Santa Daddy

We’re in a grand foyer. A Beverly Hillbillies staircase winds up to the house’s second level. Me and a bunch of the other kids are corralled past the Christmas tree, so we won’t have to tip-toe to see the big show.

My cousin Mary-Esther the dance teacher steps forward. She’s wearing a red leotard, green skirt and a baby bump. Her hair is in a ballerina bun. “Welcome to the VFW Purple Heart Christmas Party!” Her assistant, my cousin Carl Otto, puts the needle down on a high-fi. Scratchy Hawaiian music fills the room. “We take you from Wisconsin to the sunny shores of our 50th state!”

Girls float down the stairway. Some are in time. Others not so much.

They’re all wearing tropical bikini tops and grass skirts. While the intro music plays, they hand out plastic leis, saying, “Mele Kalikimaka,” in thick midwestern accents before beginning to dance what I think they think is a hula.

Afterward a cascade of parental flashbulbs explodes as the troupe takes a bow.

The tune changes to “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town”.

The dancers put on Santa hats, which look wrong with a grass skirt.

The girls’ wave to the stairway landing. All eyes follow up in time to hear, “Ho-ho-ho!”

Mr. and Mrs. Claus have arrived.

I squint and immediately recognize my dad’s face underneath Santa’s white beard.

He and Mrs. Claus, AKA, my second Cousin Frances, begin passing out gifts. The kids near me get very excited. One looks like he’s about 12, but okay. To each his own.

I’m 6-years-old but resist the temptation to shout, “That’s my dad, you idiots!”

I don’t want those suffering childish illusions to feel stupid but I’ve never believed in Santa Claus. I went along with it for the sake of the adults.

I look at my dad, handing out presents, happier and more playful than I’ve ever seen. He hands me my present saying, “Here’s a special one for you, my boy.” I excitedly rip through the wrapping paper.

           A long stick with a shoehorn at the end of it.

Oh well.

I ignore my disappointment. Choosing imagination over reality. I give into the fantasy of being Santa Claus’ son. My dad can string Christmas lights and sell aluminum siding while maintaining sobriety for up to a week at a time. Ray Triggs won World War II for the U.S. and earned a Purple Heart to prove it.

My Dad is Santa Claus.

To be clear, I never didn’t know that it was my Dad in the red suit. Despite the pine scent from the Christmas tree, there was a specific combination of smells - cigarettes, Right Guard aerosol Deodorant and Canadian Club Whiskey instead of mulled wine.

I never let him know that I recognized him. He needed to believe that I believed in the conceits of childhood, God bless his Purple Heart.

You can’t do much for war heroes when you’re a kid, but you can do that.

Later that night, my older brother Art and sister Emily come to my bedroom to hear about the party. I show them my shoehorn, about which they pretend to be very excited. I decide I can share the news.

“Santa Claus was there, but it was Dad.”

Art takes a deep breath. “Sure. He was helping Santa. You know Kris Kringle can’t be everywhere. He has helpers.”

Maybe they’re not ready to hear the truth. I decide not to push it.

“Okay. But wouldn’t it be cool if our Dad was Santa Claus?”

Art’s posture changes. He pulls away an inch or two.

Emily’s lips frown. “Greg, Raymond isn’t my father or Art’s. The three of us have the same mom, but he’s not our father.”

“Then why is your last name Triggs?”

“Our last name is Radke,” says Art. “I thought you understood that.”

For the first time ever, I feel separate from them.

How can we have different last names? They're my family. Two of the people I love most.

Art must sense that I’m uncomfortable and confused.

“Hey, it’s just a name. You’re our brother.” He kisses me on the cheek while Emily tucks in my sheets.

They turn off my wagon wheel lamp and leave the room.

I fall asleep hugging my shoehorn, wishing our last name was Claus.