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.