“On Friday, Good Catholics Eat Fish”
by Terena Elizabeth Bell
When Eddie McCoy walked into Frank’s Corner Market, he did not know John was there. John was sitting at the side, by the grab n’ go potato chips, and Eddie didn’t look that way when he came in, nodding hello to the cook behind the counter instead. No, he didn’t see John, he did not see him at all. If he had, he would have turned right around and hightailed it out of there, not because he was afraid of his brother, but because he was ashamed. He was downright ashamed to face him, as he damn well should have been.
As to whether John saw Eddie is up for debate. To the men he was with, he said nothing about John’s entering presence, sitting with his back hunched over like it normally was, shoveling cole slaw from his plate. Fridays meant fish and the pan was a-sizzlin’ as the cook flipped several filets. “See about Mr McCoy’s order,” he told the girl who was working and, at this, John sort of looked up.
Now, Frank’s Corner Market was at the bottom of a hill at the end of a short gravel drive. There was only one door — it had originally been a honky tonk, built to control who went inside — and after the cook said this, the waitress went over and asked Eddie what he’d like and Eddie said one piece and three sides.
“That your brother over there?” one of the men sitting with John asked.
“Better not be,” he told him, “Show his face around me,” then sat down his fork on his plate.
Eddie remained in the corner where the Coca-Colas were kept, waiting for his meal, and as he did, he took his farm notebook out of his left jacket pocket, made a few notations, then put it away.
“You gonna say anything?” asked the man.
John twisted over his shoulder to look, then hunched his back again.
“Here you go,” the waitress told Eddie, “and I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll have to get your hushpuppies to you later. We ran out, he’s cooking more.”
Now what happened from here was about to be dictated by what sort of mood John was in. He might do nothing — he’d been ignoring his brother for years — or he might make sure everyone in that place knew exactly where things stood.
He picked up his tea and drank it, then sat down the glass.
“Two times under the knife,” John said, too loudly for just his table — and that’s when Eddie realized he was there.
It was a reference, of course, to Eddie’s sins, smoke rising off the pan, and as Eddie sat over by the Moon Pies and drink cooler, the fullness of it rolled heavy in his lungs. He shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have left the house, but by God, sometimes a man had to show his face somewhere, be allowed to go eat in peace. He had made a mistake, yes, but time moved on and while it had done so without John in his life, Eddie had lived in the trepidation that no matter where he went, there his brother might be. He’d changed: not just stopping the drinking, but going to Walmart at midnight now, to Southern States around close — hell, he’d even changed his church. “How much,” Eddie whispered, “should one man have to repent?”
There had been an accident. Eddie had been driving and when it was over, a surgery after a surgery, John never stood straight again.
He’d have to go. He always had to go, forever in the wrong, and as Eddie looked down at his plate, he lamented the fish, battered and crispy the way he liked it.
“Here you go,” the waitress said — finally, his hushpuppies, and Eddie told her thank you in a real quiet voice, the politest he could muster — but he would not ask for a box.
“I’m not going,” he said, and she laughed, “Going where?” sixteen and already working.
“Anywhere,” Eddie said, “I’m not leaving this place,” and she gave him a funny look.
“Well, let me know if you need anything,” not sure what to say, then she went back behind the counter.
At this point, every man in the place knew what was going down. The cook kept on flipping — it was all he could do — and the young lady kept refilling drinks. The air got tighter and the grease popped louder and some people looked toward the door.
“Damn it,” Eddie yelled, “enough is enough,” and that’s when he threw down his napkin. “I’m sorry about your back,” rising out of his chair, walking towards his brother. “I’m sorry about your back,” standing over his seat, screaming in his ear. “I’m sorry about your back.”
His brother took a swing.
A punch that didn’t land, but not for want of trying: Eddie dodged out of the way. He threw back his head and stammered a step, fingers rolled tight into fists. “I’m sorry,” he said, the penitent man, with how much more to redeem.
Terena Elizabeth Bell is a fiction writer. Her debut short story collection, Tell Me What You See (Whiskey Tit), was named one of the “best books of the century (so far)” by New York Society Library. Her work has appeared in more than 100 publications, including The Atlantic, Salamander, MysteryTribune, and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. A Sinking Fork, Kentucky native, she lives in New York. Get one story delivered to your inbox every month by subscribing here: patreon.com/terenaelizabethbell.
by Terena Elizabeth Bell
When Eddie McCoy walked into Frank’s Corner Market, he did not know John was there. John was sitting at the side, by the grab n’ go potato chips, and Eddie didn’t look that way when he came in, nodding hello to the cook behind the counter instead. No, he didn’t see John, he did not see him at all. If he had, he would have turned right around and hightailed it out of there, not because he was afraid of his brother, but because he was ashamed. He was downright ashamed to face him, as he damn well should have been.
As to whether John saw Eddie is up for debate. To the men he was with, he said nothing about John’s entering presence, sitting with his back hunched over like it normally was, shoveling cole slaw from his plate. Fridays meant fish and the pan was a-sizzlin’ as the cook flipped several filets. “See about Mr McCoy’s order,” he told the girl who was working and, at this, John sort of looked up.
Now, Frank’s Corner Market was at the bottom of a hill at the end of a short gravel drive. There was only one door — it had originally been a honky tonk, built to control who went inside — and after the cook said this, the waitress went over and asked Eddie what he’d like and Eddie said one piece and three sides.
“That your brother over there?” one of the men sitting with John asked.
“Better not be,” he told him, “Show his face around me,” then sat down his fork on his plate.
Eddie remained in the corner where the Coca-Colas were kept, waiting for his meal, and as he did, he took his farm notebook out of his left jacket pocket, made a few notations, then put it away.
“You gonna say anything?” asked the man.
John twisted over his shoulder to look, then hunched his back again.
“Here you go,” the waitress told Eddie, “and I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll have to get your hushpuppies to you later. We ran out, he’s cooking more.”
Now what happened from here was about to be dictated by what sort of mood John was in. He might do nothing — he’d been ignoring his brother for years — or he might make sure everyone in that place knew exactly where things stood.
He picked up his tea and drank it, then sat down the glass.
“Two times under the knife,” John said, too loudly for just his table — and that’s when Eddie realized he was there.
It was a reference, of course, to Eddie’s sins, smoke rising off the pan, and as Eddie sat over by the Moon Pies and drink cooler, the fullness of it rolled heavy in his lungs. He shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have left the house, but by God, sometimes a man had to show his face somewhere, be allowed to go eat in peace. He had made a mistake, yes, but time moved on and while it had done so without John in his life, Eddie had lived in the trepidation that no matter where he went, there his brother might be. He’d changed: not just stopping the drinking, but going to Walmart at midnight now, to Southern States around close — hell, he’d even changed his church. “How much,” Eddie whispered, “should one man have to repent?”
There had been an accident. Eddie had been driving and when it was over, a surgery after a surgery, John never stood straight again.
He’d have to go. He always had to go, forever in the wrong, and as Eddie looked down at his plate, he lamented the fish, battered and crispy the way he liked it.
“Here you go,” the waitress said — finally, his hushpuppies, and Eddie told her thank you in a real quiet voice, the politest he could muster — but he would not ask for a box.
“I’m not going,” he said, and she laughed, “Going where?” sixteen and already working.
“Anywhere,” Eddie said, “I’m not leaving this place,” and she gave him a funny look.
“Well, let me know if you need anything,” not sure what to say, then she went back behind the counter.
At this point, every man in the place knew what was going down. The cook kept on flipping — it was all he could do — and the young lady kept refilling drinks. The air got tighter and the grease popped louder and some people looked toward the door.
“Damn it,” Eddie yelled, “enough is enough,” and that’s when he threw down his napkin. “I’m sorry about your back,” rising out of his chair, walking towards his brother. “I’m sorry about your back,” standing over his seat, screaming in his ear. “I’m sorry about your back.”
His brother took a swing.
A punch that didn’t land, but not for want of trying: Eddie dodged out of the way. He threw back his head and stammered a step, fingers rolled tight into fists. “I’m sorry,” he said, the penitent man, with how much more to redeem.
Terena Elizabeth Bell is a fiction writer. Her debut short story collection, Tell Me What You See (Whiskey Tit), was named one of the “best books of the century (so far)” by New York Society Library. Her work has appeared in more than 100 publications, including The Atlantic, Salamander, MysteryTribune, and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. A Sinking Fork, Kentucky native, she lives in New York. Get one story delivered to your inbox every month by subscribing here: patreon.com/terenaelizabethbell.