American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 68

50 • FI CTION

closed in the woman’s house? What house would
that be? What woman?
He seemed fine last weekend. It was a nice fall
day. A perfect day, he said, for putting up the storm
windows. I stay indoors and shout out the numbers
on each window while he finds the matching storm
window on the grass. Last year I yelled a “6” when
I should have yelled a “9” so he had to carry the
“6” window all the way back down the ladder, but
this year I didn’t make any mistakes. Mother’s job
is to wash the storm windows with the hose and
dry them with a clean rag. We all did our jobs.
I have to see my father. I have to look at him
straight. We are straight lookers in this family. He
says that all the time: in this family we look
straight. I never knew what he meant by that, but
now I think it means you look at the person right
away. You don’t wait.
There he is, standing at the sink, sawdust in
his hair, a cigarette on the windowsill, the long
ash about to fall into the sink. You would think it
was a normal Saturday and he had just come up
from the basement. You would think all he had
on his mind was the fireplace in the living room.
He told us at breakfast all about the fireplace
project. We can still have fires, he said, but the old
German tiles around the firebox will be covered
up. He’s building a paneled box around the fireplace from floor-to-ceiling. The firebox will not
be in the center, but to the left and the Renoir will
hang on the paneling to the right. This is the modern look—off-center. I can’t picture it. Where will
Mother put her flowers and candles without a
mantel?
The folding ruler in his back pocket means he
is on his way to the living room to take more
measurements, which means he will have to pass