Ducks, Newburyport

by Lucy Ellmann

time he tried it on her, the fact that sometimes my feet started to hurt, just from standing there so long waiting for him to go, the fact that how could anyone have married Ronny, the fact that he must’ve talked her head off too, beheading, decapitation, leap, “Shane! Shane!”, the fact that to get away from him, all I could usually think of to say was “Well, the pies must be burning,” but maybe that just rubbed salt in the wound, or sugar anyway, caramelized sugar, with a bit of latticing on top, and egg-yolk polish, “Here is a nut,” the fact that what was really icky was when he started talking about all the times he’d spied on us, and followed us in his car, the fact that that’s really kind of scary, the fact that in the midst of it all, being held at gunpoint, all I could think was, if you had enough spare time to spy, you could’ve been delivering pie, and making yourself useful, a new rhyme for Budington, jutting gun, but, by the look of things, Ronny never did want to make himself useful, the fact that the chicken feed was just one big ploy, the fact that even when he rescued us from the floods, he had an ulterior motive, a big one, something between rape and pie theft, the fact that I don’t think he knew which it was himself, trash, chickens, kitchen stool, school bus, Leo, swimming cat, the fact that I don’t much like the thought of Ronny hiding around the corner like that, the fact that how long was he doing it for, months maybe, the fact that it’s pretty unnerving,