American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 71

53 • FI CTION

camera store and the gas station. When he’s not working he’s home,
doing his projects, fixing things, going up and down the basement
stairs, out to the garage, sitting on the porch with Mother, reading
the Ann Arbor News, tying his bow tie in the bathroom mirror,
stirring sugar in his coffee. He is not one of those out-of-town
fathers. But now he has a secret life. Say it straight: my father has
a girlfriend.
“Grilled cheese?”
She always finds me.
“Dear?”
Mother is tall. She has wavy gray hair, dark circles under her
eyes, a pointy nose, and she’s wearing the same brown sweater.
Maybe he is sick of that sweater.
“Tomato soup?”
Mother’s voice is high, not low.
“Dear?”
I always thought they slept in different bedrooms because he
snored, or she snored, but I was wrong about that, too. Nobody
snores. Marky thumps his tail.
“Shall we take Marky for a ride?”
Is she crazy? Marky hates to go in the car.
“You’re absolutely right,” she laughs. “I’m losing my mind!”
So am I. So is my father. We are all losing our minds.
“Help Marky up.”
We have to hug his belly then lift gently.
“Has he been out since I left?”
“No.”
“Then let him out, please. I don’t want any more tinkles in the
house.”
Marky doesn’t run to the fence anymore and he doesn’t lift his