Bread
by Kathy Fish
Zach is fixing us his famous fisherman's omelets and fried potatoes. The omelets are filled with mushrooms and crabmeat and whitefish and scallions and the smell of them cooking in butter is making me swoon. And we are, let's face it, a little drunk already. We're all in town, the siblings, for the first time in two years.
Zach slides an omelet onto a plate and piles potatoes over the top of it and hands it to me. “Eat up. You could use a few pounds.”
My brother Rob is already chowing down. He pats his belly. “Contentment,” he says, like he always does. I pull a chair up next to him.
“I work out is all.” I shake the ketchup bottle over my potatoes and it comes out all at once. I mix it all together with my fork.
“That is truly disgusting,” Rob says and for a second I think he's referring to my working out.
Zach sits down with his own plate. A beam of sunlight hits the top of his bald head, like a penlight flicking on. Ted, our other brother, the one whose son has died, is at his house with his wife. The movers are coming tomorrow; they've decided to go ahead with the move to Santa Fe.
“Remember Mom used to make creamed eggs on toast? Does anybody make that anymore?” Rob's talking around his food.
“Creamed eggs on toast is a poor people food,” I say. We also used to have bread and gravy for dinner; we all remember this, though our mother denied ever having given us a dinner that lacked essential protein.
Zach lifts his glass. “Look at us! We eat like kings. Kings!”
Rob and I lift our glasses, too, and we're laughing hard. Nothing's funny really. Zach looks at the clock.
“We'd better hustle. We're supposed to be there by 10:30.” He's saying this to Rob. They're to be the pallbearers. We all go quiet, like we've been switched off.
Rob pushes his plate away. He's messing around with his napkin, folding it and unfolding it. He leans over and covers his face with his hands. “I still can't fucking believe this,” he says. I pat my brother's broad back. He's sobbing and I can't even work up one tear. I don't want to go to the funeral. I don't want to see my brother grieving. Or my sister-in-law. I don't want to see my nephew in a casket. The last time I saw him I gave him some of my pot, teased him about his girlfriend. I drink the last of my Bloody Mary. The phone is ringing.
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Author's Note
This story originally appeared in FRiGG and was reprinted in A PECULIAR FEELING OF RESTLESSNESS: FOUR CHAPBOOKS OF SHORT SHORT FICTION BY FOUR WOMEN (Rose Metal Press, 2008). Posting this for the Food Writes Throwdown...
Read it before. It was a good read then; it's a good read now.
Appreciate it, Mr. Swenson!
A great piece, Kathy. An effective voice: "Zach slides an omelet onto a plate and piles potatoes over the top of it and hands it to me. 'Eat up. You could use a few pounds.'"
I like the use of sound to close the story.
Thanks so much, Sam!
This is of course wonderfully told. Laughing when nothing's funny, yes. I was right there with them.
(I do realize this is beautifully written and serious, but I must also note that from here on out I will not consider myself complete until I have one of those omelets. Whoa.)
Lou, thank you! I know, I get hungry rereading this too, ha.
Kathy, I love what you do in the first paragraph to set this up. The food sounds delicious, the siblings are drunk and together for the first time in awhile. What follows is compelling, well paced, a delightful read.
Thanks for reading this, Christian!
Very strong. Nice work.
Appreciate it, Bill!
Kathy, super. I don't know what the Food Writes Throwdown is, but I'll found out. I love the initial enlarged Z that begins the story. Snazzy.
The story is told in exactly the right way, each detail slowly giving way to the reason the story is being told, the reason they are gathered. I would like to know how the nephew dies, why they are moving to Santa Fe. On the other hand (interesting to me), I don't NEED to know (if it were real life, I would feel the other way). The story, like certain obituaries, does not release that information.
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Thank you, Ann! This means a lot coming from you. I got the snazzy first letter because I cut and pasted this from the FRiGG site.
This is brilliant. So much tenderness and compassion. *
Oh I'm glad for what you said here, Kim! This is fiction, but my nephew really did die and I worked so hard to hit the right notes here. Thanks.
Kathy, You have a way of laying it all out neatly, then it starts to unravel,then it all falls apart in a way that can be quite unsettling...
Very good story
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Thanks so much, Susan!
This is just wonderful. Evocative, loving and heartbreaking. Extremely human. Fave.
Oh thanks very much, Claire!
Nice work.
Loved this, Kathy. The dialogue is so good and feelings jump from the screen.
Thanks, Foster and Sarah!
You got me sobbing now... beautiful, beautiful story. It seems when someone dies, we gather around with food, for memory, for comfort, to mourn. If I could, I'd double-fav this. Just. So. Good. Thanks for moving me. Peace...
Aw, this is a huge compliment, Linda. Thanks so much.
Man, that last paragraph is just completely killer. Wow!
Hey, thanks Darryl. Appreciate it!
Wow. Kathy, this is like a condensed, tightly wound "Death in The Family." Beautifully done--the mix of family patter, the underlying emotion, the reality afraid to whisper the newest reality. Just expert.
Thanks Susan!
I’m so moved by this story, Kathy.
Thank you so much, Kari.
"Nothing's funny really." Sublime and devastating.
The collapse at the end is the uppercut set up so well by all the jabs and hooks.
The dialogue is wonderful.
I like Cami's comment - this is sublime and devastating.
wonderfully written, kathy, greatness.
Hey, thanks Cami, David and Marcus! Appreciate the reads and kind words.
wonderful writing as usual. Not at all sentimental, but still heartbreaking. Just reaches in there and touches us.
Great dialogue.
and crabmeat and scallion omelets, man!
Thanks for the read and nice comments, Debbie!
This is amazing storytelling, Kathy. All the details are just right -- the ketchup and eggs, the memories of childhood food, the dialogue (yes!), and the sparse details of the fact of the nephew's death (especially the sparse and carefully placed details). I do not think you need any more in here about the death: it is enough that we know he is dead; it is enough that we see how this family is coping on this one particular morning; it is enough that we see that the narrator cannot cry, will not cry; it is enough that we glimpse her fondness for the nephew in the details you provide, them smoking pot together and laughing.
It's all so sharp and tender. Just wonderful. This will stick with me.
What a generous reader you are, Michelle! Thanks for this. Means a lot to me.
Yes yes. Love the way we are sucked into thinking this is a normal ordinary reunion--and of course it is. This is exactly the way it is.
Hi Gay! Thanks so much for this. I appreciate it.
My favorite line: "we all remember this, though our mother denied ever having given us a dinner that lacked essential protein."
Thank you, Jo!
this is so very good
Beate, thanks. I'm so glad you like this one. It was kind of a hard one to write. Thanks so much.