FICTION

The Incident at 405 J Street

By Don Zancanella     VOLUME 59 No. 1

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After little Ana died from scarlet fever, Zara hated everything. She hated her husband, Anton; she hated the ugly town in the desert where they lived; she hated her friend Mary Potocnik for trying to make her feel better; she hated going to mass and listening to the idiot priest. She should have stayed in the old country instead of moving here, a place she’d been told would be wonderful but wasn’t. A place so remote, it might as well not exist. Rock Springs, Wyoming, USA.

If she hadn’t left Slovenia in 1924, she wouldn’t have met Anton in 1926, wouldn’t have married him a year later, and wouldn’t have given birth to a beautiful little girl one year after that. But now she couldn’t leave because that little girl, Ana, was buried in the Rock Springs cemetery—a desolate, treeless cemetery—and needed her mama to visit her there.



Although Zara hated Anton, she knew he was doing the best he could. Each morning, he went into the coal mine and didn’t come out until his shift was over. When he got home, every part of him was covered in coal dust except his teeth and eyes. Yes, he worked hard and didn’t complain. But sometimes he spoke without thinking. “Maybe we should try for another baby,” he said one day. She looked at him—her heart filled with fury—and slapped his face so hard he took two steps back and shook his head. Then she wiped the coal dust off her hand, spat on the kitchen floor, and whispered, “Never again.”

Even so, life continued. The next time Mary Potocnik came for coffee, she said, “Pork chops are on sale at Ben’s Foodliner, twenty percent off.”

“Did you buy any?”

“No, I’m just telling you because I thought you might be interested.”

“How do you do pork chops?”

“I dip them in milk, coat them in breadcrumbs, and fry them in oil.”

“That’s what I do too.”

In the old days, before the tragedy, Zara and Mary talked mostly about their children, but that subject was now forbidden. So was talking about their husbands or about anyone else’s children. Therefore, pork chops were all they could discuss.

Eventually, Zara gave in and allowed Anton to lie down with her and do as he pleased. The act felt desperate, as though it was the last time they’d ever be together. The next morning, she regretted it. No, she didn’t. Who was she to deny her husband? Who was she to care what happened to her one way or the other?

The truth was that Anton had loved their dear Ana even more than she had. It was stupid to make such a comparison, but it was true. He sang to her; he took her to the little park at the end of the street; he told her stories at bedtime; he got down on all fours so she could ride him like a donkey. Of course, she was Ana’s mother so that counted for something, actually a great deal, but while she did the things all mothers did, Zara had never seen such a doting father. She didn’t know how he was holding up. How he was surviving.

Zara had once heard a story about a woman who, after experiencing a tragedy, had let her house go to pot. She didn’t want that to happen to her, so she vowed to keep cooking and cleaning no matter how sad she felt. It wasn’t a great burden. Anton didn’t eat as much as he used to, some days only a few bites.

Then one evening Anton said something unexpected: “I want to buy a zither.”

“A zipper?” She thought she must have misheard him, but what else could he have said?

“A zither,” he said, emphasizing the th sound. “You know, to make music. With strings.”

“That’s ridiculous. You don’t know how to play.”

“My father did. In the evening we’d sit by the stove and listen to him sing.”

“Where would you get one?”

“I’d order it through the mail. I could learn. You could learn. One of us could learn.”

“Suit yourself. But as for me, I have no interest in the zither. I have better ways to spend my time.”

Anton had a history of purchasing items by mail. Most recently, he sent away for a hand-cranked meat grinder so he could make his own sausage like his friend Henry Dietz. Before that, he’d ordered the complete plays of Shakespeare. To his surprise, the books were tiny, each volume two inches by three. He had expected a full-size set. But the type, while miniscule, was legible, and now they sat on his dresser in the bedroom, awaiting the day when he’d have time to read them. Maybe when he retired.

The next time Zara saw Mary Potocnik, she told her about the zither, making it clear she disapproved.

Mary said, “Oh, Zara, if you’ll grant me permission to speak of that which you have said I’m not allowed to speak of, I’ll explain what’s in his mind.”

“In Anton’s mind? How could you possibly know?”

Mary shrugged. “It’s easy enough to deduce.”

“Then say it. You have my permission.”

“He wants to distract himself from his thoughts about Ana. He hopes learning a stringed instrument will occupy his mind.”

“How ridiculous! Nothing will help us stop thinking about Ana, except maybe time. No, not even time. We shouldn’t bother trying. A zither, of all things. If he orders one, I’ll smash it against . . .  ” How large was a zither, and how sturdy? What would be a good object to smash it against? “Against something,” she said and burst into tears.

In truth, Zara might have embraced some means of reducing the pain, the continuous pain she felt because of their daughter’s death, if it had made sense. Perhaps prayer. Or doing good works to improve the lives of others. But a zither ordered through the mail was an insult, as was the idea that either of them might learn to play.

A few days later, Anton apologized. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Which matter are you talking about?”

“The zither. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m obviously not going to buy something you don’t want us to have. Some husbands may do things like that but not me.”

The way Anton had learned about Ana’s death was unusual, and Zara wondered if that had something to do with his peculiar ideas about how to deal with his grief. It happened like this:

One of Anton’s friends was killed when a piece of rock fell from the ceiling in the mine. The man had four daughters and no wife, so suddenly the girls were orphans. For a time, it looked as though the sisters would have to be separated from one another. But then their aunt back east, in Cleveland, Ohio, said she’d take them in. To make the trip on the train to their new home, the girls would need a chaperone, so Zara convinced Anton to go. The trip went well, with Anton successfully delivering the four girls to their aunt; but when he got back to Wyoming, Zara met him at the train station and told him that in his absence, their precious Ana had died. Thus, while Zara had the opportunity to sit by their child’s bedside until she closed her eyes for the last time, Anton hadn’t been able to say good-bye until Ana was lying in her casket wearing her first communion dress. Later, he asked Zara why she hadn’t sent a telegram. “I did,” Zara replied, “but I guess you were already on the train.”

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DON ZANCANELLA is the author of a collection of stories, Western Electric, which won the Iowa Short Fiction Award. He’s also been the recipient of an O. Henry Prize, and one of his stories was cited in The Best American Short Stories 2019 as a Distinguished Story of the year. He’s the author of three novels, including Animals of the Alpine Front (2024), and he has recently been named a Boise City Writer-in-Residence.


VOLUME 59 No. 1