You Don't Know Me by Ray Charles Robinson Jr

Author:Ray Charles Robinson, Jr. [Robinson, Ray Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307462954
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2010-06-08T05:00:00+00:00

THE CHRISTMAS AFTER my father came home from rehab had a special meaning for our family. It was the first clean Christmas he had ever celebrated. My father’s valet, Vernon, and I climbed the tall ladder onto the roof and decorated it for the first of many Christmases there. We put up a Santa and sleigh with all eight reindeer and hung lights around the outside of the house. Inside, we put up a big white tree covered with red globes. It was the perfect seventies Christmas tree.

On Christmas morning that year I woke up at about four, too excited to go back to sleep. I decided to sneak downstairs and take a look under the tree. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but my brothers still did, and I wasn’t quite willing to give up the belief. I wanted there to be a Santa. Even if there wasn’t, I knew there would be a pile of amazing presents under the tree.

I crept quietly down the big staircase in my bare feet and peeked around the corner. A light wheel flashed colored lights onto the tree like a mirror ball on a dance floor. The tree was surrounded with big, gift-wrapped boxes, and in the middle of them was a shiny gold bike with a banana seat. It was for me! I knew it. I heard someone move. Was it Santa? I excitedly scanned the room. It wasn’t Santa Claus. It was my father, sitting quietly in the chair by the Oriental coffee table.

He was dressed in his nice robe, with his glasses off. His head was lowered and he was singing softly. It was a Christmas song. I don’t remember which one. As he sang softly to himself, his body was relaxed, at peace. I sat down to watch him. He didn’t know I was there. Everyone else was asleep. It was just me and Dad.

I must have watched him for almost forty-five minutes as he continued to sit there, quietly singing Christmas songs. After a while he got up and walked around the room, touching things, feeling the presents, running his hands over my bike. He sang as he walked, bobbing and weaving to the music in his head. Finally he made his way over to the corner of the room. His grand piano was there, the top raised. On the edge of the piano were the plate of cookies and glass of milk we’d left for Santa. My father picked up the glass and plate, still singing, and made his way back to the chair. He sat down, put the milk on the table beside him, and began to eat the cookies, holding the plate close to his mouth so the crumbs wouldn’t spill.

As soon as he took the first bite, I rose to my feet in a flash and shouted, “Daddy! Hey, Daddy! No! That belongs to Santa!”

At the sound of my voice my father almost came out of his skin. He jumped out of the chair, scattering cookies everywhere.

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