She said she
didn’t want anything for Christmas and got pearls. From
Santa,
it said. Son
of a bitch,
I thought. He’d been coming around, even in hot weather. To see him
in shorts would make you sick.
Everyone
thought it was so great, especially for the kids. Hell, I even got
some stuff I really liked. “Looks good on you chief,” he’d say.
The decorations never came down at our place.
She was
happiest of all. It was her favorite time of the year. She was
excited and couldn’t sleep, just like a little kid. She kept two
lists all year long: one of things she wanted, the other of naughty things she had done. Honestly they were both pretty ludicrous. She had the sweetest pair of eyes you ever saw
under a stocking cap. I loved her so.
I don’t know
why he picked on her when the whole world loved him. At first she
wouldn’t do it on Christmas Eve, then the week before. Pretty soon
all December was dry. Thing was, when she finally went downstairs
that morning, she’d be soaking wet.
*
“You’ve
been a good little boy, haven’t you?”
I tried to
smile, but it smarted to have him call me that in front of my son.
“Well,
look what Santa brung for you!”
It was a jet
ski. Huge and purple with yellow lightning bolts.
My wife
squealed and jumped up and down like she had won on a fucking game
show.
We could never
afford one of these, not after a million paychecks. I wanted to pick
it up and crush him with it.
There was a
pause. Santa clearly wanted to give my wife his gift.
“Why
don’ you and the kids try on your helmets an’ life jackets?”
The kids
thought it was a great idea. I glared at him.
“They
gonna need some help, opening the packages, son.”
This was true.
There were so many packages. I picked up a box cutter and went with
the kids.
In the corner
of my eye, my wife beamed at Santa, curled on his breast. She was so
trusting. She glittered like an ornament on his branch.
*
Sometimes Santa
tells me, “Your wife is very special. You have no idea. I know
these things. It’s my job. She has a pure heart, as pure as when
she was a little girl.”
Fucker. “And
how’s Mrs.
Claus?” I ask him.
*
Things I came
to hate about Santa:
1. His
fame, obviously
2. His
power
3. The
fact that everybody loves him and nobody questions him
4. His
exotic looks
5. His
easy laugh
6. The
way my kids thinks he knows everything
7. His
fancy private education
8. His
private jet
9. His
private train
10. His
wearing Paco
Rabanne
*
“I’m
not trying to ruin Christmas, I’m just saying that this year it
could be just a family thing”
“What
are you talking about?”
“I
mean, it could, just be me and you and the kids”
“But
what about the presents? Who will bring the presents?”
“I’ll
take care of the presents”
“What?
Are you going to buy them
in a store?”
“I
could totally do that, I get a bonus at the end of the year. I could
buy you something nice, whatever you wanted”
“But
that’s just like you buying me something. I’d know what it was”
“You
wouldn’t have to know. I could hide it.”
“Where?
In the house?
That’s completely crazy. I don’t want something you bought me
from a store that’s been hiding in our house for over a month. I
want a Christmas gift.”
“Listen
to me: Christmas is a time for families to
be together.
I’m the father. I can provide for this family. We don’t need…”
“What
are we going to tell the kids?”
“I
don’t know. We could tell them not to come out until he’s gone.
Or I could dress up…”
“That’s
insane, you’re insane! You’re so crazy! Why are you doing this?!
It’s Christmas! Why are you doing this to Christmas?! It’s so
wrong!”
She would not
stop crying and crying.
I had hoped to
compromise, but I had hurt her in a way I could not have imagined.
The kids took
it better. They had known something was up. I know they felt
responsible somehow. “Should we put decorations up?” they asked.
“Of course,” I said, “it’s still Christmas.” “Oh right,”
they said. “Help your mother,” I suggested. Their mother was just
sitting there. I had never seen her so unhappy in my entire life. She
seemed appalled every time she looked at an ornament or a piece of
mistletoe. She went back to the bedroom a lot, to cry and sulk.
On the big day
it took a lot of coaxing to get her out. She looked dazed and ill. My
son did the best he could to act excited with his gift. I think I may
have gotten the wrong size for him. My little girl tore the wrapper off hers noted what it was and sort of excused herself from it without saying a word. I put on some Christmas music. “Don’t,” my
wife said. I turned it off. I went and got her gift. She did not
react. I put it in her hands. She looked at me, dazed. Very
mechanically she began to unwrap it. I had wrapped it myself. She
removed the duct tape with difficulty.
It was the most
money I had ever spent on one thing. Fortunately, it was also practical. She looked
at me. Her lips trembled with effort. “Thank you,” she said. She hugged me. The hug felt like an apology. She asked if it was okay if she rested a little. I
said, of course. She padded away. I tried to watch football but just
stared at the screen.
The whole house
was quiet, in quiet sort of way that eats at your ears. I had to get
out of there, so I took my car. It was icy, but there were no cars
anywhere. The whole world was quiet. I looked at all the houses with
the cars out front and the chimney lit. I thought of all the other
fathers and their kids, putting toy trains and home entertainment systems together, moms looking on,
their eyes as soft as their sweaters. I drove a long way, out to the
highway, without meaning to.
When I got back
home, Christmas had awoken. Warm air and music hit my face.
Clattering sounds and the smell of melting butter came from the
kitchen: my daughter was helping my wife, asking little questions: is
it ready? Not yet, honey. I
just stood there in the doorway, warming up. My wife sashayed out to
see me. She gave me the most tender, most moist loving look that
transcended all apology. She wrapped herself around me, curved into
me. As one, we walked into the kitchen. My little girl hugged my
legs. This was Christmas, I thought. I had never been so grateful for
everything, everything I had. Everything that was or could be. I held
her a long time, while pots steamed. She had to tear herself away for
the sake of the chestnuts. Our hands stayed linked, as though in a
dance.
My son flew
into the other room. In his hand, he piloted a new brilliant sleek
starship: it’s engines roared and glowed. Near him, my little girl
played hide and seek with a little tan stuffed bear. She made the
bear peek-a-boo with me, too. He was a cute little fellow with dark
considerate eyes. He was wearing a wristwatch. That was odd, I
thought. It was a nice, if conservative wristwatch. She made the bear
check the time. “Where did he come from?” I asked. “Santa
brought him,” she said.
I felt cold, then hot. I walked into the kitchen. My wife flew
among the pans with alacrity. When she turned she had a cute little
bit of flour on her cheek and hair. I loved her so. Around her
beautiful neck, nestling between her collarbones, I saw it. It was then I realized that she had gotten changed.
I did not get
drunk at the strip club, that is, I did not feel a single drink go in
me. I didn’t feel anything for the girls, so it’s surprising that
they threw me out. I slept in my car, which is good, I guess, or not
so good, because I threw up more than once.
My wife was
very gentle, and tender. Some this, I am sorry to say, was fear. She
took the vomit stained clothes without a word. She had cleaned up all
the wreckage at home. She put me to bed and kissed me on the
forehead. “Get some rest,” she said. Tenderly. And then: “I
love you.” Sadly.
I didn’t do
anything but lie there for the next couple of days. Reconciliation
was easy, everyone was concerned for me. My wife held on to me
like she had held on to our son when he had broken his leg. That
night, she got on top of me, deliberately. I came softly. She kissed
my neck and told me how much she loved me. She talked and talked and
cried and apologized, over and over. I said I was sorry too. I said
not to worry, that next year Christmas would be like it always was. A
pealing note of joy rang out of her. She grinned with her whole body.
She ran over me, over and over with little kisses everywhere, each
kiss saying: thankyou
thankyou.
I loved her so. I loved my family. It was my family. I was not going
to let them be taken from me by anyone.
*
I counted the
days to this Christmas. I made a list. My enthusiasm was genuine. I
loved shopping. I got everything we needed: a new set of lights, a
real wreath, milk, cookies, candy canes, duct tape, egg nog, rum,
cloves, cable ties, figgy pudding, a yule log, cheese ball,
chestnuts, stuffing, fresh cranberries, melon baller, wire cutters,
wire.
*
When I leveled
the 12 gauge at Santa, I realized it was not the first time for him.
He was very cool about it. He was right. I didn’t want to do this.
He was Santa. He was Christmas. I, too, had loved him as a child. I
had written him letters. I had sat in his lap. My will and the sights
wavered for a second. This was crazy. Then I remembered what Santa
had done to me, done to my family, to
my wife.
I held that in focus. This made me able to do what was necessary.
As my cock slid
out of Santa’s mouth, I was amazed I was still hard. I had shot
several times into Santa’s face and mouth, but I was still so hard
it hurt. I had wanted my wife to watch, but she wasn’t watching.
She just cried, and cried and begged and said the same thing, over
and over. I looked down at Santa. He was still trying to play this
whole thing out as a jolly old elf. I had to admire that, but he had
no idea what was coming. I felt drunk, but I knew it could not be the
eggnog, because I hadn’t drunk much. Santa’s breath felt hot
against my balls. The air felt hot like the house was on fire. I
wanted this moment to go on forever. I mean, I had Santa. I had all
the fucking toys in the world sitting on top of my house. Flying
reindeer pawed impatiently on shingles I had bought from Home Depot.
I had what I wanted; I wasn’t going to stop until I was finished.
Afterwards, I
wanted to let the kids out of their rooms, but I knew that was a bad
idea. I wanted to say goodbye. More importantly, I wanted them to see
what their father had become. I glittered, I glowed: like a Christmas
tree. I felt cool and wet all over. I crawled over to my wife. I
lifted her damp head and kissed her so tenderly. I loved her, but I
loved everyone now. I told her this. What I said was: “I am
Christmas. I am Christmas, now.” Her breathing was shallow and
irregular. I cut her free and tried to make her comfortable.
The fur felt
good over my naked wet skin. It smelled like him. The sack was heavy
but the burden was mine. It was late. I had places to go. So many
houses, so many homes and families waiting this night, their faces
bright on their pillows.
“Merry
Christmas to all” I
cried, “and
all a good night!”
