Bully

by Kathy Fish

When her father drank he was a terrible bully but that's not what she wants to tell you this morning. She wants to tell you how her father taught her to tame squirrels with an ear of Indian corn in his outstretched palm. Lie flat in the grass, be still, wait. And how to mark the rows of her garden with seed packets on stakes and when to know the precise moment to pluck a tomato from the vine. Twist it free, don't pull. Eat it while you're still kneeling in the dirt.

There's a continuous hum of rain on the roof and an ache all through you for the way she's curled up, talking through her fingers as if she's hushing herself but she can't stop. He needed a dime for the movies once so he sold his pet pigeon to the cook at Morg's diner and he ended up crying all through the show.

She tells you that his own father made him walk along the railroad tracks when he was very small, collecting the pieces of coal that had fallen from the cars. That was the Depression of course. His dad never called him "son" or "buddy" or even said his name, he only ever called him "the kid" and he grew up wondering if he was adopted. He never finished high school. He worked in a factory but he read Alexander Dumas and Edgar Allen Poe. Whenever he got new work clothes, he'd bring out the pile of old, worn pants and shirts and make a ceremony of ripping them to shreds in front of all the kids. Here, she laughs and you notice the room has gotten darker, the rain more insistent and she lets you touch her then because she says that's everything, every last good thing she can remember.

© 2006 by Kathy Fish.


Kathy Fish's work has been published or is forthcoming in Night Train, Quick Fiction, Spork, Denver Quarterly and elsewhere. Three of her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.