American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 72

54 • FI CTION

dishtowel. She pushes her hair behind her ear and turns around,
water running down her arm. I think she is going to call for Marky
to come back inside, but she keeps right on going down the basement stairs. We don’t call him for lunch until its ready. Lunch is
not ready.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into everybody,” says Mother coming back up the basement stairs. “Your father is not hungry and
you’ve got your lost-on-stage look. Give Marky two Milk Bones
when he comes in. He’s the only creature in this family I recognize
today.”
I don’t know why she forgot Marky hates going for a ride, but
she looks normal, cranking the can opener around the soup can,
smiling her smile for babies and small animals.
“Tornado dreams last night, my darling daughter? Did you eat
that Hershey bar?”
Not tornados. This, right now, us. Mother making lunch in the
kitchen and my father, who now has a girlfriend, hiding in the
basement.

Tonight I don’t have a brownie for dessert, but the tornado dream
comes anyway. I am too old to wake up my father and Mother’s
right; there is no reason I cannot warm my own milk. The tornado
could be in the front yard, so I cover my eyes when I get to the
landing. Then I trip over Marky. He yelps. Marky never sleeps on
the landing. Why isn’t he in my father’s room, in the green chair?
Maybe I don’t need warm milk. Maybe I should go back to bed. I
am about to turn around, but Marky heads down the stairs. I run
after him, and turn him at the bottom so he doesn’t bang into the
wall.
Walking through the dining room I feel better. It’s quiet, no
sound of a train, no trees bent over outside. The kitchen isn’t even
dark because somebody left the stove light on.
I get the milk from the icebox and the glass from the cupboard.
I turn on the stove and take the milk pan with the red rim off the