Rage and Fresh Lemon Scent Destroy Our Family
by Patricia Flaherty Pagan

I grip a can of Pledge. A single droplet of polish hangs on the nozzle like forgotten toothpaste on the corner of my dad’s lip. My ten-year-old sister Molly tiptoes in behind me. I drop the can of polish to the floor. Thud.

We each take a leg and right the mahogany chair on the dining floor. After its earlier flight across the room at us and fall near the table, you’d expect to see some chips on the legs of the chair. Yet my fingers brush only a few old scratches made by stray roller skates and our pink Barbie Dream Car.

Molly picks up the can of Pledge, takes a rag out of her back pocket, sprays a nickel-sized amount of polish on it, and hands it to me. I hum “It Must Have Been Love.” A bitter grin spreads across my sister’s plump face. She joins in, delivering harmony in her raspy alto voice.

We take turns polishing the legs. Then, with tacit agreement, Molly goes to the kitchen and returns with a roll of paper towels. We polish four of the chair’s siblings. Sitting haughtily at the head of the table, my father’s chair dares me to approach. When I have polished it to a sheen, I take the key I use to let myself in after school out of my jeans pocket and scratch a long line across the seat back.

When our palms and bitten-down fingernails are slick with polish, my mom walks in with two creased and patched suitcases.

“You can’t throw chairs at children. I did not move to this country to let him kill us,” mom says softly, more to herself than us.

We neither nod nor cry. Then Molly moves towards mom. My little sister is pulled forward by the determined, silent magnetism of duty. As my dad’s rage and the fresh lemon scent of furniture polish devour our family, I watch the late afternoon sunlight from the windows glint on our dust-free dining room set.

“Girls, go kiss your father goodbye,” mom says.
​

CLOCKHOUSE Volume Thirteen