in a Santa costume. Instead I sneak out a little before midnight and attempt to change in the backseat of my car. Because it is a two-door Accord, this requires some maneuvering on my part. Any casual passerby looking into the window would think I was either strangling Santa or making out with him. The pants and my jeans don’t get along, so I have to strip down to my boxers, then become Santa below the belt. I had thought it would feel like pajamas, but instead it’s like I’m wearing a discarded curtain.
And that’s not even taking into account the white fur. It occurs to me now to wonder where, exactly, this fur is supposed to have come from, if Santa spends so much time at the North Pole. Perhaps it’s him, not global warming, that’s dooming the polar bears. It’s a thought. Not much of one, but it’s all I can muster at this hour, in the backseat of this car.
As I’m strapping on my belly and putting on my coat, Connor is meant to be asleep, safe in his dreams. He offered to stay up, but I thought that would be too risky—if we got caught, not only would we be in trouble, but the gig would be up with Riley. Lana and his mother are supposed to be asleep, too—I don’t think they have any idea I’m coming, and only have a vague idea of who I am in the first place. It’s Riley who’s supposed to be awake—if not right at this moment, then when I appear in her living room. This is all for her six-year-old eyes to take in. I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.
I also have a gift of my own to deliver—a wrapped box for Connor, which I am trying desperately not to smash as I grasp in the dark for my boots and my beard. It’s the first Christmas since we started dating, and I spent way too much time thinking about what to get him. He says presents aren’t important, but I think they are—not because of how much they cost, but for the opportunity they provide to say I understand you. Plus, there was the risk factor: When I ordered the present three weeks ago, there was always the slim chance we wouldn’t make it to Christmas. But that hasn’t happened. We’ve made it.
Once I’m dressed, I find it near impossible to slide into the front seat with any ease. I must manipulate both the seat and the steering wheel in order to lever my Santatude into the driver’s seat. Suddenly, I understand the appeal of an open sled.
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 Hanukkah. 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 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.
I look down, and there’s Riley in a nightgown that makes me think of Wendy from Peter Pan. Only it’s Tinkerbell 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 remembered 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.