Ways to Skin a Cat

University of Northern Iowa

Ways to Skin a CatAuthor(s): Daniel WallaceSource: The North American Review, Vol. 272, No. 4 (Dec., 1987), pp. 44-45Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124919 .

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NAH

WAYS TO SKIN A CAT

Daniel Wallace

i t was the first thing his son ever learned that proved to be of any real value to the father.

"Ready?" he said. He held a stick in his hand, a small one. "This is going to be a long one," he said. The boy nodded, but he never took his eyes away from the stick.

"Okay . . .

go!" The father heaved the stick across the yard. The boy

watched it arc and tumble through the air, following it with his feet, and was almost under it when it hit the

ground near the shrubbery. He picked it up and trotted back to his father.

"Good boy," his father said. "Good boy. Ready for another?"

The father had some friends over for a barbeque, but they had all left their sons at home. The boy sat at his father's

feet, smiling, and he never said a word.

"Nice looking kid you've got there, Charlie," said a

friend,

"Yeah," said another. "Is he smart?"

"Smart?" Charlie said. "Smart? Watch this." He went to the woodpile and found a respectable

stick. He slapped the palm of his hand with it a couple of

times, grinning at his friends, and when he snapped his

fingers the boy jumped to his feet.

"Ready?" said the father. The boy nodded. Every body was quiet. The father threw the stick about fifteen

yards. It went past the shrubbery, through the branches of a pine tree, and it landed in the creek. The boy raced after it. It looked like a difficult throw, but it was a throw they'd

been practicing and the boy had no trouble with it. "That's incredible," said the friend. "How long did it

take for you to teach him?" "About a week," said Charlie.

"How old is he?"

"Five," said the father.

"Only five?" "That's right," he said, rubbing his son's head. "Five

years old."

44 December 1987



4 -MINUTE FICTION

"Incredible," said the friend. "Really, really incredi ble."

"Thanks," said the father. "Wanna see another?"

The boy grew quickly. He learned many things. He learned how to make his father a drink, to bring in the

paper. He learned how to change the channels on the television set. Fetching was no longer a

challenge. He

learned how to match his father's socks?a trick even the

wife had never mastered. He was obviously quite bril liant. The father sent the wife away. The son learned how to preheat the oven, make beds, clean house, rake the

yard. All this he did to absolute perfection. Occasionally, for old time's sake, he and his father would go out back and fetch a stick or two. It was nostalgic. "How you've

grown!" his father often said, and it was true. The boy had grown. He was huge. He had arms as big as logs and muscles in his legs that flexed could rip a pair of brand new jeans. A good-looking boy, he was only sixteen.

But one day he came down with a very bad cold. It was the first time he had ever been sick in his life. This sur

prised and confused his father. He tried to get his son out of bed but he couldn't. The boy groaned and rolled over. And he did have a fever, his father could feel it, but it wasn't that bad. It wasn't that bad at all.

"Stay in bed for a while," the father said. "And when

you get up be sure not to forget to read my List of Things To Do I left for you in the kitchen."

On the list were many things. The yard needed to be

mowed, weeded and raked. The house needed a new coat of paint, the roof new shingles. The old elm that was

dying needed to be cut down before it fell, and there were

many other smaller things to do which the son had to do

everyday but that the father thought he'd write down just for the hell of it.

So he left for work, certain these things would get done. But that evening, many hours later, he came home

and saw that the yard was looking just as bad as it had that

morning, that the house had been neither painted nor re

shingled, and that the elm was still leaning precariously to the right.

Inside was worse. The house was a mess. Not a dish

had been done, nor a bed made, and his drink?the one his son always left in the foyer at the bottom of the bannister so it would be there and ready to drink the

moment he got home?well, it was simply not there.

So the father climbed the stairs to his son's room, one

heavy step at a time, and there, in bed, he was, his son,

just as he had left him that morning. The son's large brown eyes peered at the father over the edge of his blanket,

"So," said the father. "Been here all day, have you?" The boy nodded. "Haven't moved from the bed, have you?"

The boy shook his head.

"Well," the father said. "Well well. That's great. That's just fine and dandy."

The father spent a moment in deep thought. This was the first time the boy, his son, had ever disobeyed him?it

was a crucial moment in both their lives. If he got away with it this time . . . The father thought of inches, of miles. Some sort of discipline was in order here. A line had to be drawn. But he couldn't spank the child. He knew that. The boy was simply too large, and the father was genuinely afraid his son might retaliate. But he knew another way to go about teaching a lesson. He knew.

He shook his head and smiled a sad one.

"Worthless," he whispered. "Absolutely worthless."

He sighed. "Did you know that? Did you know that you were worthless? That you're not worth a penny? That I wouldn't pay a penny for you? That at a penny you'd be

overpriced?" Gradually his voice grew louder and louder. "Did you know that? Well, did you? Well? So? What do

you have to say for yourself? What? Let's hear it. I want to hear it, please. Please, I want you to give me a reason I

should excuse this inexcusable behavior?though I can tell you now, right now, that there is no excuse, no excuse

whatsoever. But maybe you think there is one, and if you do I'd like to hear about it. Maybe you think you know

something I don't and there's an excuse for what is abso

lutely inexcusable, unforgivable behavior. So tell me. The floor is yours. What do you have to say for yourself?"

He waited. He crossed his arms, closed his mouth and waited for his son's reply. For a long time the father and

the son stared into each other's eyes. For a long, long time.

It was then that he remembered?that the father re

membered?the boy had never learned to talk. No one had ever taught him.

Just as well, he thought, sitting down beside him now,

smiling kindly, rubbing his head, feeling his son's fever. No telling what he might say.

December 1987 45



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Ways to Skin a Cat