American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 73

“Walking through the dining
room I feel better. It’s quiet,
no sound of a train, no trees
bent over outside.”
When I come down to the kitchen in the morning there is my
father in a clean white shirt and blue-and-gray striped bow tie,
standing by the stove stirring sugar in his coffee. He cut his chin
shaving. Marky’s water bowl is full. Mother is standing at the sink
where Tizzy’s pan is soaking, no questions asked about the mess I
made on the stove.

55 • FI CTION

hook. Mother calls this pan “Tizzy’s pan” because my grandmother’s
cook, Tizbelle, used to warm milk for Mother in this pan when
Mother was a little girl. Mother is right about rituals. Using the
same pan Tizzy used is comforting.
Staring at the bank calendar I realize this is October, not June,
July, or August, not tornado season. Why didn’t I think of that?
Then Marky barks and there is a loud crash. Before I can scream
Marky stops barking because leaning against the wall in the breakfast room, in his white shirt, bow tie undone, the window open,
cold air coming in, is my rumpled father. He kicks Marky’s water
bowl, doesn’t see the puddle, doesn’t close the window, doesn’t even
see me or Marky, just turns towards the back hall, says a few swear
words, unhooks the chain on the back door, says a few more swear
words, and goes up the back stairs.
Did my father just climb through the window in the breakfast
room? The clock on the stove says 3:25. Why was the chain on the
back door? Marky looks at me with his cataract eyes. The milk boils
over.