Santa was late.
It was Christmas Eve and I was seven years old. My younger sister, younger brother, and I had been bouncing with excitement ever since dinner and now we were starting to get anxious.
“Mom, are you sure there’s enough snow for Santa’s sleigh?” I asked.
“Yes, Jodi. I’m sure.” Mom looked at her watch, then peered out the front window. She’d been doing that for the last hour. It didn’t inspire confidence.
A worrisome thought occurred to me. “MOM! Did Dad definitely give Santa his suit back?”
Mom turned and stared at me. “What?”
I explained how the previous summer I had found Santa’s red bag in our converted school bus camper. Inside was Santa’s hat, Santa’s suit, even Santa’s beard!
“DAD!” I had yelled. “Why is Santa’s suit in here?”
My dad’s eyebrows rose, and so did the corners of his mouth.
“Oh that,” he had said, waving his hand as if to brush away any silly thoughts I might have been entertaining. “Santa used our bus to change and forgot his suit. Don't worry, I’ll send it back to him.”
Dad’s explanation had seemed so believable to me then. But now I was worried that Santa was out there somewhere in just his skivvies. I would have brought up my concerns with Dad, but he was out running errands. He always just missed Santa.
Then suddenly, there arose such a clatter… Our front door opened and in burst Santa Claus.
“HO-HO-HOOOO!”
Santa beamed. His nose and cheeks were rosy. His grey-blue eyes twinkled.
“Have you been good boys and girls?” he asked.
“YES!” we yelled.
Santa pulled three unwrapped presents from his bag. I bounced up and down, hugging my new pink plastic tea set. My brother spun the wheels on his new Tonka truck and my sister gazed lovingly at her new drink-and-pee baby doll.
Santa kissed my mom, patted her rear-end and was gone.
Several years later, I was a little less naive when I stumbled across the Santa suit again. This time, when I stood holding the suit — and beard! — as evidence and asked my mom and dad about it, they looked at each other and shrugged. “Sit down,” they said.
That’s when I learned that Dad’s Christmas Eve “errands” had included donning a Santa suit for another family, then ours. In between his Santa tasks, he enjoyed holiday cheer at the local bar. People loved to buy Santa drinks. Eventually our Santa would arrive: late, red-nosed, and jolly.
I was shocked. “Dad was Santa?”
Finding this out was a loss for me, but also a gain. My dad, who yelled too often and drank too much, was now something more. Somewhere hidden deep inside my father was that jolly, twinkly-eyed Santa.
