Coda
A Piece of Flash Fiction
The following short story was first published in Corvus Review, Issue 22 on July 1st of this year. It took “just” 29 rejections to get it accepted somewhere. Big thanks to the editors!
Patrick Fonda died today. His mom used to do Alana’s hair back in Jefferson, and they kept in touch, so the news appears as soon as we pull up Facebook. The day her son turned forty-eight, a Mack truck flipped his Harley over on the interstate, pinning him under it. Squashing him like a bug. Exactly what he almost did to me that day.
I step away from the computer, rubbing at my eyes. Too late. The memory invades like a doctor’s torch approaching the eyes of the sedated; impossible to stop. My knees buckle and Alana must help me to the couch.
I’m on the ground. My nose is bloody, and my lip, from when my teeth broke the skin of his hand. His boot is on my neck, its rubber-tipped sole threatening to crush my windpipe. “You’re just a bug to me, Anderson,” he says smirking, and it’s true: at fifteen, Patrick Fonda is 190 pounds of ballooning muscles, while I’m 135 soaking wet. His foot slips a bit and I think I might die.
A splitting headache pulls me back to the room. First time it ever comes at a good time. Alana hands me a glass of water, but my hands are clammy and it slips, shattering on the floor. I’m shaking all over.
I never spoke about what Fonda did to me. Everybody thought I was a pussy anyway, including—and likely most of all—my dad, so why add fuel to a flame that doesn’t need it?
About a decade ago, I saw him step out of a gas station, his auburn hair blowing in the dry Texan wind. That’s not true; I don’t even know if it was him. I didn’t wait to make sure. Hotshot programmer in Pegasus City, and all I could do was climb back into my pickup and drive to the next gas station, my heart pumping all the way there. Like I had Mistress Death instead of just the sun on my heels.
A trio of rock pigeons has made a nest on our windowsill. We love pets, but Alana’s allergic, so these three are the only friends we have in Dallas. I used to own a cat, Marty, but had to leave him with my mom when we moved. I’ve got this thing about naming animals after people; helps me connect with them. As a kid, I went out to the bayou a lot; I named every animal I could see and followed them with my eyes as they went about their day, eating, playing, fighting, shitting; forever here, never just lost in their heads. Watching animals calms me. The pigeons I call Melvin, Bob, and Lucy, short for Lucinda.
“Should we call Mrs. Fonda, let her know we’re thinking of her?” Alana asks while I feed the birds. I should be the one to make the call, but I can’t bring myself to talk to Patrick’s mom yet. Alana calls.
“Funeral’s tomorrow at 11, at the FBC. Would mean the world to her if we could come.”
I surprise myself when I say yes. “Yes, of course we will,” Alana tells the receiver. “We’ll pray for Patrick’s soul together. May he rest in peace.”
She pours me another glass of water and I gulp it down. Then I throw it at the far wall, where it shatters into a thousand little pieces. I only notice the tears when my eyes start to sting.
I tell my wife everything. How I had to wear a turtleneck for days to hide the imprint of his boot. How during our nightly prayers my father forced me to wish for success but secretly I prayed to see that bastard in the ground. How his death hasn’t fixed anything. How it hasn’t fixed me.
That night, I toss and turn, plagued with questions. All of them about Patrick. What was he like, at the end? What kind of man had three decades moulded him into? Was he married? Did he have any kids? Pets? Will anybody miss him?
Did he even resemble the boy I remember?
I leave the bed carefully so I don’t wake Alana. I boot the computer, pull up Facebook, search for “Patrick Marion Fonda”. I don’t expect there to be more than one, but three results pop up, and I wonder, did this androgynous name make them as angry as it did my Patrick? Did it make them want to torture, humiliate, taint? In the third picture down I recognize my devil. A little fatter, a lot balder, his arm around somebody cropped out, and on his face, the same smirk he wore as he stepped on my neck. I click.
I know this story!!! 😍🤩
Congrats on the acceptance, Andrei. That's truly awesome.
As is this story. 💜
This is fantastic! I can feel the emotion and conflict of the narrator. Love the scene where the "hot shot programmer" instantly becomes the bullied kid at the gas station.