Gay Daddies

A Present for Daddy-2

This close to the holiday, the mall is packed. I normally wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near a shopping mall at the end of December, but in the small town where I grew up, Southpark Mall is literally the only place to go, and I promised Jenna some last-minute shopping to pick up gifts for her grandparents. Before we left, my mother tucked a twenty dollar bill into my pocket—despite my protests—and told me not to spend too much on them. “We have everything we need,” she said.

I pointed to Jenna, already decked out in her coat and hat. “Try telling that to her.”

My daughter settles on a pretty, less expensive snow globe for Gramma, and a heavy pewter belt buckle for Pop-Pop. I don’t have the heart to tell her neither gift is practical; my father stopped wearing belts when he retired five years ago. Instead, I give her the twenty and let her pay for the items. The pleased grin she gives me as she counts back the change is well worth the price.

There’s enough left over for an ice cream, so we head down to the food court, Jenna’s hand in mine to keep her close. The mall is packed with kids out of school, last minute shoppers, and people just milling around enjoying the holiday decorations. Long garlands of fake holly are strung along the walls and frame all the store windows. Occasionally we see someone dressed in an elf costume, who always waves at Jenna and points in the direction where we’re headed. And every few feet, there are signs leading us along, telling us to stop by Santa’s Holiday Mountain Resort to get a photo with the jolly old elf himself.

When we turn the final corner and come upon the huge papier mache mountain constructed in front of the food court, Jenna’s eyes go wide and her mouth drops into a perfect O of surprise. “Daddy, look!”

I barely glance over and nod. “Yes, honey, I see it.”

It’s the same mountain they had up each and every Christmas I can remember growing up. The glitter that makes it glisten has probably been refreshed, and the wispy strands of fake snow are new, but the animatronic animals scattered along the mountain’s slopes still jerk with the same motions I remember, and the line leading into Santa’s workshop in the mountain’s interior is still just as long. I hope Jenna doesn’t want to wait for a chance to sit on Santa’s lap.

She doesn’t. Instead, she’s drawn to a small cabin set against the side of the mountain. A small crowd of children has gathered in front of the cabin, their parents a short distance away. The cabin has a sign on the front that says, Beary Christmas, Y’all! On the cabin’s porch are four animatoronic bears dressed in parkas and snowsuits playing musical instruments.

The bears are as old as the mountain—the closer we get, the more I notice wear and tear the animals have suffered over the years. The flocking on the bears’ ears and noses is worn through in spots, their movements are stilted, and their clothing and instruments are dated. Still, the kids seem to love them, and Jenna pushes her way right up to the front of the crowd and presses against the handrail to get a good look. “Daddy!” she cries.

I wave, distracted. “Yes, I see.”

The bears are playing a song—Jenna doesn’t seem to notice it’s a recording; I hear a piano in the music, and none of the bears even have that instrument. Also, the vocals sound suspiciously like Nat King Cole. The cabin really houses a sound system, and someone inside during mall hours plays holiday tunes. After every song, there’s a little playful banter—whoever’s running the show calls out to the children, enticing them to visit Santa, and the kids think the bears are talking. They love it. Sometimes there are not-so-subtle ads, as well, sales announcements for shops inside the mall. Then another song. The bears are tireless performers.

Nat King Cole fades away, and a man’s voice comes from the moving mouth of the first bear in the quartet. “Enjoy a hot pumpkin latte at MooseTracks, Southpark’s answer to Starbucks! Just inside the food court, y’all. Yum, yum!”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Jenna. Time to go.”

“Huck-yuck,” the bear laughs, jerking its head side to side. “Get in line and let Santa know what you want on Christmas Day! Photos cost only ten bucks!”

I reach through the throng of children and grab the hood on Jenna’s coat. “Come on, sweetie. Didn’t you want some ice cream?”

The bear speaks again, louder this time. “Well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Bobby Jansen all grown up!”

My heart stops in my chest. Is that thing talking to me?

“Daddy, that’s you!” Jenna grins up at me and laughs. “How does that bear know who you are?”

How indeed? I glance at the cabin warily, but the bears have started singing again, this time crooning a little Dean Martin. “I don’t know, honey. Let’s go.”

Her hand slips into mine. “He said your name, though, right? Bobby Jansen, that’s you.”

Actually, it’s Bob now, but my mother still calls me Bobby, and that’s all my daughter’s heard for the past few days. “Yes, that’s me.”

“So do you know him?” Jenna asks, letting me lead her away.

I want to laugh, but she’s serious. At seven, this doesn’t seem like a strange question. Most likely whoever’s inside the control booth back there is someone I know—from my parents’ church, maybe, or from high school, someone who recognized me from when I used to live here. But I don’t want to ruin the illusion for Jenna—if I tell her the bears aren’t real, she’ll ask if the mountain is real, and that might lead her to question whether or not Santa is real, and at this moment, I don’t want to go there.

So instead I give her a tight smile and say, “You know, those bears have been here a long time. He probably remembers me from when I was your age.”

“Wow!” she cries, impressed. “That is old!”

Tell me about it. Some days it feels like an eternity.