The inappropriate Christmas crush was something he and I shared: two Jews gazing starry-eyed at every wreath and poinsettia. He would have adored the shimmering streetlights decked with massive, sparkling snowflakes. Mom and Rosie eye-rolled all things Christmas. Dad and I were the holiday apologists in the family, gleefully singing along with “Let It Snow” and “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” and “White Christmas.” Our rule was that we could belt out at full volume any and all of the Christmas songs that don’t directly mention Jesus.
You know, all the best Christmas songs were written by Jews, my father liked to remind anyone who cared to listen, which mostly meant me. He was so damn proud of this little factoid. The thick Wilford Brimley mustache he’d cultivated in the eighties and insisted on maintaining ever since twitched above his smile. Irving Berlin, Johnny Marks, Mel Tormé& any Christmas song worth singing, I guarantee you, some nice Jewish kid wrote it.
Could’ve written some more Hanukkah songs while they were at it, my mother would always interject, as if irritated that all the musically inclined Jews gave the good melodies to the other holiday. Mom was the keeper of the faith, the stalwart, the one worried my little sister, Rosie, and I would drift away from our Jewish heritage if she wasn’t ever-vigilant. For Dad, being Jewish was easy. It was just a built-in part of his identity, no need for maintenance. For Mom, it was a handful of holy sand that she was determined to never let slip through her fingers.
Not a big enough market, Dad said cheerfully. They wouldn’t’ve made a dime.
And then he went back to happily humming “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” off-key.
God, he was a terrible singer. I’d give anything to hear him butcher “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” one more time.
The holiday season has sharpened the dull knife of my grief, twisting it into my side with every unwelcome reminder of my loss. My fortieth birthday is barreling toward me, and I can’t stop thinking about all the things my father has already missed, and all the things he’s about to miss. Milestones like my birthday. And Rosie’s Hanukkah-themed wedding, which Dad would have paid for while rolling his eyes relentlessly. His love of Christmas cheer was the one exception to his general rule of poo-pooing anything over-the-top. He was a jeans-and-baseball-cap guy, a Chicago-dog and deli-sandwich aficionado, a lover of deals and cheap thrills. It was Mom and Rosie who loved spotlights and splurging. Birthday parties and weddings were always moments for them to shine—and for Dad and me to retreat.
He would have loved walking Rosie down the aisle, though. Even if a big holiday wedding with hundreds of guests would have seemed extravagant to him, he would have been delighted to see Rosie have the wedding of her dreams. His greatest joy was seeing his family happy. That was it; that was all. At every recital, soccer game, graduation, he was always there, dabbing at his eyes and grinning from beneath his massive mustache.
But he won’t be there to get teary-eyed walking Rosie down the aisle. Or to walk me down the aisle, if I ever manage to get married.
The thought hurts, but it’s also a moot point, since I haven’t had a steady boyfriend in years. It seems doubtful that my string of bad relationship choices, and current tactic of flirting with my hot new neighbor by cracking third-grade-level jokes, will lead to me standing under a chuppah anytime soon.
We’re approaching the Southport stop, which means an even larger crowd of commuters will press onto the train. For once, I’m grateful for the incoming crush of additional bodies. Maybe harried holiday travelers will distract me from my darkening thoughts. My stomach rumbles again as the crowd in front of me shifts, riders preparing to either exit or reluctantly make room. Santa once again comes into view. The automated voice calls out that we’re approaching Southport. Closing my eyes briefly, I can almost hear what my father would say to the Santa across the way.
Hey, buddy, this your stop? All the way from North Pole to Southport, huh?
I open my eyes and decide to just go for it. What the hell. As the doors slide open and people pour from the train, I raise my festive cup in greeting.
“Merry Christmas, Santa,” I say.
Santa Claus stands up and lets out the longest, foulest belch I’ve ever heard in my life. The stale smell of booze nearly makes me gag. He looks at me with wet, bleary eyes and grabs his red velveteen crotch, leering at me before stumbling out onto the platform.
Ho, ho, ho.
CHAPTER TWO
“There you are!”
When I get off the train at Merchandise Mart, Sasha is waiting for me on the platform. That’s unusual in and of itself, because Sasha is always at the office early, knocking items off her to-do list, never exiting the building unless she has a client pitch or remembers she should maybe eat lunch. But what’s really throwing me is the fact that she’s not wearing a coat.
Something’s definitely up.
