Mike never liked the idea of a funeral in winter; it was depressing enough without fighting darkness and wind, the cold numb as you stand in the cemetery looking over the casket. But it snowed only the night before, and the sun came up high and powerful, and as the casket caught the light on it’s shiny wood and caused a heavenly glow, Mike found the weather appropriate.
Only now that his dad was gone, a happy man who lived well for eighty-five years and spent only one year declining in a hospital bed downtown, could Mike’s siblings find a reason to be all in the same room. They also had there own kids, everyone but Mike. It was nice to see the nieces and nephews.
After college, Mike moved to Canada to work at a fish hatchery. It was just over the border and not too far from any of his family, but the simple fact that he was in a different country made the distance seem wider. It didn’t concern Mike too much; he’d always been the quiet one. While his siblings succeeded socially, Mike, the youngest, was content alone. Oddly, he found it easier to be around fish than people.
Christmas was two weeks away. This didn’t make the process easier. Not when for Mike’s father Christmas was ritualistic, a holiday he took pride in. His garage always housed enough lawn decorations to recreate the entire North Pole. As Mike’s siblings amounted their own families, the children made sure that at least two units of family were together on Christmas morning, meaning last year Mike went to his sister’s, and his brother’s family was there too, while the other sister took her children to their grandparents’ house. Christmas visits were on rotation, but no one knew what would happen this year, with both parents gone.
In fact, Christmas made up much of what the family stood for. Through it they learned unconditional love, learned fun. Family was the most important unifier in life.
With three older siblings, Mike the youngest had influences to teach him about Santa Claus and his elves, and why stockings were hung, and what boughs of holly were. While Mom managed as the only religious family member, it didn’t stop the spirituality of Christmas Day. Mike took after his father, helping every year with decorations, making cookies for the neighbors and friends. He was amazed that hundred year old traditions found agency in modern practice.
Because of his enthusiasm, his brother and sisters charged him with instructing their children on Christmas etiquette. Mike read them his wide collection of books. He made up stories of Santa Claus adventures. He took them to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap. The children began to look forward to seeing Uncle Mike at Christmas time.
Mike knew his father would have wanted them to enjoy Christmas this year as much as any other. Mike didn’t let the situation destroy his Christmas spirit.
The four children and their families pulled onto the street where their father’s house was. The caravan parked along the road and they filed out. A gust of wind blew in, picking up the loose snow on the surface. It stung their cheeks and they hurried to the house. It was time to start going through the assets, the antiques, the useless junk their father filled his house with.
They’d done this before, for their mother, but that was five years ago and it was in the middle of July.
Mike’s brother Ted unlocked the door and held it open for the rest to enter. Mike gave him a grateful nod as he passed. Mike carried his sister Nina’s five-year old daughter in his arms. As he stepped into the front hall he placed her down and told her to take off her snow things and then wait in the living room.
Virginia, the final sibling, was the eldest and the best at delegating and mediating. She gave everyone a job. At thirty-three she’d experienced a deep relationship with her father. Above the rest she was brokenhearted. She wanted to clear everything out as quickly as possible. She never wanted to return to this house.
The kids got to pick out which toys they wanted for themselves. Cousin Rita, twenty-three, helped them by lining the toys up on the carpet and keeping the kids from screaming and grabbing.
Two other cousins were there. They began sorting out the kitchen.
After three tiring hours of living the deceased’s life vicariously, through pictures and knickknacks, they made progress. A system developed. Every item was sorted into piles: Keep, Toss, Reevaluate, and Not-For-us-to-Decide, the last included items such as war uniforms and expensive paintings, which the uncles and aunts would go through tomorrow.
Mike stood in his father’s large walk-in closet. The clothes were moved out, but there were unlabeled boxes stacked to the ceiling. Most contained school projects and cards the four children had made and neither of their parents could throw away. Mike found a shoebox of stories he’d attempted to write as a third grader. His handwriting really hadn’t improved that much.
Nina came in to help and they showed each other funny notes and homework. Mike’s emotions collided. He laughed and smiled as he reminisced, but his eyes hadn’t stopped watering since he heard about his father’s passing.
A green, oversized box in the corner looked promising for a few laughs. Mike pulled it from the wall. Nina was turned from him, atop a chair to reach tinier boxes on a shelf. Inside the box there were even papers and decorations from when his father was a boy.
Mike peeled the tape off and dug his hands in. He felt a small wood box and pulled it out. On it was written “Christmas”.
He was overcome with holiday memories with his father.
The wooden box opened with a click of a cheap lock. A wave of faded, browning, papers flowed onto his lap.
It took a moment to realize what they were, but Mike recognized the letters he wrote to Santa Claus when he was a boy.
He took one on top and slid it from the envelope addressed to the North Pole. The letter was folded into fourths and he spread it open like a pirate map.
The handwriting was worse than ever and written in red and green crayon. It expressed, in three solid and heavily misspelled sentences, that across the whole year he’d been a good boy, (a few key examples were listed), and that in return for that behavior, a coloring book, a bicycle, and a baseball hat would make a great thanks.
Maybe Mike was five when the letter had been written.
There were other letters from all the children. Some were thank you notes after Christmas, either appreciative of what was given, or disappointed about what wasn’t.
Mike read through two more of his personal notes. He turned to Nina.
“How did Mom and Dad get these?” he asked.
Nina paused from her work and looked down at Mike, who held up a note.
“What do you mean? They probably moved that box here when they moved out of the old house.”
“Yeah, I get that, but, you know, we sent them in the mail. How did Mom and Dad get them sent back to hold onto?”
“They probably took them out of the mailboxes after we put them in. We never saw. We were always off to school, or inside, or playing in the backyard.”
Mike was confused. He shoved the letters off his lap and got on his knees, shifting a foot towards his sister.
“Why would they do that?”
Nina got down from the chair and sat in it. She took the letter from Mike’s hand and twirled it around in her hand.
“Do you know how many letters to the North Pole the post office probably had to deal with? Thousands of kids thinking they could influence their loot by sending a card to the fat man? Mom was just doing them a favor by taking them out.
“I don’t know why she didn’t throw them away, though,” she added. “Look how many there are, and it can’t be all of them. Why did Dad have us write these every year?”
Mike shook his head.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why wouldn’t Mom want our letters to get to Santa?”
“She did. I mean, she let us think that, right? It’s like when they bit hunks out of the cookies by the fire and drank half the milk, so we thought Santa had eaten our treats for him.”
“That’s not true.”
Nina looked at her brother quizzically.
“Mike, are you okay? I know you’re upset and miss Dad, especially at this time of year, but it’s going to be okay.”
“No, Nina, I’m fine. I just want to know how Santa could possibly know what we wanted for Christmas if our letters never reached him!”
His voice was getting high in pitch. Nina could tell he was upset. She crawled onto the floor next him and sifted through the letters.
“Mom and Dad read our letters. They knew what we wanted. Hell, we told them every second of every day leading up to Christmas what we wanted.”
“Yeah, they knew what we wanted, but Santa didn’t.”
“Mike, what are you so crazy over?”
Mike couldn’t say anymore. He just stared at the letters. Nina watched his reaction and it dawned on her what had Mike in a fit.
“Mike,” she said slowly and calmly as she took his hand. He looked at her with sad eyes.
“Mike,” she said, “you know that there’s no Santa Claus.”
Mike tried to laugh.
“I don’t know why parents tell their children that. It’s so cruel,” he offered.
“Mike,” said Nina, “Santa Claus isn’t real.”
Mike’s look was between comedy and overdramatic. “Don’t be a bitch.”
“Mike,” said Nina, finding his eyes again and staring deep into them. “There has never been a Santa Claus. He’s made up, like the Easter Bunny. Don’t you know that? Man, you’re twenty-three. Don’t you know that?”
Mike looked at the letters. He recognized the truth in Nina’s face that he always recognized. She was the one sibling that never played with Mike, never mocked him or toyed with him. She had been telling him the truth since he was old enough to listen.
And Mike’s world came crashing down.
Nina’s jaw fell open as she realized that all this time her brother had believed in Santa Claus. She wasn’t surprised that despite what people said, or any reasoning behind the truth, Mike held his belief, because Mike always held his belief. He was great at sticking to his guns.
She watched her brother’s heart wheeze into oblivion. She tried to touch him, but he pulled back. His eyes expanded and seemed to stare beyond the walls of the closet.
“The whole world is in on this joke?” he asked in a croaked voice. “Why would people invent a whole world for this guy to live in? It doesn’t make sense. It’s like telling me the president isn’t real, or that Elvis never existed.”
“You never pieced it together, Mike?”
“You know, people would say that Santa didn’t exist. Movies play with that concept and books talk about it. But it just never affected me before. But I guess that’s why Santa ignored me these last few years. I just accepted that because Dad told me that when you become an adult and don’t need toys, Santa only bring you fun things. Instead, your family and co-workers give you practical gifts. He was trying to let me know way back then, wasn’t he?”
Nina nodded.
Mike asked, “How long have you known?”
“Since I was sixteen.”
Mike swallowed hard.
“And Ted and Virginia?”
“I don’t know; probably before me. Dad was so into it, he had us believing longer than most. Most kids figure it out by eighth grade.”
“They do?”
Ted walked in and saw the two stressing.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, stepping closer and taking the chair.
“Um,” said Nina, “Mike just found out Santa Claus isn’t real.”
Ted laughed hard until he saw Nina’s expression. She never played with any of her siblings. If she said it, she was telling the truth.
“Really, Mike?” asked Ted, and then he took a second to mull over the facts.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a time. “You are a gullible son of a bitch.”
“Ted,” warned Nina, and Ted bit his tongue.
“Do your kids know?” asked Mike, standing up.
Nina got up too and shook her head. “I want them to figure it out themselves. They love when you tell them stories. I like that they believe in him.”
Ted stood up and leaned against the wall.
“Anne knows, but she’s thirteen.”
“I need to get out of here,” said Mike. “I need to think about this.”
Nina nodded and stepped aside.
Mike stuffed a letter in his pocket and walked from the room.
Nina stood to go after her brother, but Ted put his arm up at the door and shook his head. “He’s all messed up,” he said, touching Nina’s shoulder. “Dad just died, I mean, so let Mike figure this out.”
The rest of the family saw Mike exit the house, leaving the door open and winter wind whistling into the hallway. Mike wore only a sweater pulled over a dress shirt and thick black pants. But he wasn’t worried about the cold anymore.
The neighborhood was only one long strip of houses, and at the main road there was a bar on the corner. Mike hardly visited Mickey’s Pub because the red brick establishment was where his father went with his buddies, and there was something unsettling about drinking at the same place as his father.
Mickey had sold the place decades ago to a tall, light-skinned bartender named Sonny. The redecorated bar had become less Irish in that time: photographs of fifties’ style Americana lined the walls and a jukebox blinked blue-red lights behind the billiard tables.
Two old men with wavy white hair, the only patrons, glanced Mike’s way as he entered the bar, making his way to a back table next to a window. He slid onto the bench and took a moment to look through the glass at the fire water pond hidden from the road by the bar and a clump of trees next door, dusty snow over the frozen water. Each confused wind tussled the snow into tornadoes. It was a frigid, violent scene, and Mike looked away.
Sonny’s brother Gabe bartended during the day. Gabe wiped the table down in front of Mike. “You all right, dude?”
Mike nodded, but didn’t make eye contact with Gabe.
“Anything to drink?” asked Gabe, checking the clock above the jukebox to make sure it wasn’t an unreasonable hour to serve the lowly and downtrodden.
Mike ordered a beer, any beer, and when Gabe brought it over Mike took it directly from the bartender’s hand and swigged. Gabe returned to the bar, but kept an eye on Mike.
After another gulp of beer, Mike took the letter from his pocket and unfolded it. Yellow lights lit the bar dimly, but near the window Mike could make out his poor handwriting. He remembered the year scribbled at the top of the letter. He had asked for a toy rifle, but never received it.
Every year when he sat down to write his letters to Saint Nick, Mike anxiously imagined the elf slicing open the envelope with a knife and casually reading his first in the pile of letters received daily.
Santa Claus made sense. Not everyone celebrated Christmas, and there were time zones, so sunrise was different around the world, and Santa lived remotely in the North Pole, so of course he never gave interviews. He wasn’t a celebrity, after all. He was a saint. As a teen reasoned that elves were likely over dramatizations of Santa’s helpers, as was the idea of magically fitting down Christmas chimneys. Breaking into a house was not difficult. Mike had done it on many drunken occasions with college friends. With the right tools, Santa could enter and exit without leaving a trace.
Lost in thought, Mike hadn’t realized Gabe stood at the table holding the empty beer glass.
“Another drink?” he asked.
Mike nodded. When Gabe walked away, Mike folded the letter up.
“Hey, man,” he shouted. Gabe turned. “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”
“Sure, dude.”
The pen and paper was delivered with a fresh beer. Mike withdrew into the corner of the bench and touched the pen to the paper before pausing to think. Then, he began: Dear Santa…

Returning to his father’s house had been difficult, as had been explaining to his family that he was confused about some of the things he believed in. The day of their father’s funeral was not a time to judge their brother on his beliefs, so the siblings tried to comfort Mike and sent him home.
On Christmas Eve Mike called his sister to explain he wasn’t coming over for celebrations. “Things are different,” he said. “Without Dad I’m not sure what it’s all for.”
“The kids want to see their uncle.”
“I won’t be any fun,” Mike promised. “I’ll call anyway, to talk to them, okay?”
Mike’s present to himself was a bottle of whiskey. He drank it at his kitchen table and read through all the letters he had found in his father’s closet.
Without investigating the validity of Santa Claus further, and without discussing anything to do with his father any more, Mike continued with his life, and by February he felt much better. Christmas was two months passed and Spring was just around the corner. Work had been going well. He hadn’t seen his siblings very much, but he called often.
He was lonely on Valentine’s Day, but his office had a party and he made himself sick on chocolates. He decided that when the weather warmed he would buy a new car. He never went back to his father’s house.
In late March the snow melted and mud was everywhere. On a particularly warm day, Mike came home early from work. He parked his rusty car in the driveway and walked to the mailbox. He riffled through the electric bill and a coupon book and decided mail was a stupid thing designed to fill dumps with bill envelopes and coupon books, and he was about to throw the stack away when a small envelope fluttered from the stack and fell to the muddy pavement.
Picking the letter up, Mike saw the return address was missing, but the black ink had his address written out in swooping cursive and the stamp was a reindeer winking.
Puzzled, Mike turned the card around in his hands and hesitated before opening it:

Michael Andrew Moore,

I was truly upset to hear about your father’s passing. His house was always the brightest and boldest on Christmas Eve. His lawn depicted the North Pole much more than it did any religious nativity scene, which I always appreciated because Christmas has become more about family and celebration, a brief gap in the winter to enjoy the warmth of home, and less about Christianity. Your father’s gusto was inspiring and invigorating during my long night of deliveries.

Although disappointed to hear your parents never sent the letter you and your brother and sisters wrote to me, I’m hardly surprised. The world is too busy and too commercial for me now. It has been that way for years. There was a time when I was a child’s sole chance for a toy. Poverty makes everyone appreciate charity. Everything is priced now, and it’s taken me time to come to terms with this, but now that I have I can understand that nothing in this world remains the same forever.

Do not despair, Michael. Nothing is as important as Christmas spirit. As long as I’m a symbol for togetherness and giving, I’ve done my job. I’m old anyway, and ready to retire completely. The truth is, however, that whenever we have a calling we must heed it to the very end. I see from your letter that your nieces and nephew need you to keep their Christmas spirit going. That may be your calling as it was your father’s.

I’m sure that, in time, you will see that everything passes. That is okay, for just like winter gives way to spring- I know winter will come around again. That is truly the gift that keeps on giving.

Merry Christmas,
Santa

Mike held the letter, read it again. Stunned, he looked around as if to find someone there to explain what just happened to him.
He would have mistrusted the letter as a joke played on him by his brother, but along with the new letter was the one he had written as a kid, read at the bar the day of the funeral, and sent off to the North Pole, just to be rid of it.
Mike headed for his front door and a package was waiting for him. It was the same color red the envelope had been, and the address was in the same handwriting.
He opened the box, right there on the stoop, and pulled out a toy riffle, a Huntsman Black Pellet BB, the same he had asked for many years ago. They no longer made the model.
With a sigh, and a smile he couldn’t resist, Mike brought the rifle inside. He called his sister and scheduled a visit to show his nephew a new toy.
It had been a nice funeral that December, but not a sad one, not when tradition kept family, made family, enjoyed it.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.01.2010

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