DAD'S CHRISTMAS PRESENCE

Mom and I started fighting about Christmas in November. I understood that she had painful memories — we all did — but didn't she understand that it was Christmas? We were still kids, and we needed presents, decorations, cookies, all of it… with the possible exception of a visit from Santa.

I took it upon myself to sneak the holiday into the house. I went up to the attic, a task made much more daunting by Ghost-Dad, who wouldn't allow the light to stay on, or a flashlight to work, or even a candle to stay lit. I felt his malign presence as I struggled to stay on the little causeway of plywood and not fall through the ceiling. I reached a box I suspected contained Christmas stuff, opening one dusty flap and pulling out the first thing my fingers found, a cool sphere.

Immediately the lights came on, and with a moan the likes of which I hadn't heard since last Christmas, Ghost-Dad was gone. I held a shiny red ornament, paperclip hanger still attached. With the box open, I located the other boxes, dragging them toward the pull-down stairs. With the box closed the lights went out again, and my feet were pulled out from under me, and down into the house I fell.

Nothing was broken. None of my bones, anyway. One box of Christmas had tumbled down with me, and I found myself surrounded by shattered glass and tangled string lights. But Ghost-Dad was gone again.

After I cleaned up the mess, Ghost-Dad returned. But I'd been thinking in the meantime, formulating a theory. Jimmy took one wobbly step toward Ghost-Dad before he remembered what I'd told him to do. He pulled out the Santa hat I'd given him and put it on his head.