Dad’s beat-up white Renault sat at the far end of our little cul-de-sac, one front wheel up on the pavement and the rear end stuck out miles from the curb. Back from work early meant he’d already have a glass of whiskey in one hand, remote control in the other, staring at some quiz show on the telly. Instead, I found him in the lounge—perhaps already two-sheets to the wind—on his hands and knees, pulling irritably at a knot of flashing Christmas tree lights Mum had bought in the sales last year.
I stood for a moment, watching a contestant on a repeat of Family Fortunes. After getting back from school, Mum and I would often watch that show together, especially after the last round of chemotherapy, when it seemed her cancer was on the ropes. Turned out the Big C was preparing for a knockout punch.
The contestant stroked the bridge of his long nose as he decided the best answer to give for ‘Something people hate about Christmas’.
“Mistletoe,” said the contestant.
The audience laughed.
“Christmas lights,” said Dad.
“What you doing?” I said.
Without looking up, he pushed the lights aside and reached for his bottle. “Back from school already?”
I grabbed the bottle and placed it just out of reach on a small table next to a potted Christmas tree.
“You going to put a tree up, then?”
“Well done Sherlock.”
I began unraveling the lights. “Where’d you get the tree?”
“Up the woods.”
“That legal?”
“No.”
Mum had always bought the tree. Put up the decorations. Hung the lights.
“In-laws,” said a male contestant. Again, the audience laughed.
“In-laws,” repeated the quiz show host. “27% of people thought in-laws were the most annoying thing about Christmas.”
“They’re too knotted up.” I pushed the lights aside and stared at the telly. This time last year Mum had been on the mend—so it seemed. We were full of hope. She even got what she called, “Blotto” on one too many gin and tonics.
Dad picked up the whiskey bottle, took a sip and sighed.
“It’s going to take forever to sort these,” I said.
He grabbed the tangle of flashing lights, put his face close, and started swearing under his breath.
“That flashing’s doing my head in.” I crouched next to him, found a button on the long cable and pressed it. The lights went dark.
“You’ve broken them,” snapped Dad. “Put the big light on.”
I knelt in the half light given off by the telly at the far end of the lounge.
“Brussel sprouts,” said the female contestant.
The audience laughed. The lights dimmed and Dad went silent. But every time they came on he continued pulling at them. When it went dark, he stopped and sat still for a few seconds until they came back on. Gradually the length of lights became longer.
“I’ll put the big light—”
“No.” Dad sounded sure and determined. “Rubbish toys in crackers.”
“I can’t believe only 11% said Brussel sprouts,” I said. “I hate sprouts.”
“Paper hats,” said Dad.
“Bad cracker jokes,” said the male contestant.
“That’s the one,” said Dad.
“The survey said?” The host pretended to nibble nervously on his cue card. “71% of people surveyed agreed that cracker jokes were the worst thing about Christmas.”
Dad sat in the middle of a pretty-much detangled nest of slowly pulsing, colourful Christmas lights. “I’ve bought crackers,” he said.
The lights dimmed.
“Great,” I said.
“I remember this one cracked your mother up a few years back,” said Dad.
“One what?”
“Joke,” he said. “What’s purple and hums?”
“No idea,” I said.
When the lights came on again, Dad was smiling, his damp cheeks glistening in the blooming light. “An electric grape.”
Even though it was a joke far away from being funny, my stomach tensed. It hurt.
The audience on the telly laughed.
I clamped my mouth shut, but it was no good. Only when Dad said, “So bad it’s good, right?” did I realize that what had escaped my mouth must have been a laugh.
The lights went out. When they came back on again, Dad was standing over me holding a garland of slowly pulsing lights, as if it were some kind of weird animal he’d tamed. “Now lift that tree up onto the table, would you, so we can hang these friggin’ lights?”
Paul Attmere is an actor and writer. Originally from the UK he now lives with his family in Krakes, a small town in Lithuania. He’s been published in various literary magazines including Sixfold Anthology, Litro Magazine, Metaworker, Apple in the Dark, Airgonaut, and Ahoy Comics.
Featured Artwork:
Biltmore Ballgown Uneven Pair
Jim Ross jumped into creative pursuits in 2015 after a rewarding career in public health research. With a graduate degree from Howard University, in eight years he’s published nonfiction, fiction, poetry, photography, hybrid, interviews, and plays in nearly 200 journals on five continents. Photo publications include Alchemy Spoon, Barnstorm, Burningword, Camas, Feral, Invisible City, Phoebe, Stoneboat, Stonecoast, and Whitefish. Text-based photo-essays include Amsterdam Quarterly, Barren, DASH, Kestrel, Ilanot Review, Litro, NWW, Paperbark, Pilgrimage Magazine, Sweet, and Typehouse. He recently wrote/acted in a one-act play and appeared in a documentary limited series broadcast internationally. Jim and his family split their time between the city and the mountains.