It’s hard not to feel just a little bit fat when your boyfriend asks you to be Santa Claus.
“But I’m Jewish,” I protest. “It would be one thing if you were asking me to be Jesus—he, at least, was a member of my tribe, and looks good in a Speedo. Plus, Santa requires you to be jolly, whereas Jesus only requires you to be born.”
“I’m serious,” Connor says. It is rare enough for him to be serious with me that he has to point it out. “This might be the last Christmas where Riley believes in Santa. And if I try to be Santa, she’ll know. It has to be you. I don’t have anyone else.”
“What about Lana?” I ask, referring to the older of his younger sisters.
He shakes his head. “There’s no way. There’s just no way.”
This does not surprise me. Lana’s demeanor is more claws out than Claus on. She is only twelve, and I am scared of her.
“Pweeeeeeeeeeeeease,” Connor cajoles.
I tell him I can’t believe he’s resorting to his cute voice. As if I’m more likely to make a fool of myself if he’s making a fool of himself.
“The suit won’t even need to be altered!” he promises.
This is, of course, what I am afraid of.
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.
Now here’s Riley, at that age where 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 rules?”
I shake my head. “Nope. It’s 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 good-byes, 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 start to move the 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, 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.
“Where do you go next?” Riley asks me.
“Nebraska,” I reply.
She nods.
Lana comes out of the kitchen with some Pepperidge Farm cookies thrown on a plate and a glass of milk.
“Here you go,” she says.
I take a cookie. It’s a little stale.
“Best cookie I’ve had all night!” I proclaim for Riley’s benefit.
I can see Lana wants to cry bullshit. But she keeps it to herself.
“Well, then,” she says, “I guess it’s time for you to go.”
“To Nebraska!” Riley chimes in.
The weird thing is, I want to stay. Now that we’ve gotten here, now that at least one of them knows who I really am, I want to remain a part of this. I want Lana to offer to wake Connor up. I want the four of us to eat cookies until sunrise.
“C’mon,” Lana interrupts my thoughts. “Nebraska is waiting.”
“You’re so right,” I say, moving toward the door.
“Not that way!” Lana gestures to the chimney. “This is the only way up to the roof.”
I can feel Riley’s eyes on me. Although I’m sure there is one somewhere, I can’t think of a rational explanation for me to use the door.
So I head over to the fireplace. It looks like it’s never been used. I lean in and see the chimney isn’t very wide. I lean back out and make eye contact with Riley.
“Off you go to bed!” I cry.
Riley starts to wave. Lana mostly smirks.
“Safe travels,” she says.
I don’t know what else to do. I crawl into the fireplace. Then I pull myself up into the chimney and count to two hundred—which is roughly the number of cobwebs I’m surrounded by. For one scary moment, I think my stomach is going to keep me wedged inside, but there is a little room to maneuver—thankfully Santa hasn’t been having cookies at all the stops. There is dust on my tongue, dust in my eyes. Surely, there are better ways to enter and exit a house? Why doesn’t Santa just park the goddamn sleigh in the driveway like a normal guest?
I hear Lana wish Riley good night. I hear both doors close. Quietly, I pull myself out of the chimney and shake as much dust as possible from my suit, causing a hoarder’s snowfall on the carpet. Let Lana explain that one.
My work here is done, I think. But the thought feels hollow. I know I can’t leave without seeing him. That wasn’t the plan, but none of this was really the plan. I can’t be in his house without letting him know I was here. It will all be unfinished, otherwise.
The house has retreated into its nighttime breathing of whirs and clicks and groans. I step carefully for a moment, then stop: There is no way that Riley will have fallen asleep by now, and the path to Connor’s door leads right past hers. So I stand still, and realize how rarely I ever stand still. I have to quell any desire to be participant, and recline into the shape of a total observer. My phone is back in the car, the weapon with which I usually kill time. Unarmed, I look around. The Christmas-lit room appears lonely in its pausing; something is missing, and I am not that something. There are books on the shelves, but I cannot read what they are. They are a row of shapes leaning. On one shelf, the books are guarded by pairs of small figurines. Salt and pepper shakers. Somebody’s collection.
I let the minutes pass, but by thinking about them, I make them pass slowly. This is not my house, and I am caught in the knowledge that it never will be. I half expect Lana to come back out, to tell me to go home. Why are you still here? she’d ask, and the only answer I could give would be her brother’s name.
I know he wanted me here, but why did it have to be like this? I want him to introduce me as his boyfriend. I want to be sitting at the dinner table, making jokes with Riley that Lana can’t help but laugh at too. I want them to see me holding his hand. I want to be holding his hand. I want him to love me when I’m naughty and when I’m nice. I want. I want. I want.
I am worried about being in love, because it involves asking so much. I am worried that my life will never fit into his. That I will never know him. That he will never know me. That we get to hear the stories, but never get to hear the full truth.
“Enough,” I say to myself. I need to say it out loud, because I need to really hear it.
I listen for Riley. I listen for Lana. I hope they’re not listening for Santa, or for me.
I make it down the hall. I make it past their doors. Connor’s room is in sight.
It’s only when I am standing in front of it, only when I am about to let myself inside, that I sense there’s someone else in the hall with me. I turn around and see her standing in her doorway—Connor’s mother. Her eyes are nearly closed, her hair limp. She’s wearing a Tennessee Williams nightgown that makes me feel sad and awkward to see it. It hangs lifeless on her body, worn too often, too long. I should not be seeing her like this, the deep dark haze of it.
I want to be as much of a ghost to her as she is to me. But there can be no hiding. I am about to explain. I am about to tell her the whole thing. But she stops me by speaking first.
“Where have you been?” she asks.
I suddenly feel I could never explain enough. I could never give the right answer.
“I’m not here,” I say.
She nods, understanding this. I think there will be more, but there isn’t any more. She turns back to her room and closes the door behind her.
I know I should not have seen this. Even if she forgets, I will know. And for a moment, I find myself feeling sorry for Santa. I can only imagine what he sees in his trespasses. But, of course, those would all be people he doesn’t really know. I have to imagine it’s less sad with strangers.
I am not going to tell Connor any of this. I am just going to say hello and say good night. I sneak into his room and close the door with as little sound as possible. I want him to have been awake the whole time, wishing me well. I want him to greet me the moment the coast is clear. But all that welcomes me is the sound of his sleeping. There is enough light coming in from the window that the room is a blue-dark shadow. I can see him there in his bed. I can see the rise and fall of his breathing. His phone is on the ground, fallen from his hand. I know it was there in case I needed him.
I have never seen him sleeping before. I have never seen him like this, enfolded in an unthreatening somewhere else. My heart is drawn, almost involuntarily, toward him. I see him asleep and feel I could love him for a very long time.
But here I am, standing outside of it. Even as I love him, I feel self-conscious. I am the interruption. I am the piece that’s not a dream. I am here because I climbed through the chimney instead of knocking on the door.
I take off my hat and unstick my beard. I take off my boots and move them aside. I unfasten my stomach and let it fall to the floor. I pull the red curtain from around my body, pull it over my head. I shed the pants, feel the cold air on my legs. I do this all quietly. It’s only as I am folding Santa’s clothes into a safe red square that I hear Connor say my name.
It should be enough as I step over to him and see the welcome in his eyes. It should be enough to see his hair pointing in all different directions, and the fact that there are cowboys on his pajama pants and he is telling me he can’t believe he fell asleep. It should be enough that he is beckoning me now—it should be enough to join him in the bed, blanket pulled aside. It should be enough to feel his hand on my shoulder, his lips lightly on my lips. But something is not right. I still feel that, in some way, I should not be here.
“I’m an imposter,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he whispers back. “But you’re the right imposter.”
Without my Santa suit, I am shivering. Without my Santa suit, I am just me, and I am in his house after midnight on Christmas Day. Without my Santa suit, I am real, and I want this to be reality. I want this to be the way things are, or at least how they will be.
Connor feels me shiver. Without a word, he wraps the blanket around us. Our home within his home. Our world within this world.
Outside, there may be reindeer that fly across the moon. Outside, there may be questions with the wrong answers and lies that are better to tell. Outside, it may be cold. But I am here. I am here, and he is here, and everything I need to know is that I will hold him and he will hold me until I am warm again, until I know I belong.
