Ope, Who Could That Be?

            The actor, Mark, who played Santa Claus for paid house visits on Christmas Eve every year in the small town of Casper, Iowa, knocked on the front door of our home at 8:15 p.m. We had just finished eating dinner. Sweets were being hauled out. Tins of Santa hat, tree, and crucifix-shaped sugar cookies, gingerbread men, and peanut butter cookies with chocolate kisses lined the table. The wine was topped off. Sparkling juice was poured for the children. But the kids were getting antsy. Something was missing. It was time for gifts.

            I was the youngest of the children by about six years, and admittedly, I had been annoying during dinner. I complained about being too full to eat my entree, having filled up on bread and garlic butter, and my mother cleared my plate without a word. It was one of the rare evenings when she was too distracted to argue with me. That detail reminds me just how long ago it was. We haven’t argued much at all since that night.

            I sat next to the oldest, my sister Beth, who ate her porkchop like a "rockstar," according to my mother. We sat by our cousins Remy, who was a couple of years younger than Beth, and Matt, who was one year younger than Remy. We all looked to my mother to answer the door.

            “Ope, who could that be?” my mother knowingly smiled.

            Excitement had been growing at the kids’ table, hoping that Santa, who we all recently secretly understood was an actor, would again arrive and adorn us with gifts as he had done during so many of our previous Christmases. We were old enough to know better, but we kept it to ourselves. There was no reason to ruin a good thing. The sudden arrival of a giant, jolly visitor bearing toys was still an exciting experience, whether real or simulated.

            We all moved into the living room.

            “I don’t think it’s him,” Uncle Rick, a tall, heavy man with a salt and pepper goatee, teased through a sip of sweetly noxious scotch. He was my father’s brother.

            “Yeah, Santa told us he couldn’t make it this year. Sorry guys,” Aunt Connie, the ever-smiling love of Rick’s life, laughed after a cheerful gulp of buttery chardonnay the same color as her bob cut.

            “Hope it isn’t some asshole trying to rob us,” Rick joked, choking on the next sip of scotch as my aunt sharpened her smile at him for using inappropriate language on Christmas Eve of all days.

            My father stood quietly at the head of the table. He was tall and thin with gray hair but a dirt-brown mustache. His typically easy-going expression cramped into a haunted look of caution. While everyone was taking seats in the living room, besides my mother rushing to answer the door, my father stood frozen. I remember looking at him and smiling, thinking he was about to say something to play into the joke on us as well, but he never did. He didn't look at me. He stared at his wife, a wound-up nurse with curly, shoulder-length red hair and an inability to allow any moment of one of her get-togethers to awkwardly lull as she drifted away from him and then at the door.

            The door swung open, and my mother exclaimed, "Santa!"

            A shadow loomed in the doorway, unmoving. The room’s energy hesitated.

            “Come in, come in,” my mother insisted. “Thanks for coming through the front door. Our chimney is being re-Santa-fied right now.”

            Heavy black boots muddied their way into the house from the blustery December night. He was different. Bigger than in previous years. Bigger than my dad and uncle. The other Santas always felt too short. He finally felt as big as Santa should feel. However, he was wearing a fake belly beneath his shirt, which was a first, and beneath that, he looked like a Santa who had decided to work as a physical trainer for the rest of the year. His face was as white as the fake beard tickling the dirty undershirt beneath his unbuttoned fuzzy red coat. He looked unsure of himself for a moment, but then, as if that moment of uncertainty had been planned, he rhythmically and gracefully swung his bag of toys off his shoulder onto the ground and called to everyone in the room, “Ho, ho, ho.” The music of his magical performance had begun.

            “Oh my gosh, Santa,” Aunt Connie howled gleefully, “I thought you weren’t coming this year.”

            Santa cleared his throat. And there was a lot that needed clearing. It sounded like slime mold rattling its way out of an old car’s tailpipe that had been dragged out of a pond. When he spoke, his voice was low, slow, and crackling, cloaked in the residue of the thick gunk he hadn’t fully cleared. That’s when I noticed rosy stains at the corners of his mouth. I convinced myself it was chapped skin at the time, but I know better now.

            “Well, I almost got caught up in Australia, but my reindeer have been working out a lot lately, so they got our trip back on schedule with plenty of time to spare. Can't say the same for me, though."

            He patted his fuzzy, fake belly, and everyone except my father laughed.

            “You look different, Santa,” my father said.

            “Yeah, a lot can change in a year, sadly,” he said, “Mrs. Claus has been watching baking competitions, and it’s added a few extra pounds on me. Let’s just say she always wins star baker up at our house.”

            Everyone, except for my father, laughed again.

            “Speaking of, help yourself to some cookies,” Uncle Rick pushed a tin of assorted cookies toward the edge of the table. Among the choices in this tin were the frosted sugar cookies cut into crosses and peanut butter cookies with chocolate kisses. The man playing Santa winced.

            “Oh, thank you, but I think these kids might throw me in the oven and eat me like one of those cookies if I wait any longer to give them their toys," he boomed, and he was right. We did collectively feel that he could wait to eat until after he performed his duties.

            His long, bony fingers struggled like mating daddy longlegs to curl around the drawstrings of the red velvet gift sack and open it. Once it was undone, he beckoned to us by waving his hand.

            My sister stood up first, and I quickly followed with our cousins. We got in line by age, like always, and waited for our special gift—the gift that was specifically planned for each of us. These were never random gifts. They were always on our wish lists.

            “Wow, look at you all lined up like good girls and boys,” Santa bellowed as he fished around in the bag, “Let me see here. These are fresh out of the factory. Ah, who wants this one?”

            Santa pulled a long cylinder wrapped in candy cane-striped paper out of the bag.

            The question was confusing. I wondered why they weren’t already labeled for us. We had never gotten to choose which gift we received before. I thought perhaps it was a new way the adults were approaching the holidays now that we had gotten older. To maintain our attention, they were introducing choices into our gifts. I assumed trading would follow if we liked someone else’s gift over our own. It was like gambling, but you couldn’t lose. You could only win a Christmas present. It was an exciting shift in a dying tradition.

            “Is there a name on it?” my mother asked more aggressively than I’m sure she realized.

            “Hmm, I don’t think so,” the man said, “I suppose the elves have gotten so good at making gifts for you kids that they know you’ll love whichever one you pick. Now, don’t go shaking them to find out what’s inside. Wait patiently for everyone to get theirs.”

            “Oh,” my mother said, glancing at my father, concerned but desperate to keep the show moving, “Okay. Well, once they open them, they can trade them, I guess.”

            “I want this one,” Beth said, promptly stepping up to the large man and pointing at the cylinder in his hand. He handed it to her.

            "Why don't you get in Santa's lap and give him a hug?" the man said. She quickly obliged but wrinkled her nose as though he smelled terrible. After what felt like too long of a moment between them, she sat on the couch, holding her gift without mentioning it. She also felt compelled to keep the show moving.

            Next, Remy walked up to grab a shoebox-shaped gift that he celebrated was “heavier than it looks” and returned to his chair. I didn’t mind having last pick because I assumed it would be the best present. The packaging had to be a trick. The next gift was a department store bag with tissue paper over the top. Matt asked if I wanted it, but I said he could have it, and he took it back to the couch. None of the boys were asked to sit on Santa’s lap or give him a hug.

            "Ah, the final gift," Santa said, beaming at me. "Think I left the best for last, do you?"

            “Yes, I do.”

            Warm chuckles crackled through the adults.

            “Well, you’re not wrong, little buddy,” he said.

            “Do you remember my name?” I asked.

            “Of course, I do, but good boys don’t interrupt Santa while he’s giving gifts on his most busiest night of the year. I gotta get going soon! Do you want the gift or not?”

            I looked at my parents. My mother's eyes were wet with adoration at my questions. She told me later the first thing that made her cry that night was marveling at how quickly I had grown up. She was reveling in the final few moments she would be able to watch her son earnestly talk to an actor playing Santa as though he was the real thing. My father had his arms crossed, glaring at the presents in each child's hand. Rick and Connie smiled in the glow of their after-dinner Christmas drinks and welcomed the experience.

            “Obviously, yeah,” I said.

            The man pulled out the final gift, a small, square box, and handed it to me. It was smaller than the rest of the gifts and concealed in nowhere near as shiny or festive of wrapping paper. It was very light, almost weightless. It had to be better than the other gifts.

            “It ain’t the size of the gift that matters,” he said, “It’s what’s inside.”

            “I know,” I said, annoyed by his assertion that I didn’t already know that.

            I returned to the seat next to my sister and looked at the others. Each child had a hand on the taped creases and breaks in the wrapping paper, positioned to open it within seconds of being given permission.

            “Let’s get this show on the road. Open them up,” Aunt Connie said, and we did.

            Loud tearing burst through the dining room like a harshly forced exhale before all the wrapping paper was ripped off each gift and fell to the ground. The bag holding Matt’s gift sat in a rain of its tissue paper innards now pooling on the floor around it.

            "You sure you don't want one of these cookies?" my dad asked, having already walked across the room, picked up the tin and closed the gap between himself and the fuzzy, red-and-white man with the crooked, fake beard. He shook the crucifix-shaped sugar and peanut butter cookies at him.

            “No, thank you,” he grimaced. “Believe it or not, Santa can’t have peanuts. Even we have peanut allergies all the way up at the North Pole.”

            Beth was holding a long mailing tube, Remy had an old shoebox, I held a small square ornament box, and Matt looked down into his bag, the contents of which were now entirely on display to him. Matt was the first one to gasp.

            "You weren't allergic last year," my father said. I looked up and noticed that the man was now looking back at my father, each of their gazes digging into the other, scraping at the loose information hiding just behind their eyes.

            “What did you get?” Aunt Connie asked her son.

            Matt dumped his bag onto the floor, spewing forth a small pile of trash. Empty glass bottles, plastic food containers and scraps of paper littered the floor as though they had been scooped from the dumpster moments before Santa entered our home.

            “Is this a joke?” Matt asked.

            "This is fu--," Uncle Rick stopped himself from cursing, "garbage. This is garbage. Maybe Santa gave the wrong gifts. These must be meant for the naughty kids.”

            The rest of us opened our presents. Remy emptied trash out onto the floor as well. Old bottles, used coffee filters, banana peels, and crushed Styrofoam to-go containers. There were also some rocks worked into his, making it the heaviest. I guess I got lucky because my box was empty.

            We looked at Beth, and she was holding a small sword.

            "What the fu--," Uncle Rick stopped himself from cursing again. "That’s a sword!"

            "Hey, what's going on?” my mother said, “Beth. Put that down, honey.”

            Beth stood staring at the sword, mesmerized by its shine. She ran her free hand along the gold handle’s intricate engravings. Connie took the empty boxes and bags from the children and kicked the garbage into a pile while Uncle Rick walked across the living room to take the sword away from Beth.

            “These aren’t the gifts I sent you to hand out,” my father said.

            “These are the gifts we got,” the man in red replied.

            “You weren’t allergic to peanuts last year,” my father said.

            “I think you had somebody else last year.”

            “Where is Mark?”

            “He’s sick. I filled in.” The red stains at the corners of his mouth grew.

            “And what’s your name?” Uncle Rick asked.

            “Santa Claus.”

            As quickly as the kids had ripped open their presents, Uncle Rick suddenly dropped to the floor, and Connie started screaming. Beth pulled the sword, now drenched in her uncle’s blood and dripping all over herself and the carpet, out of his abdomen. She had dug it up through his heart and out through his spine. The cold precision caused him to die immediately and leak everywhere. Beth then turned, and I saw her eyes. A gray film had slid over them like a second eyelid. She grabbed me, holding the sword to my throat.

            “I could make her cut his throat right now,” the man said.

            Connie’s screams would not cease. She shrieked and wailed, kneeling over her husband’s body, desperately trying to keep the blood inside.

            The man snarled his lip behind his beard, twitching. He knelt down next to Connie as she cried. He touched her arm, put a finger up to his mouth, made a shh sound, and she went quiet. A gray film slid over Connie’s eyes, like Beth’s, and she froze.

            Then, with the fake beard pulled aside, Santa put his lips to the floor and started sucking up Uncle Rick’s blood.

            We stared in shock, unsure of what we were looking at. Aunt Connie appeared to be dazed. Hypnotized. Beth still held me in a powerful grip I had never felt in all our sibling wrestling matches. The wet blade pressed hard against my tender neck.

            The man worked himself into a frenzy. He grew more and more stimulated by the sustenance of the horrid mess on the floor. He played in my family’s blood. He writhed around in the red puddle, growling and jerking. His tongue squirmed violently as he licked. His ribcage heaved as he sucked it all down. He was a ravenous animal. I couldn’t tell if he even knew we were there anymore.

            My mother pulled Matt and Remy back. My father darted into the kitchen. After a moment of listening to Santa suck on the floor, slurping through the thick blood of his dead brother, my father returned holding a small red and green crucifix magnet that read “He’s the reason for the season” and a garlic bulb.

            “Connie, move away, please,” he said.

            Connie didn’t move. My mother knelt in front of Beth, trying to see through her stare, hoping to release us both.

            Santa lifted his head, his eyes were red slits, and his skin was translucent. Waves of blood sloshed beneath it.

            “Revoke your invitation,” my father said.

            “I revoke my invitation!” my mother yelled.

            My father pressed the cross against the back of the man's head and rubbed the garlic into his cheek. The man screamed like a boar caught in a bear trap. He convulsed and shoved my father to the ground. Then, he turned and grinned, black smoke pluming out of the burns around his face.

            The man stood up, blood dripping from his mouth, and he leaped at my mother, slamming on top of her with his knees, knocking the wind out of her with a painful thump. He opened his mouth wide, revealing two enormous, jagged, glistening canine teeth, and he lurched at my mother’s neck.

            My father stood up to hit the man with another round of garlic and crucifix magnet when Aunt Connie suddenly moved in front of him, her gray eyes wide. She absorbed the blow and threw him desperately off course, dropping his tools.

            My mother dodged the first bite, sending Santa’s face gnashing into the floor behind her head. He pulled his head back, snarling through a bent nose, snapping his teeth, and tried again. My father screamed. Then the man screamed.

            While softly crying for their father, Remy had picked up the cross and Matt the garlic, and they were standing on either side of Santa, holding them against his hands. He threw his head back in penetrating agony.

            I stood there with a sword pressed to my throat and listened to the only other sound in the room. Beastly screeching shook the walls of our home. It was a tortured animal now. The small crucifix magnet and garlic bulb that had been used for dinner earlier that evening burned through the man’s hands and grafted his palms to the hardwood floor. The smell of charred flesh replaced the warmth of our meal. Unfortunately, my mother was still trapped under the weight of his body.

            The gray film suddenly slid off Connie's eyes, and she looked at my father, terrified. For a moment, she appeared unsure of where she was. She turned around, instinctively lifted her leg back and kicked Santa in the shoulder as powerfully as her marathon training ten years ago allowed. The man's hands ripped at the burn, leaving his fingers and knuckles glued to the floor as his body fell over. My father ran back into the kitchen. My mother stood up.

            “Thanks, Connie,” my mother said.

            “Holy fucking shit!” Aunt Connie shouted.

            My father returned with a small bag of garlic and handed it to my mother. The adults took one bulb in each hand.

            “I thought you bought too much garlic when you came home with this bag,” my mother said to my father. “I was like, what are we going to do with all this?”

            “I thought I did too,” he said.

            “I like garlic,” I said, and they smiled. I was little.

            They pressed the garlic against Santa’s head.

            And then, Santa’s head exploded.

            I don’t know how else to put it. His head exploded. Blood popped in their faces, more than I thought a human head that isn’t exclusively made of blood could hold, as my cousins and I looked on in horror. It painted the living room. My parents scraped layers of red syrup out of their eyes. Beth dropped the sword and let go of me. Her legs gave out, and she sat down, looking confused.

            She looked at Uncle Rick’s body and started choking on tears.

            The man’s body fell limp on the floor as the blood-soaked adults turned to comfort us, their faces stretched with dread. Remy and Matt’s sobbing lasted years. Beth couldn’t be comforted. I don’t think her crying ever really stopped. I sat in shock. I couldn’t make tears. I couldn’t remember how to do anything.

            We moved houses. We skipped Christmas for a while. We skipped most things for a while. Our tradition of hiring a Santa died with the actor who portrayed him.

            My father said he never thought it could happen to us, and it devastated him that he wasn’t more prepared. I still don’t know how he knew. He never told me more than simply that he had heard of it happening to someone before. He smiled even less after that. My parents became so careful that I forgot how lovely the holidays could be.

            But, over time, the warmth returned. The red of Christmas stopped looking like blood. The year we started celebrating again, we were each allowed to drink a glass of scotch, and we toasted to Uncle Rick. Every part of the meal had that familiar taste we encountered much more often in our mother’s cooking since that night. And I ate every bite.