by David Kummer
That particular summer, though, Father’s Day was a round-bale kind of day. When I sluggishly descended the stairs around eleven, he’d already been on the tractor for at least three hours. He didn’t come in until dinner, a quicker-than-usual meal, and then disappeared outside once again. I wasn’t sure what Mom did all that day. Maybe she didn’t mind as much. To me, Father’s Day had always been about me and him, our connection with all its frayed wiring. I expected him to go out of his way, make time for me. Perhaps I should’ve done so for him. Instead, I kept to myself and pounded my head with music to drone out the roaring sounds of farm equipment.
That day, I wished for sickness. A fever or something. That always made me sleep better. I used to have a bottle of vodka in the bottom drawer of my desk. Also would’ve done the trick. Problem was, I’d finished it a few weeks ago and never bothered asking Mason to hook me up with more.
My mind refused to stop working, kept grinding away at what little sanity remained. As my father cut down his fields of grass outside, I felt like somebody else had taken a tractor inside my brain and done the same. My glass panes were cracking as I lay in my bed and stared at the dull ceiling overhead. Watched the fan whipping around, shaking just a bit. I could almost hear it, almost, but the music overwhelmed me. I started to feel like I’d jumped into an ocean. Like I was drowning underneath that pale light, in my own comfortable bed.
There’s nothing wrong with you, I chide myself. It was the truth. My parents weren’t divorced. I had a nice house, big yard. I rose each morning to a warm sun and lay down to a chilled moon. I had two close friends, hung out at Mason’s cabin, drank pretty much anytime I wanted. Sure, I wanted to leave. I was desperate to. But for Little Rush, my life was pretty much perfect.
So why did I hear it? The blaring train horn as it closed the distance between us.
Some days, I felt terrified of death. Anytime I drove at night, I’d be scared of cresting one of those narrow, country hills to find myself in a head-on collision that did the trick. But then I’d get home, and I’d wrap myself in the darkness of my room. And then I’d imagine death and how it fit me like a tailored suit. If only I had the balls. If only I knew a painless way to do it.
If there were a button, I would’ve pushed it. I guess if that were the case, a lot of us would be gone. Things that used to be fun were just annoyances, and things that were annoying made me feel insignificant. There was nothing I could change, nothing broken I could fix. And so, I lay in bed for hours, drowning and blind, swallowed each day by the weight of invasive normalcy.
On Father’s Day, all of this happened per usual. I thought a lot about heroes. That’s what the day honors, right? And I realized that the old saying was a lie. We weren’t the heroes of our stories. Most of us couldn’t even pretend that. Instead, we were victims of every tale we told. It vindicated our worst actions and gave more meaning to our good deeds. Because all of us, we never did anything worth shit.
I was the victim of my own story. I had been assaulted by an average life, and I was aware of it. This fact, instead of comforting me, only made the hatred inside bubble to a spilling point. It only made me burn.
While my father worked in the fields and my mom worried about family-stuff, house-stuff, bill-stuff, I laid in my room like an entitled piece of shit and felt overwhelmed in a Queen-sized bed. I realized that I hated myself.
The town was a cage around me. I would feel better if only I could leave. I was somewhat sure of it.
Somewhere out there was a better place, an existence that suited me. For now, the only thing about Little Rush I respected was the town’s complete apathy. Maybe the town reminded me too much of myself. Insignificant. Damaged. The all-consuming blanket of undiagnosed depression. I wanted something more than that. No, I needed something more. Because if I stayed, Little Rush was gonna kill me.
7
Willow
I guess the only thing we really had was that river. The water almost never made for bad scenery, as it reflected the deep greens of the rolling hills on either bank. The bridge, too, was especially photogenic. Even the power-plant, downstream a bit, seemed to entice people’s cameras.
Standing on the brick sidewalk, which ran along the riverfront for about a mile, Little Rush was a blissful place. The little street lights that ran next to the sidewalk at night, the beautiful darkness of the water. All of it worked to distract from some of the grimmer realities downtown held. The poverty, the shops closing, the crumbling buildings. I loved downtown, honestly, but for somebody like me… it was hard to not look past the river and see all the issues. Maybe I should’ve ignored it, but there’s a difference between people who live with rats and flies in their house and those who don’t.
Though on days like this, I did my best to look away. There were times when I just tried to soak in the energy around me, the perfect parts of Little Rush that deserved admiration.
The three of us were crouched deep in the trees, far enough that nobody on the outside could see us or the cigarettes we held. I took a seat on the huge log that we usually ended up at, while the two boys stood and continued talking. In the distance ahead of us, I could see the old baseball field and the hill behind it. This scene had become so familiar to me that at times I forgot to appreciate it.
This place held a rustic charm. The baseball field was still usable, thanks to decent upkeep, but nobody ever took advantage of it for that sport. You could follow a little staircase up the hill behind it and reach a tiny gazebo, with walkways branching out in all directions. This little park became ten times as beautiful in the fall when leaves were resting on the ground and the colors were vibrant, but just as before nobody seemed to travel here. Occasional dog-walkers or runners would traverse those stone paths. For the most part, people kept away from this area. Which made it ideal for smoking, especially down in the forest. I suppose living downtown had its perks, since I knew about all the cool locales such as this.
“At least it doesn’t smell like sewage here today, right?”
Mason turned to face me, grinning. He was trying harder than usual with me today. He had a cut-off on, shorts that were tighter than usual. We made eye contact. I grinned, a little fake, but it was fine. His eyes dropped to my lips, to my boobs. Didn’t matter what I wore, I guess. I was in a baggy sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. I mean, come on. But he always glanced. Usually smacked my butt, too. I didn’t mind often, and it was playful, cute. Sometimes a bit much, though. He wasn’t getting sex that night either way. Just not on my to-do list. Not to mention the loads of homework I’d been putting off from the college courses.
He didn’t notice, but I rolled my eyes. Took another drag from my cigarette. Sometimes I hated boys, even my boyfriend. It felt like every time we hung out, the three of us, we were just sitting somewhere either drinking or smoking. Was this all we had around here? A long game of waiting?
“How was your Father’s Day?” Mason asked, focused on Hudson again. “I usually hate Mondays, but this is way better than yesterday, at least.”
They traded stories about their awful experiences, not bothering to ask me. I wasn’t surprised. They always thought of it as a “Son’s and Father’s Day,” it seemed. They didn’t always remember I, too, had a dad. I, too, had issues with my parents. But it was fine right then. I just wanted to enjoy the taste of the cigarette, listen to the rustling of the trees around us. I thought for a moment I saw movement near the gazebo but lowered my eyes again when nothing happened.
There was something a little off with Hudson that day, but I tried not to pay too much attention. He didn’t look any different. Same dirty jeans, worn t-shirt. He was just slouching a little, kind of dead. More self-absorbed than usual— they both were. But I’d always made it a goal that other people’s bad moods wouldn’t ruin my happiest moments. Not even Hudson. Though I couldn’t help but worry.
“Hope my dad can’t smell this,” he mumbled, staring at his cigarette like it was some kind of tumor. Then he t
ook another long inhale, holding it in his lungs. Breathed it out, the smoke fading into nothing as it floated away. “He’d be livid.”
Mason nodded and tapped some ashes onto the log next to me. “You know how many times my dad’s told me to ‘never smoke?’ Probably… a dozen.”
“More than that for me,” Hudson said. “Goes on and on about… about cancer and stuff.”
I smirked at them. Held my own a little more expertly. They’d only been smokers for about four months. I had them beat by three years. Since Freshman year, pretty much. “You two are sissies.”
“I didn’t say I’m scared of cancer,” Hudson snapped. “Just that my dad is.”
“You aren’t afraid of cancer, huh?” I leaned back and observed him with my arms folded. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why should I be?” He stared at me with a little animosity. The tree branches behind him made a nice backdrop for his defensive expression. “I’m not afraid of dying. I don’t even wanna live to…. like fifty. I want to die young.”
“My dad’s almost fifty,” Mason pointed out, “and he’s doing fine.”
“Shut up.” Hudson crushed the cigarette butt into a nearby stone and left it there. “You know what I mean. Everybody… gets something bad when they get to that age. Diseases and stuff.” He lowered onto the log as well so that Mason was the only one left standing. Hudson’s shoulders pulled back that way he always did when he was about to say something kind of hurtful or offensive. “By the time you’re fifty, you’re just a bunch of tumors waiting for one to turn cancerous and kill you. I wouldn’t say that’s a person with much potential.”
“Well if that’s your logic, nobody has much potential,” I countered, finishing my own cigarette and smashing it against the log-seat.
He nodded. “I accept that.”
Mason crushed his cigarette and they each took a piece of gum that Mason had brought. A spray of cologne, a change of shirt. They were very intense about the whole process, like television spies preparing for a mission. I was surprised they didn’t have a theme song and everything. I chuckled, watching them, and felt none of the same anxiety. My dad was a huge smoker. The entire house smelled like it. I could bathe in a sauna of cigarette smoke and it wouldn’t make a difference. When I was at my mom’s, different story, but I usually didn’t mess with smoking when I stayed there. Not as many good spots on the hilltop, anyway. Downtown, the options were endless. I even smoked in the old, abandoned factory once, with all the smashed windows facing the river.
“I thought I’m supposed to feel… happy or something?” Hudson questioned as he pulled on a fresh shirt. “From nicotine.”
“Dunno.” Mason leaned against a tree, hands behind his head. “I never do from smoking.”
“Alcohol’s better,” Hudson muttered, returning to his seat on the log. He kicked at the ground and sent a few leaves flying into the air.
Mason sighed, resting his head on the tree trunk. “Are we gonna mope around forever or talk about the big news? I mean, come on… Bruce!”
I groaned and smacked myself on the forehead dramatically. “Please, god, no. I’m sick of it. Every single night on social media—”
“Come on, Willow.” Hudson stared at me now, some life in his eyes again. “It’s huge news for the town.”
“Why do you think he moved by the cemetery?” Mason asked, the question directed more to Hudson than me. He even leaned closer in that direction.
“No idea.”
I was content to let the boys have this conversation to themselves. I could care less about the famous actor. In fact, I kind of disliked him, but my interest was piqued, nonetheless. “Didn’t the last guy who lived there die sleeping in a chair or something?” My eyes traced both of them, searching for reactions.
“I think you’re right, actually.” Mason stroked at his chin, where he liked to imagine stubble. “I think my dad did say that one time.”
“Just hoping he’ll order pizza.” Hudson got a dreamy-eyed look and smiled with his eyes lowered. “That’d be so cool to meet him. Maybe get an autograph.”
“I seriously don’t get why you love him so much.” I couldn’t hold back any longer, and I might as well tell them straight up. “I mean… he’s in all these stupid, high-brow movies. Like who does he think he is? That one about the high-class lawyer and the… the prostitute or whatever? There was some real sexist bullshit in that one.” I saw their mouths open at the same time and added, “Don’t deny it!”
“That’s the whole point,” Mason urged, his hands actually clasped together like in prayer.
“This guy’s like a role model,” Hudson continued. “He’s just… so important.”
“I always wanted to be like his character in The Bandit,” Mason admitted. He looked at Hudson now mainly. I was once again a bit on the outside. “I mean, that guy’s hot. That’s really the look I’m going for, you know?”
“You’re both ridiculous.” I sighed heavily, not trying to hide it, not caring if they could sense my frustration. I actually hoped they would. I was really sick of hearing about this Bruce guy. To my knowledge, he’d never done any great philanthropy, never supported movements I really cared about. He’d been in some “deep” movies that mainly focused on male audiences. He was almost in Fight Club or something. That was his kind of acting, the kind of guy he was, and I really didn’t care for it.
“You just don’t get it.” Hudson picked up a small rock and threw it. We could hear it ripping through some leaves as it made an arc, dropping at the edge of the trees and rolling a few feet onto the baseball field.
“You know what he is?” I said definitively, “He’s just a knock-off Brad Pitt who prefers Tarintino-style movies.”
The wolves jumped at my throat after that, so I decided it was time to head out. We all made our way out of the trees and around the baseball field. As we traversed the staircase, I glanced behind us at the trees and sighed. The boys continued with their conversation even as we moved past the gazebo, over the walking path, and onto one of the downtown sidewalks.
Hudson’s beat-up truck was parked about two blocks away. I kept to myself while they talked, glanced upward at the sky just to see what it had transformed into. In Little Rush, there wasn’t a lot to see. Everything became dull after a while, familiar, and there were no real tall buildings. Maybe that’s why I looked at the sky so often, even if I didn’t want to. At any given moment, the sky would take up half of my vision, sometimes more. I couldn’t help but observe.
We made our way to the parking lot, which was situated on Main Street. Hudson gestured across the street where a vacant storefront held a “For Sale” sign.
He asked, “Is it true your dad wants to open a fancy restaurant there?”
“Who the hell knows anymore,” Mason groaned as he climbed into the front seat. “Guess he’ll buy just about anything.”
He shut the car door harder than usual. I slid into the backseat and lay down, feeling a bit of a nicotine buzz now. The other two had only smoked one each, whereas I burnt through three. As Hudson pulled out of the parking space, I closed my eyes and sank into relaxation.
I thought about speaking up but decided not to. A few times before, I’d mentioned ideas regarding Jed’s businesses, whether it was a promotion or an ad campaign or even a cool new place he could open. Mason always shot them down for whatever reason. After a while, I gave up mentioning anything. I liked to think I’d be a pretty good business owner, if I ever got the chance. Maybe I’ll open a bookstore or something.
Hudson turned onto Main Street and progressed toward my house. I stared up at the truck ceiling, my back against the firm leather seats, lost in thought.
There are things I hated about this town, for sure. I got the impression that adult women had a much harder time gaining respect, at least in the business sense. They were all expected to stay home and have kids. And, of course, the town was pretty conservative, with a few hardcore racists and sexists. It bothered me
at times.
* * *
“Let’s live in the suburbs,” I whispered to Mason, leaning my head on his shoulder and staring out at the dark river.
Night had fallen quickly. We were both sitting on a park bench now, down on that first sidewalk that overlooks the Ohio. The dark water glittered with stars, reflecting everything above it. The whole scene took my breath away, like peering into a second nighttime sky. In the distance, I could barely make out the hills of Kentucky and the collection of lights from houses over there, cars coming and going. They had a nice Dairy Queen, too.
“Oh, yeah?” Mason replied, stroking the back of my head, running his fingers through my hair.
“I think we should.” I closed my eyes and imagined it. A nice house on a street full of them. Some neighborhood where the skyline of a nearby city towered in the distance. It didn’t have to be far. Just an hour away, down near Louisville. That would be plenty good.
“Maybe we will,” he said. “Who knows what the future holds.”
This answer didn’t really satisfy me, but at that moment a cloud passed by and the moon emerged, brighter than ever. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, so I let that sight entrance me entirely.
Despite all the ups and downs, there was something about Little Rush that kept me close. Something different. There were a lot of somewheres, a lot of greener pastures, and yet there I was. Still trying to figure out why.
8
Hudson
I underestimated what a sight it would be. The house stood in solitude, a small structure next to the county road that led away from Little Rush. Most wouldn’t even call this a part of the city, but when Bruce Michaels lives somewhere the borders can stretch a bit to include him.