Everything, Somewhere

by David Kummer

  H: Been meaning to ask. Chickens got ate few days ago. can I borrow 100 bucks from you? need to buy new ones, new fence. maybe another chunk $ for tractor part?

  When I read that message, I powered off my phone and stuck it in my pocket. Henry didn’t often ask for money, not unless things were really bad out at the farm. My eyes lifted to find Lucy glaring outright in my direction. I tried to play it off with a simple smirk and shrug, but no use. She didn’t shake her head in disgust, but she might as well have.

  “So…” I cleared my throat, glancing around, checking Mason’s expression without being too obvious. He didn’t look angry or even annoyed. Just apathetic. Maybe that was worse. “How’s… your guys’ day been?”

  “You would know if you ever left your office,” Lucy said through her gritted teeth, eating a sliver of steak from her fork. She chewed it the way she wanted to chew me out, barely holding back vitriol.

  I turned to Mason, saw him slouching. He had the same dark hair I had at his age, with short curls that accentuated his best features. Sharp jawline, bright eyes. I used to be like that. I used to look almost the same, minus the abs. But I’d lost touch with that version of myself and with him.

  “How’s…” How did I forget her name? I cleared my throat, held up a hand. “Sorry. Um. How’s… Willow?”

  He didn’t recoil. I’d gotten the name right, at least.

  “Fine.”

  “You two… keeping everything wrapped up?” I tried to smirk, give him a little nudge to play off my terrible joke.

  His nose wrinkled, and he stared at me like a wild coyote when you try to pet it. Wanting to fight. Wanting to run away. Wanting to have never come down this trail.

  “Can I go, Mom?” he asked at last, giving me the side of his face. Not even a glance.

  “Of course, hun.”

  He marched to the sink, dropped his plate in, and disappeared toward his room. Not a single word to me. Not even a look. Probably off to text Willow right then, tell her what an ass I’d made of myself. What a stupid thing to say to him. Not even remotely funny.

  “Why’d you do that?” Lucy asked. She leaned on the table, elbow propped against the surface, chin resting on her palm. Her eyes were pitying. I hated that. “Are you really an idiot?”

  I wondered the same as I cleared the table after dinner and washed the dishes. Dreaming of my to-do list, with new boxes to check each hour. The lights around our immaculate house popped out one by one. Lucy turned them off on her way to bed. Mason was already asleep or at least in his room, pitch darkness. I didn’t even dream of barging in. Not once.

  She fell asleep without me that night. I stood at the window for a while, looking out over the neighborhood. Not far from our house, it turned onto the four-lane road and McDonald’s. Some real shops. But here, a mile from Little Rush, we lived in the “rich people’s neighborhood.” That’s all I’d become. The rich man who had nobody. Nobody but his money.

  What was that Beatles song? Something about money and love. I tried to hum it as I dropped into my favorite recliner. Cost me almost two grand, that damn chair. But I still couldn't remember the words.

  4

  Little Rush

  (The Reporter)

  She slunk out of the restaurant, cell phone at the ready. Standing on the sidewalk, she glanced in either direction at the downtown landscape. Her hair was pulled back tight, and she wore sleek glasses. Among people like this, she stood out in every way. The streetlights were dazzling, marking large, bright circles on the sidewalk. There were stragglers passing by in either direction, mostly couples and groups of shopping-women, as she referred to them.

  Without a word, Gina snapped a few pictures with her phone, just to document it all. This town is adorable, she decided. A cute little place. The view of Main Street was really something. Little shops all along the edge, some vacant ones where dreams had died and “For Rent” signs were the only tombstone. Her eyes wandered over the scene, taking in every block, tongue against her lips. The air was so fresh, so much different than the city. Any city.

  A car roared past, honked wildly, and a man yelled something at her. Obscene, without a doubt. But then again, she was wearing a knee-length skirt in a rural Indiana town. It’s not like these people were civilized. She could take care of herself here. If any of them dared touch her, she’d make sure they regretted it. You can’t just do that to a woman, not one with power. She’d make them pay.

  Gina walked with no destination, toward City Hall in the distance, because she might as well stretch her legs on a gorgeous night like this. As she passed small groups, some of them giggling, she tried to throw back her shoulders and keep her head up. There was something intimidating about these small-town people, more than those in huge cities. At least in New York, everything blurred together, all the faces and noises and smells. But here, each one was distinct, each one noticeable, and the people far too familiar.

  “Another one,” a teenage boy chuckled as he strolled past, pretty girl on his arm. “Dumbass paparazzi.”

  And then a man approached her, clearly drunk from thirty feet away. His hair was balding, ears were extremely red. He had a gut but also those farmer-arms, the kind of peculiar strength and body ratio that comes with long days of manual labor. He licked his lips. The reporter stopped moving, crossed her arms.

  “Hello, pretty lil’ lady,” he said, sticking out a hand for her to shake. “How’s the”

  “Nope.” Gina tried to brush past him, but he shifted in front of her. “I said no,” she repeated, this time with force.

  “Wha’s such a pretty lil’ lady as yourself doin’ alone?” He smiled, and it was repulsive. So much green where there should’ve been white. “You’re in needa lil’ company, sure?”

  “Listen.” Gina took a deep breath, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Adjusting her glasses, recrossing her arms. “Just don’t. I’ve slept with women who would send you spinning with just their feet. ‘K? So get out.”

  Right on cue, a patrol car turned onto Main Street and drifted by them. The officer in question never even turned, but the mere sight of him was enough to de-escalate. The man in front of her glared for a moment, opened his mouth to say something, but then turned his back. He shuffled away after that, a wounded dog. She watched him for a moment, rolling her eyes. If this became a nightly occurrence, she’d just stay indoors.

  Abandoning her stroll down Main Street, Gina returned to her apartment building. It was a bit sketchy, a second-floor place with a staircase to reach it. The door was in an alleyway that smelled like dead rats. But it was something. All the hotels were booked. All the “dumbass paparazzi” moved in a few days ago. But she waited, didn’t rush, because she didn’t need a hotel.

  The apartment was a minimum three-month rent, and her cabinets were stocked with cheap noodles and canned foods. She’d fade to sleep each night watching the local news coverage. Waiting for her phone to blow up with any news of Bruce. The rest of the reporters and journalists were in the same boat, but she was different. She’d rented an apartment. She planned on being here for a while.

  This is it, she had told herself as soon as the headline bounced around her Twitter feed. Bruce Michaels moving to Little Rush, Indiana. What a bizarre move. Everybody wanted to know why, but nobody could ask the right questions. Nobody had the right sources.

  This is it. My big break.

  Gina had something none of those other people had. Not the national ones, not the locals. None of them.

  She had potential. She had character. And she knew where to dig for dirt.

  5

  Bruce

  The town wasn’t what I remembered. I guess that makes sense. The streets were the same, in a way, and most of the buildings. But there was something off about it, foreign. Like an old song rediscovered after years away. I knew all the words, still, and every guitar strum. But it felt different, because I had changed, though it remained the same.

  Those memories were
all foggy. The scenes that danced around the edges of my mind, from that summer here so long ago. Warmer days. Everything felt bigger then. All the streets now seemed thinner, the buildings less monstrous. The memories of a child, muddying my mind.

  I couldn’t be sure about Little Rush. Couldn’t be sure about anything, really.

  As I stepped into the tiny house, my back to the winding road that brought me here, I took a deep breath and tried to taste it. The atmosphere, the essence. This musty home smelled like mildew, probably drifting up from the crawlspace. It clung to me like a haunting, followed me as I stepped across the groaning floors and through the echoey hallways.

  The carpet underfoot was an ugly red color, and I enjoyed it. The walls were barren. Dead flies covered the windowsills in each room. My eyes wandered as I walked around, as if stepping through a time portal. Everything exactly as it had been. The sitting room held an ancient-looking couch that faced the door and a small television to the side. The kitchen was past that through an opening. I remembered it well. To my right, a conjoined bathroom and bedroom. This was my entire world. I would live out my final days here, just like him.

  This is what I need.

  I stood in the sitting room for a while, waiting for something, anything. I could hear them outside, sitting in their cars, others crawling on the ground like flies to rotting fruit. The reporters, the cameras, the journalists. They were the bane of my existence. They were the darkness that I could never outrun. A part of it, at least.

  After a while, I hobbled to that sagging couch and grabbed the remote. When the television flickered on, I met my own face. The local news channel. I grimaced, turned away. It was that old clip they played so often— from a few years ago.

  “I really love it here,” the electronic me said, voice barely audible over the thrum of bass guitars and crowds cheering. We were back-stage at one of those music festivals over in California. All these summers later, I couldn’t remember which one. There had been so many. “I can’t see myself ever leaving. Cali’s where it’s at!”

  I muted the television and left the room. What a difference time could make.

  When I entered the kitchen, I stared out the window and observed my property. Not technically mine, but close enough. The only house for a mile in either direction. The only living soul, and yet surrounded.

  This house —my house— sat next to a cemetery. There were dozens of rows, almost a hundred tombstones. All shapes and sizes. Crosses, squares, curved tops. Loose, baking grass strewn across the face of some from yesterday’s mow. I wouldn’t have to do that work, at least. I didn’t have to care for this land. Just occupy it.

  Maybe I would take a walk that evening, once the flies outside had flown. I would read each name and think about that lost being. Make special note of any tombstones with quotes and ponder what my own would be. It could be anything, really. Anything except for one of my movie quotes, one of those films.

  Incredible how I could sum up my entire career with “those films.” A stint in Hollywood lasting decades; countless awards and appearances. So many women and directors and co-stars.

  People always clap for the wrong scenes, the wrong lines. They didn’t understand. This… this was important. This was my greatest role, my greatest scene. I’d never done something like this, so impulsive and brash. Giving away all of that in search of something here.

  I was going to find it. I wouldn't leave here in vain. This town would be the final set. I wanted to integrate myself, become a vital part of it. Observe them in their daily life, become one of them even. The fans in California… I’d grown bitter toward them. Those people… they’d buy bottles of my piss if I sold it. But here, in Indiana, I could find hard-working families, true innocence and integrity. And maybe, just maybe, I could learn from them.

  The afternoon faded outside my window as I rested on that dilapidated couch. With each breath, I drank in the mildew home and grew more assured that I’d done the right thing. My ears overflowed with a television show, accompanied by an irritating laugh track. I hated television. I hated movies. I wanted the opposite of that.

  My only relief was the photograph sitting in front of me on the dining room table. The image that stared back at me, a peacefulness I longed for each and every moment. The most important thing in my house.

  Dinner was nothing. I wasn’t hungry. My gaze wandered to that graveyard every so often, and I longed to run my fingertips over the rough stones. To leave this near-empty house. I purposefully wanted it like this. The moving crew did exactly what I’d said. A sparsely furnished dwelling, everything as I remembered. From that summer so long ago.

  And one of the idiots left a note on my counter. I felt like I’d paid them enough to leave me alone. They moved all my stuff fine. Now leave me alone.

  The note read: So happy to have you here, Mr. Michaels. You’ll love Little Rush!

  As soon as I found the note, I had touched the tip with my lighter and watched it curl into a blackened heap.

  * * *

  I woke up hurting that next morning, bad. When I came to, I found myself on that old couch, the world swimming around me. Sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains, setting fire to my eyes. I groaned, rolled over, but sleep danced away as I pulled the blanket over my aching corpse.

  Must have been drinking last night.

  At this point, I didn’t even enjoy it. I should’ve tried pills, honestly. Something to shut off my brain but without the hangover effects. Up to ten years left on this rotten ground— I didn’t want to spend them all with a throbbing headache and aversion to sunlight.

  I needed to explore. It was my first day here. Whatever the future would bring, I had to make the most of this chance. Run some red lights. Flip off people. I already knew the way things would go here. I could break any law. I could probably kill someone, and nobody would touch me.

  I’ll consider it.

  Maybe I’d go for a walk. Just through the forest. Feel that underbrush again, run my palms over the bark. The trees had grown so much since that summer here. I wondered if the old path still ran nearby.

  When I sat up, though, I caught a glimpse out the window. I fell onto my back, defeated. The paparazzi. It would be impossible to leave, at least until night.

  I had fragments of memory from the night before, long after I’d been drunk. I could remember the door opening and shutting. Had I gone out to the cemetery before? Had I seen those names and —more importantly— his?

  I felt bile rising in my throat. Another nasty effect of the bottle. I didn’t want to be an alcoholic anymore, but, at this point, what difference did it make? Maybe it would help having locals to drink with, if only I could find some.

  6

  Hudson

  I knew I shouldn’t think all this. There was nothing truly wrong with my life. I wasn’t oppressed, I wasn’t poor, I wasn’t stressed. If anything, I had the most normal, complacent, comfortable existence possible for a teenager in Little Rush. And yet there were days when I’d wake up and whisper, “Today, I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna kill myself.”

  A cruel twist of fate that on a day meant to honor my father, I spent every moment possible away from him. Each one more painful, each one pushing me closer to the edge.

  Father’s Day passed in an unimportant manner, but at least I wasn’t alone. Mason texted me that night and said Jed had sulked around the house all day and been in his study all afternoon. In other words, it didn’t pass very well at the Cooper household. From what he told me, Jedidiah didn’t seem like a great guy, but then again, what did I know. It wasn’t like my father and I were on the best of terms.

  Dad had the day off from his real job at the power-plant, given that it was a weekend. But of course, he couldn’t not be working. Most people saw it as an admirable personality trait. I had to disagree. It was irritating to watch him drive that tractor late into the evenings. Mowing down those seas of wavy, waist-high grass, his tractor churning in perfect paths, a large arm
sticking out from the back where a complicated mower slaughtered everything in its way. He’d called it a drumming mower, but I didn’t know the significance. For a few days after he cut the grass, he would tinker with the tractor, spend more time inside, or just longer shifts at work. And then for a day, he’d spend every waking minute driving the tractor again, this time with an attached baler, dropping these huge cylinders of hay in his wake. Our property would be covered with them, round bales that dotted the landscape. All of it unsettlingly different from just a week prior.

  When I was a little kid, my father would move all the cylinders close together, and I’d jump across them, run around them, as if exploring a new city I’d discovered. Then I got too old for that stuff. Maybe for excitement altogether. Older, more isolated, and more self-centered, even if I struggled to admit that last one.

  Those circular bales sat for another day or two in the barren fields. Meanwhile, I’d be forced to help Dad as he drove a different kind of baler and a long trailer on the back. We would churn out around two-hundred square bales in one evening. These came from a different field, sectioned off by fencing. That was usually the extent of my work with him, and we rarely spoke. He would drive; I would grab the square bales and throw them onto the trailer where I stood. I’d gotten good at it over the years. Didn’t need much help. My hands burned like hell each time, though, and I’d have blisters for a few days. I guess it was better than sitting inside, watching him. For at least that one day, I’d feel a kind of connection. Us working together, sweating in that godawful sun until it sank and our slickened arms froze in the evening winds. Those sunsets truly were amazing. And watching the land transform as we worked… awe-inspiring.