by David Kummer
She looked up from the phone, wide eyes twinkling. She stared at us both and gripped her phone tight. The screen illuminated her face, gave it an eerie shadow, beautiful and mysterious.
“You gonna elaborate or not?” I asked, head starting to wobble. Or maybe the world was moving and not me.
“You’re gonna say I’m lying,” she said, taking a deep breath, “but I swear to god it’s the truth.”
“Jesus Christ, babe.” Mason scratched at his head, running a hand down his sharp jawline and slight scruff. “Did someone die?”
“No. The opposite.”
“Someone… was born?” I chuckled. “Not that big a deal. I’ll bet you ten bucks it’s a drug-baby if they’re from—”
“Don’t be mean. Just listen!” she said, tapping on the table. Her fingernails made a strange sound on the wood. Like one of those… those pecking birds. My eyes were drawn to the noise, but she continued. “You both know Bruce Michaels, right?”
“Pshh.” Mason leaned back and shot me a grin, rolling his eyes. “Do we know Bruce Michaels? You kidding? He’s my goddamned religion, he is.”
“Never made a bad movie,” I interjected, pointing a finger at Mason.
He nodded and pounded on the table. Then he shouted a line from our favorite Bruce movie with the accompanying accent. “Fuck you, rednecks!”
“He’s moving here,” Willow rolled her eyes. “Next week.”
I stopped thinking. Stopped drinking, talking, everything. I just stared at her in disbelief.
“Don’t do this to me right now,” Mason said, sitting forward now. He shook his head slightly, amused. “Not when I’m drunk. I don’t like jokes when—”
“I’m not kidding.” She held up the phone, blinding us both with the light. First Mason read and then me. I couldn’t stop my jaw from sliding open.
The headline read exactly as she’d said.
EXCLUSIVE: Bruce Michaels To Leave Hollywood! Moving to Nowhere, Indiana!
The short paragraph under it named the town, our town. Little Rush. I didn’t even care how they knew. Just that they did. Of course, they might be wrong. We’d know soon enough, but even the possibility...
“But…” I glanced up at them. The air felt cold all of a sudden and my mouth drier than it ever had. Their faces were unresponsive, blurred. I couldn’t focus on anything. “But… he’s…”
“Fucking Bruce Michaels.” Mason put a hand to his forehead and blew a raspberry. “Goddamn… Here? Really here? This isn’t some… fake shit?”
“He’s done acting then, yeah?” Willow kept moving her eyes between the two of us. She didn’t show the appreciation or astonishment this situation called for. “He’s… retired?”
“You think my dad’ll meet with him?” Mason drummed his knuckles on the table, now full of energy. “I bet he will. What if he comes to my house? Oh my god, what if?”
I broke out in a wild, toothy smile at that moment. “What if I have a delivery to his house? He… he eats pizza, I’m sure? I’ll get to deliver to him! That’s literally insane!”
Willow rolled her eyes, sliding us each another can of beer. “Please get more drunk so we can stop talking about this actor. I shouldn’t even have told you two.”
“Fucking Bruce Michaels!” I exclaimed one last time, thumping my chest with a fist.
* * *
I had the hangover of a lifetime that next morning, but it didn’t really matter. We went through the motions in sluggish silence, Mason and I. Throwing away the cans, checking that we hadn’t knocked over anything inside. Willow slept through all of it, but we didn’t feel like waking her. The two of us had never been so excited for anything. Ever. She didn’t really understand. She didn’t quite get Bruce Michaels like we did.
“He really retired then,” I commented at one interval. We passed by each other, one going toward the trash can and the other away. I carried two empty cans, ants crawling around the lips. “I thought that was just rumors.”
“I mean, he’s done everything,” Mason pointed out, walking by me. “He’s got nothing left to prove, you know?”
But why here? Why not a nice mansion in Los Angeles? Or a coastal home in Florida? Why Little Rush? A river town in the middle of nowhere, an hour away from any real city. Farms everywhere, a single McDonald’s, and our biggest store was an undersized Walmart. The most unique thing about this place? A winding river that made for great pictures but not much else. It’s not like anybody ever swam in the Ohio River. If anything, people avoided the water itself and spent their time on the downtown sidewalk that ran alongside it.
“Maybe he wants to farm?” Mason suggested when we’d filled up one trash bag and I was shaking loose another. “Wasn’t… wasn’t he a farmer in that movie? I think we were in middle school.”
“You’re right!” I shook my head. I opened up the new bag and its floral scent permeated the air. “Yeah, maybe that’s it.”
That whole morning passed in a drag. Willow had reported “next week” he’d be here. What did that mean? Today, Saturday, marked the end of a week. So... tomorrow? A literal seven days from now? Somewhere in between? Maybe there’d be warning signs, like streets blocked off, a flood of reporters, other oddities. Old and decrepit Little Rush now buzzing with energy. But for the time being, we could only think of how this change might affect us personally. Forget the town; we wanted a piece of Bruce Michaels for ourselves.
“Can you imagine if we get to meet him?” I asked as the two of us climbed into his convertible an hour later. My skull still suffered from a constant drumbeat, but I managed to ignore it for the most part. Bruce Michaels, the cure for any headache.
Willow remained inside, working on homework, while I took my place in the passenger seat. She’d decided to take a few online college courses this summer, which boggled my mind. As expected, they kept her pretty busy. Mason said she did schoolwork every morning for at least two hours. I didn’t even know what she was taking, nor could I relate to that dedication.
Mason planned on dropping me off and then coming back for her, probably for that round of sex he didn’t get last night. We’d been too worked up to think of anything like that. The two of us, anyways. I had no idea what Willow thought. She’d acted a bit peeved.
“Would be crazy.” Mason swerved out onto the country roads, a mere ten minutes from my house. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, a devilish grin broke out on his face. I didn’t know what he’d imagined, didn’t really care. A feeling welled inside. My own imagination, wild dreams.
“Really would.”
* * *
Who would have thought that only twenty minutes later, I’d be kneeling on my bed, staring out the window with crushing despair. Intense ache, somewhere just under my heart, near that sloppy, drunken tattoo I’d given myself a long time ago.
Just take me there, it read.
From the moment Mason had turned onto the gravel driveway, sped between the trees and toward my house, this sensation had been building. The instant I’d seen their carcasses strewn across the yard, white feathers in clumps of bloody meat, I’d known I made a terrible mistake. In the middle of the yard, the gate stood wide open, leading right through the fencing around the chicken’s enclosure. Maybe the most important part of my chore, and I’d forgotten entirely.
“Oh shit,” I murmured. The convertible rattled past an area of the yard that looked particularly gruesome. “Oh man, I really…”
Mason stared wide-eyed at the brutality in front of us. He gave me a pat on the back as I struggled out of the car with heart racing. I didn’t know where this would lead. What kind of punishment would be dealt. How much did a few chickens cost? How many did we even have?
Had, I thought. Have no longer.
The door to the house creaked open as I stepped inside, hoping they would be asleep. Maybe enjoying a late-morning nap. Maybe Dad in the barn with the tractor. But no, they were seated at the kitchen table, a phone laying before them and a man’s vo
ice droning from the speaker.
“I’ll call ya back inna bit,” my father said before abruptly hanging up.
Four eyes stared at me. Two different emotions, but neither of them pleased. I shifted uncomfortably, hoping they couldn’t smell the alcohol on my breath. That would send them over the edge.
“Stayed out, huh?” my father started, voice choking. Clearly holding back whatever he wanted to say. “But ya… ya couldn’t take time to do yer fucking chore right, huh?”
“Henry…” My mom placed a hand on his forearm, but it was no use.
He stood from the table and stepped closer. Towering over me, really. He had the look of a real man, a farmer. Broad shoulders, heavy chest. Thick, coiled arms and tanned skin. His eyes were piercing as I tried not to look away. He’d never hit me before. Would this be the moment?
“Get… get up to your room. Don’t let me see your ass down here rest o’ the day,” he snapped, stalking away into deeper realms of the house.
His massive form disappeared around the doorway. I heard him rummaging in the mudroom, pulling on boots, and then the screen door slammed as he marched outside. His therapy, I supposed. Messing with that tractor.
My mom bowed her head and shuffled past me. Scolding me in a different way.
And so, I slouched to my room and knelt on the bed for a while, staring outside. The AC unit hummed, blowing cold air on my torso, freezing my heart. The room around me felt vacant now. The record collection meant nothing. The cluttered desk, all my posters, deflated basketball. All of it nothing. Just objects that I’d give up in a heartbeat.
For a brief while, I’d escaped this town, if only in my mind. I’d dreamed of stardom, of the fame that would soon settle upon Little Rush and our baking sidewalks. But the truth couldn’t have been farther.
Even Bruce Michaels couldn’t save this town. I had no clue why he’d ever set foot here. A man who’d done real, important things. Had a life with purpose. Maybe I should’ve been jealous of that. Maybe I should’ve hated Bruce Michaels. But I couldn’t help adoring him.
My eyes focused on the trees across the road, far from my bedroom window. That forest went on as far as I could see from here, the tops reaching for a blue sky they would never touch. Could never dream of feeling.
I didn’t think of myself as a particularly messed up person. No more than your average alcoholic, undiagnosed, self-destructive teen on the verge of adulthood. But when I fell asleep soon after, I dreamed of a large cliff and of myself. In Mason’s car. Driving over the edge at ninety miles an hour.
2
Willow
If dating Mason taught me one thing, it was that people who admired sunsets were super annoying. They thought every glimmer of the sky deserved applause, like nothing beautiful ever took place on terrestrial earth. Both of the boys were like that, but Hudson even more so. The three of us were alike in a lot of ways, but those two never got over their love for sunsets.
The river struck me as a more beautiful and awe-inspiring sight. Consistent, strong, and dangerous. Unlike the sun, an object we could never aspire to, the river was right there. A physical place, shared by generations and people groups, one that we had the privilege of seeing daily. So many people walked by without acknowledging the simplistic and incredible. But then again, you could say the same about Little Rush. If the river was the forgotten treasure of the town, maybe we were the forgotten river of the country.
My relationship with Little Rush was confusing. I loved the town. I admired so many streets and views and places. The memories I had were irreplaceable. The drunken conversations at Mason’s cabin. The time I convinced Hudson to try a cigarette. All the trouble I achieved in school, even without those two, and the anxiety leading up to each August. But that summer, right before our senior year, brought so many questions for us. After high school, what then? To stay or to go? Build a life here or pack up everything, catch the first train to anywhere?
The trains didn’t run anymore. They hadn’t in decades. But it would’ve been cool, and it made for a nice thought.
It’s not like I had some fantastical idea of the town. I grew up in poverty. My parents were divorced, and I almost never saw my younger brother. I got a job at fifteen and walked to it each day for the first year. But even I couldn’t ignore the intrinsic beauty found in this forgotten corner of the world. The feeling of a magnet, somewhere under these streets, and each day it pulled just a little harder. Something here wanted me to stay, wanted desperately. There were days I resisted and other times when I didn’t.
I find it amusing that for everybody in Little Rush, part of your personality is how you relate to the town itself. As if it’s that friend with a bit of a reputation, and what you think of them defines you, too. I guess when put that way, Little Rush is magnetic after all. It’s gorgeous, witty, layered, and nuanced. None of which I think about on a daily basis.
No, on a typical day at my dad’s apartment, I wake up and glance outside first thing in the morning. Peering through my window, an alleyway, and down two intersections, I can just barely make out the Ohio River. Fog billowing from its surface and covering downtown like a blanket.
A magnet. Just have to give in.
I opened the convertible door and gathered my backpack. With a heave, I threw it onto my shoulder and bungled out of Mason’s car. He watched me wordlessly until I stood on the sidewalk, shifting in place. My eyes were locked on the ground, shoulders hunched, like an ashamed child dropped off at school in the morning. Only this was my home, my dad’s apartment, and I shouldn’t have been so embarrassed.
“I’ll see you,” he said, one hand resting on top of the wheel.
I still didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see the way his eyes lingered on the alleyway, on the buildings all around us. The way his brows would furrow in confusion and he would pull away slowly from the curb. Only a few seconds later would he peel his gaze away from the rundown apartment buildings and the muggy alleyway. It happened every time he dropped me off, and I knew he didn’t mean anything by it. Nonetheless, it nagged at me.
“See you.”
He revved the engine and started away from the curb. “I love you,” he called over the noise.
My chin rose, and I saw him offering a hopeful, empathetic smile. “Love you too,” I said, voice dull, before turning away to face the alley. This reality, in contrast to his sleek convertible. My life.
My dad’s house was only two streets from the river, but that’s important. The first one, directly beside the Ohio and with all these neat lights next to the sidewalk, was really just for tourism and businesses. Few people lived there. More like a place to view the river than an actual road.
The one up from that, First Street, was the “wealthy” section of downtown, if such a thing existed. Those people could see the river from their fourth-floor windows, from their balconies, and really appreciate that postcard-view firsthand.
Second Street, though, was my own, my dad’s. Full of alleyways and cheap apartments and the occasional homeless person. A real divide. We could see the river between buildings, if you got the right angle, but not quite feel it. We were the closest you could get in Little Rush to feeling “boxed in.”
My mom lived in an affordable housing community up on the hilltop, just off Rush Road. My younger brother lived with her, but I rarely ever saw him. Even when I stayed there, he spent the days in his room or with my mom. I don’t know what caused the distance between us, but it continued into his grade school days. I had too many other worries to pay it much thought.
I never liked the hilltop or Rush Road as much as downtown. That was the four-lane road with pretty much everything. The one with McDonald’s, Wendy’s, the movie theater, the Chinese restaurants, Big O Tires, all that stuff. It eventually led to the Kroger and Walmart, our only real stores. The street speckled with billboards and chain restaurants and no sidewalks. Mom preferred that modernized section of Little Rush, much different than downtown, but it’s not like
she had a great living setup. Those apartments were the cheapest option in town, full of dented cars and disarrayed people. The kind of place that nobody talked about but everyone knew by name. “Liberty Apartments,” they’d whisper and grant a side-eyed scowl. My younger brother was too little to know about all that. He didn’t quite understand the stigma attached to it, but he would soon enough.
That kid would grow up without a dad, since my mom’s ex had left a few years back. He’d be the poor kid, the one whose locker they searched for drugs and whose car broke down once a month. I knew what that felt like, and I hated that things would be the same for him. But one way or another, we all had to adapt, survive.
Each parent had advantages, of course.
At my dad’s, there was a little hippie shop nearby that sold sticks of incense, singing bowls, stuff like that. And a chalk sign outside, always real decorative, where somebody wrote amusing or passionate or insightful quotes. I remember a particular one. “Keep believing in the feeling, and you’ll be just fine.” I always loved that one. It stuck with me for some reason.
My mom’s apartment also had benefits. She never cared where I went or when. She let me do whatever I wanted. And, of course, living in those apartments near Kroger offered so many memories. So many ideas and formative experiences. I’m thankful for my time there. I really am. They were life-changing, and a big part of that is because of her.
I guess that’s where the disconnect started between me and Mason. He lived in this real nice house a few miles from my mom’s. His whole neighborhood had a kind of sparkle to it. Matching mailboxes all the way down, set in ornate brick formations. Expensive cars anywhere you turned. Lawns so manicured they were irritating. Clearly the sort of place with a homeowners association. And the people living there… Business owners. Regional managers. One or two pastors. The Blough family —whose dad was the only guy with money like Jed Cooper. Pretty sure Mayor Johnson even lived in that neighborhood. Mason Cooper fit in perfectly.