He could have been a statue, frozen in the dark, one hand over the telephone. His face was still wet, but his throat was parched and tight as mummified muscle. He couldn't cough.

He couldn't call. He had nothing to say.

So he drew his hand back and wiped his eyes. Told himself to think. When you've known someone for thirty-two years, there must be words to say. Hey, kid, I'm about to get caught lying again. No big surprise. Happy holidays. No. But forgiveness was a lot to ask, and middle ground was hard to find.

A familiar monster stepped on his back, small and heavy, claws digging in to clutch his spine. It spoke with the voice of age and truth, bitter in the back of his mind. Congratulations on surviving this long. Tomorrow's another day. And he was bowed already with the weight.

Through years like murky water, he remembered coming home in the smallest, darkest hours. Jenny was precise with every garland and star, but the best way to look at a Christmas tree was blind drunk. Each point of colored light splashed and spilled into the next, beautiful blur like abstract art. He was singing when he came in, something between carol and dirge, and tripped over Mallory, curled up on the floor behind the couch.

"Jesus Christ, baby, what're you doing up?"

She blinked, sleepy and sweet. "I wanted to see Santa."

Then she peeked further, scanning the loot, piles of crimson and gold, and hidden in the back, was that a bicycle? Her eyes went wide, and he wasn't thinking--of course he wasn't. Twenty-five years later, he still heard the hollow, cruel humor in his own voice.

"Santa's not coming, okay? Go back to bed."

And still saw her face falling, saw her turn, silently breaking, and run upstairs. He fell asleep on the couch, woke with his skull screaming at seven a.m. He watched his daughter tear through the wrapping paper, bright as the morning. Jenny sat beside him, murmured in his ear, "I can't believe she let us sleep this late. I guess she wore herself out trying to stay awake." So she never told her mother, little co-conspirator, lying like a trooper--how old was she when he taught her to mix a drink? When she stopped using his last name?

His tongue tasted of dust; his hand trembled and then stilled on the desktop. Hey, sweetheart. Just thought I'd say hi. Sorry I ruined your life. I'm glad you take after your mother. Merry Christmas.

He could have been chiseled from stone. Portrait of an old man who lost the war. Then his downcast eyes found the crumpled napkin, and he shrugged his shoulders straight. There's life in this one yet. Steel at the core of these crumbling bones. But he felt the ache of footprints on his back, and left the phone in its cradle.

He couldn't call, not yet. His mouth was too dry for speech.