Marty Learns the Truth

On the outside, Marty’s home was the picture of Christmas cheer. Lights trimmed the gutters, glowing through the dusting of snow. Inflatable reindeer rippled in the freezing winter gale. A neat brick chimney rose from the roof of the house. The glow of the holidays was still fresh in the hearts of many, except for health care CEOs and corporate lawyers who never felt the spirit of Christmas to begin with.

But those poor souls weren’t alone in their loneliness. Marty, too, was stricken with the post-holiday blues. It was the first Christmas without Sarah, and nothing had gone right. He drooped in his easy chair, staring out the window through his balding reflection into the cold December morn, reliving the disaster that was Christmas day. The disappointment on his children’s faces when there had been no presents from Santa resurfaced.

“No presents?” Sarah Jr. whined. “Why bother to be good?”

“Worst Christmas ever,” said MJ.

“I miss Mom,” cried the youngest, Junior Junior.

They promptly blamed their father.

“You’re the ones lacking holiday cheer,” Marty had argued. “I decked the halls; I was jolly. You three haven’t been ho-ho-ho-ing and fa-la-la-ing enough. You carry the stench of naughtiness.”

Christmas lunch was icy, and dinner frigid. The children refused to speak to their father.

There was a soft knock at the door. His son Martholomew Jr., whom everyone called MJ, approached, worry etched in his face.

“Dad?” MJ said.

“Mmmm,” replied Marty.

“I think we should talk.”

Marty sighed. He’d been dreading this. MJ sat in the seat opposite Marty. He had freckles like Sarah and dark eyes like no one in the family. “Did you hear me? We need to talk.”

“About Christmas?” said Marty.

“And more.” He took a deep breath. “Dad, Santa isn’t real.”

Marty scoffed. “Yeah, and neither is the pope.”

“I’m serious, Dad. He’s totally made up.”

Marty was blindsided. He’d been expecting the “You need therapy after Mom’s death” talk, or the “What’s the story with your will?” talk. The “No Santa” talk was blasphemy.

“Nonsense. Santa’s brought me presents every year. I was a good boy, now I’m a good man, and the gifts are the proof.” Except, this year, there had been no presents. Had he done something wrong? He racked his brain. He’d never hit his kids, or mistreated his wife. They’d been high school sweethearts, inseparable since sophomore year, and she’d passed away with him at her side, holding her hand. How could Santa find fault in that?

“Mom bought the presents. And before that, grandma and grandpa did,” said MJ.

“Ridiculous,” snorted Marty. “I would’ve heard. Would’ve noticed.”

“You aren’t the most… observant,” said MJ. “You still look at me like I’m a kid. I’m 40.”

“The curse of parenthood,” said Marty.

“I’m just saying, you probably didn’t notice Mom doing all the work,” said MJ. He wrung his stubby fingers, then nibbled on a hangnail. “So, you believe me? Santa’s not real?”

Marty bit his own troublesome hangnail. “Who eats the cookies? Who drinks the milk?”

“Mom did.”

“Your mother doesn’t — didn’t like milk.”

“She poured it down the sink, then.”

“Ah-ha!” said Marty, leaping out of his chair. “Inconsistency! Did she drink it or pour it?”

“I don’t know what she did with it most times, I was asleep like you,” said MJ. “But once, when I was 9, I crept downstairs at midnight and caught her. She took a sip of milk, spat it out, then dumped out the rest and cleaned up the spit. She used the vacuum and everything. Sarah J and JJ both saw it, too. The illusion was shattered for all of us.”

“Okay, so you saw your mother spitting milk once. That doesn’t prove she’s Santa.” He snapped his fingers. “What about the autograph?”

MJ groaned. “C’mon, Dad, you didn’t really believe the autograph, did you?”

But he did believe it. Marty need only look over his son’s shoulder to see the hallowed paper. Framed on the mantle, in big letters, was his autograph from the man himself. “Santa Claus,” it read, along with a dirty hoof print from one of the reindeer. Marty had always maintained it was Rudolph’s.

“That’s Mom’s handwriting,” said MJ. “She signed it. Then we got a banana, dunked it in some mud, and made Comet’s print.”

“It’s Rudolph’s!” yelled Marty.

“It’s a banana’s,” said MJ. “No reindeer ever came in contact with that paper. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a reindeer, especially not around here.”

“Well, they primarily live at the north pole,” explained Marty.

“They primarily live in Europe,” said MJ. “And they certainly can’t fly. You’d need a couple jet engines welded on to each one.”

“Santa could easily do that,” said Marty. “Kids these days get drones from Santa. Jet engines are no problem for elves.”

MJ groaned. “I knew this was going to be hard. I didn’t know it was going to be impossible.” He vigorously massaged his temples. “So, rather than believe Santa isn’t real, you think he’s welding jet engines to live animals?”

When MJ put it like that, it seemed a little ridiculous, Marty had to admit. He laughed a little. “I guess—” MJ’s face filled with hope, “—it makes more sense to weld them to the harness, and strap the reindeer in.”

MJ’s hope crashed and burned, like strapping a reindeer to a pair of jet engines. “Even if Santa had jet powered reindeer, which he certainly doesn’t, how could he deliver presents to everyone in the world in one night?” challenged MJ.

“Most people are naughty,” shrugged Marty. “And, as we all know, the naughty don’t get presents. Plus, he skips the Hindus and Buddhists.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, smart guy. If Santa isn’t real, who did your mom and I have a threesome with in 1985?” That night had been magical. The big man himself — white beard, red suit, a belly like jello; Marty and Sarah; and a hotel room in Vegas in early December.

“What,” said MJ softly.

“Your mother and I met Santa in Vegas in the 80s,” said Marty. “He was getting a little away time from Mrs. Claus and the elves before the big night. One thing lead to another, and nine months later, you were born.”

“What,” repeated MJ, softer.

“You’re my little touch of Christmas all year ‘round,” said Marty, ruffling his son’s bald head. This must be my transgression, he thought. “I’m sorry I never told you until now. Sarah didn’t want us to treat you any differently.” He strode to the fireplace, the pulpit for his absolution. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted up the flue, “I’m sorry I never told my son the truth, Saint Nicholas! I beg your forgiveness!”

MJ rubbed his forehead, his repeated blinking translating into a cry for help. “That explains the 23andMe test,” he muttered.

“I know that’s probably not what you were expecting for Christmas,” said Marty, returning to his easy-chair.

“If I was Santa’s bastard son, wouldn’t I have some magical Christmas powers?” said MJ. “Shouldn’t I… make snow from my fingertips, or have a booming belly laugh? I mean, I was a goth kid in high school. My favorite holiday is Halloween. Christmas is, like, fourth for me, after Thanksgiving and my birthday.”

Marty sagged. Perhaps MJ was right. His parents had played Santa, then Sarah, and on the Vegas occasion, a horny Salvation Army bell ringer. “It was dark in the hotel room,” he said slowly.

“Dad, you’re 65. That’s too old to be believing in a magical deity who watches your every move, weighing your good deeds against your bad, then punishes or rewards you accordingly. That’s God’s job,” said MJ.

Marty smiled. His son was right. After all Santa didn’t put up the lights every year. He did. Santa didn’t cut down the Christmas tree and cover the miracle of nature with cheap trinkets and shiny, plastic tinsel. Christmas came from within. His smile became a laugh. “I guess I’ve been a little foolish.”

“We all fall for silly things sometimes,” said MJ. He stood and donned his coat. “Thanks for hosting. JJ and I will be back for Easter.”

“I just hope the bunny brings you guys your baskets,” said Marty.

MJ sat back down.