I asked mom to tell me about dad and she said all I need to know is that dad is dead. I asked her again and she said she was gonna burn me with frying grease if I didn’t shut up. I told her I wouldn’t shut up and I would call the cops if she didn’t speak so she said dad was the Santa who worked at the Hollywood Fashion Mall. She didn’t know his name or what he looked like without his beard. It was a quickie in the men’s room inside Burdines next to the hair salon where she worked as a shampoo artist. I told mom I didn’t believe her and she just smiled and skrunched her perm. She turned around. She opened her underwear drawer and pulled out her push up bra. Wear this, my dear, she said, and see what happens next. The bra didn’t fit and it was worn out, like mom. It was as if an army of possible dads hand smeared their hands all over it in mom’s search for the perfect Santa. The perfect man. There’s no such thing as Santa, mom said. And your father doesn’t exist.