Rocky 4
by Ann Bogle
Rocky, a Russian immigrant, new, I guess or never knew, gave no response when I stepped out of the car, expressly to wave to him. He sat on a bench near trees transplanted to a black-edged rock pile in front of April's house. I did not say “hi.” Jack Y. and I were there to pick up his boys, born eighteen months apart, both under ten, to take them to the County Fair. Rocky looked iron-built, tall and lean, not round like April. Russian lawn ornament, I said, mistaking the thought as mine. Some year later, Jack said Rocky committed suicide. He was glad Rocky took it away from the house. The boys were told only that Rocky died.
Topiary statues bring that back.
“Is that Tinguely on the right?” I asked my teacher.
“Yes,” my teacher said.
It interests me more than the one on the left.
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Author's Note
Published in Thrice Fiction 8, August 2013.
A related story is "Meryl Streep Laughed at That," published in Altered Scale in 2012 and named in Wigleaf Top 50 2013.
I have no understanding of what connects these people (in the first part), who belongs to whom, who took what where...
but I like it.
"It interests me more than the one on the left." Yes.
NIce, Ann
"He was glad Rocky took it away from the house."
I like the way Jack seems to ignore the suicide, wash his hands of it, by shifting focus away from the suicide himself, Rocky, to the kids or the house or the home. Jack just won't deal with this will he? That's the way I read it anyway.
The more I think about this, the better I like it.