Ten Seasons

By Kat Martuccio

One

The man who plays Santa at the mall has a real beard because he believes in God. I watch from a distance as each child climbs onto his lap and recites a list. Santa smiles a real smile, the child tugs on his beard, and the photographer clicks the camera. I snap a few photos of my own to add to my flip-book. Santa is in the same spot in every picture, in the same outfit, striking the same jolly pose, child testing his beard. The children all look the same, but Santa gets older every year. That alone is proof there's no God.

Two

Santa can't swim. In the spring, he makes model sailboats. He paints them teal and pink, royal purple and glittery gold. He brings them to the pond and kneels down, gently setting them afloat on the still water. He watches them glide across the mirrored trees. When a big gust of wind finally comes, he watches as they gracefully topple over and drown. Then he walks home, puts on some Ellington, and slowly twirls me as the vinyl revolves.

Three

In the summer heat, Santa wears Hawaiian shirts and sends postcards to his elves. He looks down on baseball games from the stands and cheers for both sides. He meticulously grooms his beard. He’d take off his belly, he says, if he didn’t like it so darn much. He drinks strawberry daiquiris in the shade and licks his lips.

Four

Santa sips herbal tea as he waits for winter, peppermint steam mingling with crisp autumn air. He wanders into the bedroom and crawls under the blanket with me. We spend afternoons hidden from the world, only the soft crooning of the record faintly drifting in from the living room.

Santa starts wincing whenever he moves. I make appointments with specialists. I get up early and get dressed. Then I crawl back into bed and wake him gently, spooning him until he lets out faint, sleepy moans. I drive him to tests and check-ups. He insists nothing's wrong, but all the doctors disagree.

On the way home from his second session, he says he feels a little queasy. After his sixth, I pull over so he can vomit. He spends the rest of the car ride looking in the fold-down mirror, picking chunks out of his thinning beard. By the eighth session, he stops trying to keep his beard clean. He reclines in the passenger seat and huddles under an itchy plaid blanket.

Five

When winter arrives, Santa suggests I fill in for him this year, and we buy the beard and belly he never needed. I tell him I don’t know how to be Santa, but he says it’s OK. He tells me the most important part is the smile. I tell him it's keeping the beard on.

Sometimes he stops by after his appointments. He watches as children climb onto my lap and I awkwardly greet them. He smiles as I escape their sticky fingers when they try to grab my beard. He takes a few pictures of me and pins them on the refrigerator, and I put up old pictures of him. I pretend it's him in all the pictures.

He slowly loses his belly.

Six

I buy Santa a remote-controlled boat and paint it silver and icy blue. I tell him he can make this one come back; he can watch it drift off, but then he can rescue it. He takes it out to the pond as soon as the ice melts. An hour later, he comes back empty-handed. Every ship is sinkable, he tells me with a shrug. He turns on the record player and climbs into bed, shivering under the heavy comforter.

Seven

Eventually, he decides to shave it. Best to do it in the heat, he says. I want to beg him not to, but I know he'll lose it either way. I drive him to the store to get shaving cream.

In the bathroom, he cuts off handfuls of beard and tosses them into a small trash bag. He whistles slow melodies. He trims what's left until he has barely more than stubble. I look on from the doorway. He covers his fingers in shaving cream and splatters it all over his face. He puts some under his eyes like a football player. He puts a drop on the tip of my nose and switches to humming. I leave the cream there, already grieving. It's just a beard, he says, and I know he doesn’t believe it. He drags the razor across his cheek.

Eight

After he’s gone, the world goes quiet. I drink lukewarm tea and spend days hidden under blankets, waiting for eggnog season. I keep the record player off and avoid the pond.

Nine

At Christmastime, I listen to children’s wish lists. I narrowly evade their hands reaching for my beard. I smile for the camera.

I come home and wait for nothing in particular. I idly browse the pages of my Santa flip-book, now complete. On good days, I listen to love songs. Other days are filled with time.

Ten

As the days grow longer, I make sailboats and bring them to the pond. I watch them drift along mirrored trees and I dip my feet into the water. I work on getting my own belly, drinking Kahlua as the nights get warmer. I fall asleep with the windows open and dream of unsinkable sailboats floating through the sky, skimming the trees.

—

About Kat Martuccio

Martuccio is a copywriter in New York, NY, where she lives with her cat. This is her debut piece of fiction. Follow her at @blueitalics.