River Town Box Set

by Grant C. Holland

  To Brody’s surprise, he found five more photos of his great-uncle Clyde with the mystery lover. Only one picture portrayed them kissing, but they held hands in two others, and their cheeks were pressed together smiling directly at the camera in two more. Brody blinked back a tear while staring at the two happy men. He could feel the frustration at his mother welling up inside. She kept it secret. She hid their story from her gay son. Suddenly overwhelmed by her absence, he turned his head and wept.

  Brody didn’t plan to arrive at work until 11:00 a.m. He was working through the store’s closing at 8:00 p.m. His usual evening manager was still on vacation, and it was an opportunity to get to know his evening workers better. Most of them were younger and more recent hires than those who worked during the day.

  A usual morning off involved sleeping in until at least 9:00 a.m., throwing a bagel in the toaster, smearing it with cream cheese, watching an hour of DVR-recorded shows, and stumbling out the door at 10:45 after a quick shower and shave. Before returning to sleep in the middle of the night, Brody decided that he had to rise earlier because he had a mission to complete.

  It was sunny out when he climbed out of his old bed with an ache in the small of his back. The room was cool in the early morning, but it would warm up again by the end of the late summer day. The temperatures throughout the old house never moderated even when the air conditioning was working properly.

  Brody remembered the cemetery where Clyde Miller was laid to rest from his memories attending the funeral as a young child. He assumed that they trekked out to the grave itself, but he didn’t remember that part. Benson Hill was one of two large cemeteries in town. The other was Riverview Gardens where they buried Brody’s mom. He decided it was time to let his great-uncle know that he wasn’t forgotten.

  After picking up breakfast from a fast food drive-thru, Brody drove his cobalt blue pickup down Elm Street to head for the Benson Hill Cemetery on the outskirts of town. Two primary roads headed out of town away from the river. One was Highway 21, the route to Brody’s Home Pro store, and the other was Elm Street as it turned into State Highway 336. It was the old highway that led toward Rochester and beyond.

  As he spotted the Cloud Valley Nursery, Brody peered into his rearview mirror and braked suddenly before turning into the parking lot. The nursery was the best place in town to buy plants for landscaping. He hoped they sold displays for cemetery headstones. If not, he needed to return to downtown and check out the local florist.

  A small wooden structure stood next to the parking lot and served as the checkout center for the acres of plants ranging from trees to tiny groundcover plants. Brody stepped inside and was immediately hit by the pungent, slightly acrid odor of fertilizers. He looked to his right and saw simple displays of plastic flowers arranged among small decorative pots in plastic, ceramic, and brass.

  Brody began to browse the display and was startled when he heard a thin, high-pitched voice ask, “Can I find something for you?”

  He knew the voice. It was unmistakable. As he turned, Bridget Tembow held her tiny hand to her mouth and gasped, “Mr. Sexton!”

  Bridget was one of Brody’s best employees at Home Pro when she worked through her junior and senior years in high school. She left the store when she graduated and enrolled in an elite college on the East Coast. She was tiny, not more than five foot three inches in height, and thin. Her bony fingers and drawn face always made Brody think of spiders for some reason, but Bridget was intelligent. She was also diligent about successfully completing any task.

  He began to hold out his hand to shake and then offered her a hug instead. She smiled warmly and wrapped her skinny arms around his torso. He said, “I thought we lost you to the coast for good.”

  Bridget pushed her long, black hair off her shoulder and said, “I’m only home for the summer, but Mr. Pattison asked if I would work for him while I was home.”

  “He is fortunate. You were always one of my best employees.”

  Bridget smiled warmly at the praise. “Thank you.” He saw the rosy blush rise in her cheeks. “How is the store? Is there something I can help you with here?”

  Brody said, “Home Pro is doing well. I’m a little concerned about competition nearby. There are rumors about a national chain coming to Zephyr. That would only be a fifteen-minute drive away.”

  “They couldn’t match your service.”

  Brody beamed at the compliment. The welcoming service coupled with employees who had significant knowledge about real-world projects was his primary source of pride in managing the Home Pro store. He humbly responded, “Thank you,” and then he asked the question, “Do you sell flowers for gravesites?”

  “You mean to put out in the cemetery?” asked Bridget.

  Brody responded, “Yes. I know the landscaping is your primary business, but I need a small grouping of flowers to take out to Benson Hill.”

  “Live or permanent?” asked Bridget.

  “Permanent?”

  “Well, that’s what we call the plastic and silk. I’m sure the cemetery groundskeepers eventually remove them, but they last significantly longer than real flowers.”

  Brody rubbed his chin and said, “Yes, we’ll do something like that. I take fresh flowers for Mom, but I won’t be visiting Benson Hill as often.”

  “Your Mom? Mrs. Sexton? I…didn’t know.” Bridget held her hand to her mouth again.

  Brody nodded. “Just about two weeks ago.” The words caught in his throat. Part of him wanted to protest and say, “No, it’s not really true.”

  Bridget began to struggle through her words. She said, “I remember her telling us all stories when…” The sentence trailed off and was followed by, “She always helped me when I researched…” Bridget tried once more and said, “She was one of my favorite people. How did I miss it? No one told…” As the words trailed off, she burst into tears.

  Brody felt helpless in the situation, and he reached his arms out to hug Bridget again. It was like the funeral all over again. With his own stoic demeanor, he found himself comforting countless relatives and neighbors who broke down at the idea that kindly Mrs. Sexton was gone. So far, Brody kept his own grief locked away in the privacy of his heart.

  Bridget took a step back and wiped at her eyes. “I’m so sorry Mr. Sexton. I don’t make a habit of losing my composure. Come right over here. I’m sure we can find you something to take to the cemetery.”

  4

  Dak

  Dak skipped the doorbell and knocked sharply on the door to Lewis’ house. It was a handsome two-story brick structure on the edge of the neighborhood once populated by Coldbrook Bend’s steamboat barons. Lewis’ home had a simple front stoop and lacked the ornate wood gingerbread that decorated the fronts of the Victorian mansions down the street. Symmetrically arranged windows faced the street. It was a simple, handsome house kept up with loving care by the same family for over a century.

  Lewis’ familiar voice shouted, “Coming!”

  Dak shuffled back and forth from one foot to the other. He warned Lewis about his arrival with a text message, and he didn’t receive a response to dissuade him from his visit. However, he was worried that Lewis didn’t really want to meet. They didn’t resolve anything since their last argument.

  The door opened, and Dak heard an audible sigh. Lewis said, “Hello. Is it safe to let you in?”

  Pushing his right hand upward and raking his fingers through his coarse, wavy red hair, Dak said, “I’m going back to the boat in a few days, and I had some things to say. I guess it’s up to you whether you want to hear me out or not.”

  Lewis pulled the door open and stepped to the side sweeping his hand toward the interior of the house. He wore an immaculately-pressed creamsicle-colored linen shirt and khaki trousers. Lewis frequently bemoaned the fact that no one ever dressed up in small towns anymore unless someone was getting married or someone died. Otherwise, it was a town full of frumpy people unattractively dressed from cradle to grave.

 
; The first time Lewis made the comment, Dak wanted to trace the outlines of his own muscles visible through the fabric of the T-Shirt clinging to his frame and ask if it was attractive. Instead, he held his tongue and let Lewis continue to the next complaint about the world in general. Dak learned to let most of the endless commentary pass from one ear through to the other filtering out only the most relevant pieces for discussion.

  Lewis pointed to the vintage sofa in the center of his home’s parlor. He said, “Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Lemonade? A beer?” Dak noticed the usual cringe when Lewis said the four-letter word “beer.”

  In their relationship’s most relaxed, comfortable days, Lewis urged Dak to join him in the small den-sized room he used for casual socializing and watching TV. The request to sit in the parlor was a clear sign that they were still on rocky ground.

  To avoid any antagonistic behavior, Dak smiled and said, “Lemonade would be great.”

  While Lewis disappeared into the kitchen, Dak looked around the room. On one corner of the fireplace mantel, a small cluster of framed photographs gathered like a crowd gossiping about what might be going on elsewhere in the house.

  During one visit, Dak looked at all the photos. They were casual shots of members of Lewis’ family and a few close friends. When Dak asked when a photo with him in it would be added to the group, he received an acid response. “When I can guarantee that you’re in it for the long term.”

  Lewis handed Dak a tall, cold glass etched on the sides with yellow daisies. “Do you have something to tell me?” Lewis sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Dak after setting his glass down on a round bamboo coaster. He clung to the arm of the furniture like Dak’s friends hung on to the boat during storms on the river.

  Dak sipped at the lemonade. It was a little too sour for his taste. He would have dumped at least two more teaspoons of sugar into the glass if it was available. He pursed his lips and said, “I’m willing to consider your request.”

  Lewis tilted his head to the side. “My request? If I remember correctly, I think I said that you were quite welcome to do whatever your heart desired. That was before you stormed out the door in a huff. I thought I was very reasonable.”

  Dak gritted his teeth. He had so many comments he wanted to make in a rapid-fire attack on the half-truths rolling out of Lewis’ mouth, but, instead, he followed Brody’s advice for the situation and rubbed one hand on his jeans forward three times before saying anything. Brody told him he should calm his frustration by picking an innocuous action to perform at least three times before responding in anger. It was a brilliant piece of wisdom.

  When he was ready to speak, Dak used a soft tone of voice and said, “I thought through the concerns you mentioned. I am willing to refrain from intimate contact with other men on the boat for the next month in an effort to decide whether what we have is good enough for the long term. In other words, I’m willing to try.”

  Dak heard the words spill out of his mouth the way he’d rehearsed them in his bedroom in front of the mirror. He thought he sounded like he was sitting at the witness stand in a high stakes trial. It was the way people sounded in the shows he watched on TV.

  Lewis raised an eyebrow and asked, “No sex on the boat?”

  After sipping from the glass and cringing once again as the sour taste became increasingly bitter on his tongue, Dak said, “Yes, that’s what I propose.”

  Lewis’ next response surprised him. His boyfriend rolled his head back and laughed out loud. He didn’t stop with short chortling. Instead, it was a full-throated laugh. Dak wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Lewis laugh so hard. In fact, Lewis rarely laughed at all.

  “Something is funny about that?”

  “Oh it’s hilarious,” said Lewis. “I’ve decided I’m finished with monogamy at least as far as we’re concerned. If you continue to be my boyfriend, I’m going to look for dates every weekend while you’re gone. It only seems fair to me. I’ll snuggle in beside the latest hunky guy that I can find. Maybe I should visit one of those hot, trendy gay bars in the Twin Cities.”

  Something snapped. Dak had a long fuse, and using Brody’s advice, he rarely raised his voice against anyone in anger. As he dropped the glass of lemonade and heard it shatter on the hardwood floor, Dak shouted, “Enough is enough! You’re just a ridiculous bastard, Lewis, and you know it. Good luck finding a desperate fool to take you to bed!”

  Dak had so little practice with storming out on anyone that he didn’t know what to do. He started to bend down to reach for the largest pieces of the shattered glass, but when Lewis shouted, “You idiot! Look what you did!” Dak kicked the shards across the floor and bounded for the door. He thought he heard Lewis say something, but he ignored it as he slammed the door shut with all of the strength in his powerful right arm.

  Sitting behind the wheel of his truck, Dak’s body shook from the intensity of the moment. He watched his fingers tremble when he struggled to place the key in the ignition. He muttered, “Asshole,” when the engine engaged.

  As he drove home, clinging tight to the steering wheel, Dak looked back and forth three times at all intersections to make sure his state of mind didn’t cause a careless accident. He knew exactly what he saw in Lewis the first time they dated, and he hated himself for it.

  Lewis looked like an easy target for companionship. His eccentric ways with clothing and his attitude of condescension toward at least eighty percent of his fellow town residents made him an outsider. Dak rarely saw him anywhere in town with companions, romantic or otherwise.

  One late night they connected through an online dating app. They recognized each other immediately through the shared photographs. Lewis typed, “Should we give it a try?”

  Intoxicated from an evening drinking beer and lonely three nights after the end of a month-long shift on the boat, Dak typed back, “Sure, why not.” That was the beginning of a relationship that was never better than difficult.

  Parking his truck at an angle downtown, Dak stepped into the Corner Hitch bar. It was the location for his first meeting with Lewis, but it was never a comfortable space for the two of them together. The Corner Hitch was Dak’s territory since high school.

  Jake, with fifteen years of bartending experience behind him, said, “Hey, Dak! Good to see you, buddy! The usual? I’ve got a bottle lined up right here for you.”

  Dak shook his head. “No, I need something a little more serious tonight. Give me some Jack straight up on the rocks. There’s something I’ll want to forget by about a half hour from now.”

  Brad shook his head. “Rough night then. Hey, when do you go back to the boat? Are you looking forward to that? Is the river calling?”

  Dak wanted to smile and ramble on about the upside of working on the tow, but he knew it wouldn’t be completely sincere. For a change, he had genuinely mixed feelings about leaving town for a month. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be away from Brody for four full weeks. He saw the signs of grief lurking behind his best friend’s eyes, and he knew that the wave wasn’t cresting yet.

  5

  Brody

  As he drove through the ancient wrought-iron gate that was thrown open on the graveled road leading into Benson Hill Cemetery, Brody experienced a sensation of relief that his mother was buried downtown near the river swept over Brody. His vague childhood memory of Benson Hill included a warmer, more welcoming place with sunny skies, fresh flowers in bloom, and grass mowed short like the greens on a golf course.

  Those memories were more than twenty years old, and Benson Hill aged in the intervening decades. As the name indicated, it perched high on a rise that crested the bluff rising from the river’s floodplain. Ancient gnarled oaks created a small grove at the peak of the hill. At least half of the trees bore large dead branches in desperate need of trimming.

  Before setting out in the morning, Brody visited a website that displayed a map of the stones on Benson Hill. He pinpointed Clyde’s gravesite and used the map’s directions to n
avigate his way past mausoleums with dark, foreboding, iron doors and between headstones bearing names like Clark, Wilson, and Edwards. The town’s workers in the early days were primarily farmers of English origin who looked for subsistence pay loading and unloading steamboats or taught themselves higher level skills used to repair the boats.

  The stone reading, “Clyde Miller,” was set off to the side of a cluster of other members of the Miller family. Brody recognized the names of his great-grandparents, but at least five names were unfamiliar. They were cousins just distant enough that he never knew them even though they might have lived in a nearby town.

  As he squatted down by the stone, Brody realized that he was secretly hoping that they buried Clyde by the man in the photo. Instead, he was alone except for the nearby relatives. The stone bore no inscriptions like, “Beloved husband,” or, “Treasured daughter gone too soon.” It only carried the years of birth and death.

  Brody set the small brass urn he picked out with Bridget’s help on the ground next to the stone. He did his best to create an attractive arrangement with the bundle of silk and plastic flowers that he purchased. “Who were you?” asked Brody as he reached out a hand to touch his fingertips to the name carved into the stone.

  He stood and scanned the area around Clyde. The entire place needed care. The grass was high, and weeds cast their seeds on the wind. He noticed ancient daylilies blooming in orange next to some of the older stones. It was a small token of live color among the muted greens, browns and fake candy colors of plastic and silk.

  Brody rose to his full height and whispered, “I’ll find out. I promise you that.”