over to her house, in through the front door then up the stairs to search through her bedroom’s drawers for the ring he’d bought her, the ring she’d accepted and that the moment she’d accepted he’d wanted back, not the ring but the money it represented, the overtime it represented, What does he do for a living? Dad asked, But he can’t just butt into her house unannounced pushing past her family because she lives with her family now heading upstairs to go through her bedroom’s drawer, I said, construction, he works construction, What kind of construction? Dad asked, He killed her with his switchblade, I said, which he keeps in a jacket pocket.
He stabs her with a switch just to get a ring back? Dad asked, But that’s where the quandary squats, I said: He’s been driving around for an hour, driving around for hours with the corpse in the back thinking to himself what to do what to say, should he ditch the body and where or bring it with him indoors while early evening remains, smashing into her house at what could conceivably still be dinnertime with the nice dishes out, the whole bird starched for the carving, the veggie sides to the side, no flowers but flower motif vase (narcissus), (snuffed zircon-encrusted) candlesticks without candles—to innocent and gentle with grace lay her body like a fine polish atop the diningroom table, to force her father to cover her body with a tablecloth “as if a bridal gown,” the detail, the cloth “lawned in dewsmoothed white,” the poetic description, or else he could, he thinks again another alternative, leave the body in the car, go inside the house alone and without explaining anything not to the victims neither to the reader slaughter everyone inside because her family—father, mother, four grandparents like a full set of heirloom silver—would be the only people who’d miss her if she went missing, What’s her name? Dad asked, what’s his? I said, And to die is to go missing profoundly, When and where’s this set? Dad asked, what kind of car’s he driving? Or maybe it’d be better to narrate this chronologically, I said, Dad asked, Chronology means you’re finally going to tell me what happened?
Ray, I want to call him, or Ronald, I said—though other options are Mac, Dick, Donnie/Donny, Smith/Smyth(e), Luke, and John—but she I’m convinced is a Patty because there’s something in her face like an underdone hamburger patty, like its waxed plastic wrapping, or a mess of wet napkins smeared with makeup sampled from a mortuary for clowns, I thought you said she looked good? Dad asked, She has a hot body, I said, a hot little body, a hot tight little body but the clownface is unfortunate, kind of greasily melting and the car is a Ford, What model Ford? Dad asked, A white Ford, I said, a white Ford Escort, I said, I don’t know why I have such an easy time saying Ford but I do, it’s simple to say and so obvious to say the car was a Ford and it was, maybe a Ford Fiesta in red, in yellow, in a color like Autumn if Autumn’s a color—do Fords come in Autumn? is it redundant to speak of an Autumnal Ford? Dad (who might, as I write this, be performing his nightly check that the garage door is locked) asked, Why would you have trouble saying Ford?
Mac, Dick, Mick, Ray Ronald, or let’s stay with Ronald Ray, I said, who’s driving this—no forget I said Ford, it just sounded reliable, authentic or verisimilar, a moment ago but now it sounds shitty.
I’m not following you, Dad asked, what’s so shitty about Ford?
Me, I said, past tense:
Ronald Ray left the house he and Patty shared, the house they used to share until last week’s fight over when and where to hold the wedding—Patty was always fighting for later and splurgier—caused him to hurl a boot at her: him awhirl in a single sock, kicking her out of the house—with an eye that would bruise orificially black, a parturient bust lip—her calling her parents from a payphone two corners down
He stabs her with a switch just to get a ring back? Dad asked, But that’s where the quandary squats, I said: He’s been driving around for an hour, driving around for hours with the corpse in the back thinking to himself what to do what to say, should he ditch the body and where or bring it with him indoors while early evening remains, smashing into her house at what could conceivably still be dinnertime with the nice dishes out, the whole bird starched for the carving, the veggie sides to the side, no flowers but flower motif vase (narcissus), (snuffed zircon-encrusted) candlesticks without candles—to innocent and gentle with grace lay her body like a fine polish atop the diningroom table, to force her father to cover her body with a tablecloth “as if a bridal gown,” the detail, the cloth “lawned in dewsmoothed white,” the poetic description, or else he could, he thinks again another alternative, leave the body in the car, go inside the house alone and without explaining anything not to the victims neither to the reader slaughter everyone inside because her family—father, mother, four grandparents like a full set of heirloom silver—would be the only people who’d miss her if she went missing, What’s her name? Dad asked, what’s his? I said, And to die is to go missing profoundly, When and where’s this set? Dad asked, what kind of car’s he driving? Or maybe it’d be better to narrate this chronologically, I said, Dad asked, Chronology means you’re finally going to tell me what happened?
Ray, I want to call him, or Ronald, I said—though other options are Mac, Dick, Donnie/Donny, Smith/Smyth(e), Luke, and John—but she I’m convinced is a Patty because there’s something in her face like an underdone hamburger patty, like its waxed plastic wrapping, or a mess of wet napkins smeared with makeup sampled from a mortuary for clowns, I thought you said she looked good? Dad asked, She has a hot body, I said, a hot little body, a hot tight little body but the clownface is unfortunate, kind of greasily melting and the car is a Ford, What model Ford? Dad asked, A white Ford, I said, a white Ford Escort, I said, I don’t know why I have such an easy time saying Ford but I do, it’s simple to say and so obvious to say the car was a Ford and it was, maybe a Ford Fiesta in red, in yellow, in a color like Autumn if Autumn’s a color—do Fords come in Autumn? is it redundant to speak of an Autumnal Ford? Dad (who might, as I write this, be performing his nightly check that the garage door is locked) asked, Why would you have trouble saying Ford?
Mac, Dick, Mick, Ray Ronald, or let’s stay with Ronald Ray, I said, who’s driving this—no forget I said Ford, it just sounded reliable, authentic or verisimilar, a moment ago but now it sounds shitty.
I’m not following you, Dad asked, what’s so shitty about Ford?
Me, I said, past tense:
Ronald Ray left the house he and Patty shared, the house they used to share until last week’s fight over when and where to hold the wedding—Patty was always fighting for later and splurgier—caused him to hurl a boot at her: him awhirl in a single sock, kicking her out of the house—with an eye that would bruise orificially black, a parturient bust lip—her calling her parents from a payphone two corners down
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