by David Kummer
There’s nothing quite like leaving a person behind. No feeling that can touch every part of the soul like that. Grief and power. That image swam in my head as I sped toward my house. Of Layla, staring at me, not knowing what she’d done wrong, not understanding why I had to desert her.
Maybe I would text her. I probably did owe her that much.
Neither of my parents were home when I arrived. Without those texts from my father, this wouldn’t have concerned me at all. Now, it sent me into a fit of rage.
They owed me an explanation. They needed to stay for me. And they’d left me behind. Just like I’d done to Layla.
I ran inside the house, closing the door so hard that I thought it might break. I called out once for my mom, hoping she would answer, already knowing she wouldn’t. For just an instant, I stood in that house, completely alone, and thought about calling Layla. Maybe she would comfort me and come here. Maybe she’d understand these feelings and these fears. Were her parents divorced? God, I didn’t even know the answer.
Mason. No, I never seriously considered calling him.
Instead, I hurried to my room, shut the door behind me, and locked it. Then I grabbed my desk chair and wedged it under the doorknob.
Five minutes later, with a bottle of vodka sitting cap-less on my desk and a notepad directly beside it, I considered writing a suicide note. Or I could just stare out the window for now and grow increasingly more drunk, closer and closer to making mistakes I would regret tomorrow morning. If that morning even came.
I didn’t have the guts to kill myself yet. I already knew how the night would end.
Taking some time to think.
11
Little Rush
(The Journalist)
Gina rested her eyes for just a split second, savoring the darkness in contrast to her laptop screen. She shifted in an uncomfortable chair that came with the apartment. Her laptop, notepad, and a collection of newspapers from across the country were spread out on the desk. This apartment, while spacious enough, felt more like an oversized hotel room than a living space. Perhaps because she still hadn’t unpacked, even after a month of living here.
The fireworks had finally died off just half an hour earlier, even though July fourth itself had been nearly a week ago. Something about little rural towns like this gave her a peaceful rest. A town where people had nothing better to do for days afterward than shoot off more fireworks, prolong the hotdog celebrations for as long as possible. She didn’t hate this about Little Rush. In fact, she appreciated it. Hoped that tomorrow night, it would continue. Although eventually, she knew, it would all end.
Soon enough, she would leave this town, not likely to ever return. And in her wake? What would her impact be on this motley collection of neighborhoods, and on Bruce Michaels himself? Those questions remained a mystery.
Gina opened her eyes again and re-read the email she’d typed out.
I hope this finds you well, the message to her editor started. I’ve had a chance to talk with Mr. Michaels under the guise of a local reporter. While I couldn’t obtain any concrete answers to my questions, I did manage to piece together a few things. Including the girl.
While he denies any memory and is reluctant to broach the subject, there is no doubt. Mr. Michaels remembers Ms. Suso. Even more, I can confidently say that his purpose in coming to Little Rush has been avoiding the memory of her, perhaps avoiding an investigation exactly like this one. In my opinion, we should press on, dig deeper, and unearth more about this hidden agenda before we move to publication. Discover what else Bruce —she deleted this and changed it to— Mr. Michaels might be hiding.
For all we know, there could be more out there with similar stories. If there are, and if they’re willing to step forward, then we have to include them in our publication. To do otherwise would be both dishonest and a huge detriment to our public image.
The email went on for a few more paragraphs. It dove into more specific details, tidbits that would make for a compelling study on Bruce Michaels as a man, as a monster. As Gina read through them, she cringed at parts and reworded a few sentences. She’d been slightly drunk, she realized while reading the whole thing back. Drunk with anger. Outrage, even. Now, after another two weeks, she found some… not sympathy. Nobody could have sympathy for what this man had suffered, not after what he had done. She just felt like there were pieces missing. Things that didn’t add up.
She wrote something along these lines at the back-end of the email, stressing her desire to push deeper into Bruce’s story. Again, she found an instance where she’d called him by his first name, not the more formal term “Mr. Michaels.” Having fixed that and a few other typos, she completed her parting thoughts, asked for advice, and wished him well on the other projects their magazine juggled.
When this email had flown into the abyss, she closed the tab. The screen switched to her personal email, where she noticed a new message. From Madeline Suso.
Her editor and the magazine higher-ups in general didn’t know about these private communications, and hopefully never would. Officially, her relationship with the girl —no, not girl; Madeline had graduated from college by now— had ended a month ago. When their series of interviews and coffee dates had ended, and Gina herself bought a plane ticket to Louisville, she hadn’t expected to hear from the young woman again. Gina focused her eyes on this no-name town, but then Madeline emailed. Gina answered the inquiry, but not on her work account. She took it to her personal Gmail and the conversation developed, slowly, over the last few weeks.
I just wanted to say thank you, Madeline had written.
Gina read the words, a skeptical smile touching her lips. Unsure what to think or what to believe of the young woman’s facade.
It continued. I hope my emails aren’t annoying you. I don’t mean to do that or anything. I’m just curious how the story is coming along. Has anyone else stepped forward yet? I know you told me not to get a lawyer yet… I’m trying my best to hold off. But the settlement they offered is so… much. I could pay off my student loans with that! It would just make me feel so much better if I know there are more like me. Do you know anything about that?
I also wanted to ask if you’re positive that you told your boss not to include my name. I don’t want to be involved with this thing, not any more than I have to. I’ll… I’ll do the court stuff, like you asked, and I won’t take a settlement for now. But I don’t want to be in the article. I don’t… I don’t even know… I don’t want Bruce to get life in prison or anything… I just hate that people think he’s this great guy and he’s really… You know what I mean, right?
Thank you again, Gina. You really seem to get me. Just please make sure they don’t include my name, and I’ll do my best to stay strong over here. I really just want to be normal again. To have my life back. Thank you for helping me.
Each time Gina read the young woman’s messages, her heart filled with something like pity and wrath. She sensed the power she held in these months of investigation, of decisions. The ability to wreck somebody’s life. Someone as powerful as Bruce. But also, in a sense, the inability to stop what she’d set in motion.
She hadn’t told her editor to avoid using Madeline’s name. And she’d told them all the salacious details, everything that made for a front-page story, maybe for weeks in a row. Sacrifices had to be made
This haunted her as she powered down the laptop. Watched the Google screen flicker into nothingness. Then she whipped it shut, turned back to face her empty apartment.
The ability to wreck somebody’s life. To decide if he deserved it. To paint the story as cruel or as ambiguous as she wanted. But then again, the inability to save Madeline. She’d done what Gina suggested, refused the settlement over and over again. Not knowing it soon wouldn’t be an option. Not knowing that she’d get no money out of this now.
But what she hadn’t told Madeline is that her life would never be normal after this. That was out of their control now. Once more,
the young woman had lost her innocence and control. Only this time, Gina herself had been the one to take it.
Gina fell back onto her bed, covering her face with a pillow. Trying to block out a thought which had tortured her for months.
Is all of this justice for her? Or profit for me?
12
Hudson
They found the middle-aged man in his apartment, hanging on a noose that he made from a belt. I didn’t recognize his name when I saw it in the paper, and I immediately forgot it. But the story stuck with me in a way that few news-related items did. Not because of the suicide itself. Though that was peculiar enough, for sure.
I’d always thought it would be me. The first one to kill himself in this town full of on-the-edge people. The edge of sanity, that is. The edge of a mountain, where you just might jump one day. I lived on that edge, spent my days peering over it at the chasm below. In my mind, suicide and I were on a collision path. We were bound to lock arms one fateful day and dance ourselves to sleep.
It’s not to say that I felt angry at the man. I didn’t, exactly. But I did feel betrayed. Fate had betrayed me. Given up the spotlight to this middle-aged nobody. A man with no future. A man who nobody would miss. That cut right into my heart when I read the story. The realization that a streak fifty years in the making had been wasted on this.
His divorced wife and estranged kids might miss him, sure. In a forced sort of way. But besides that, his death left no more impact on the world than his life had. A waste. All of it, a waste. Would my own dad end up that way if my parents really divorced? Would I one day read about him in this same section, just a paragraph of words?
These were cruel thoughts, and I took no pleasure in them. But I also didn’t resist.
To my surprise, nobody else noticed the correlation. Bruce Michaels moved to town, and within a few weeks somebody had killed themselves? No, not a coincidence. A cause. When somebody as bright as Bruce moves into a town like Little Rush, everybody feels a bit… overshadowed. I felt it myself. Continued to suffer under that feeling. This guy, this nobody, had given up. Had extinguished his light entirely.
I wondered, laying in my bed that night, if he had scars like I did. On his upper thigh where nobody could see. I wondered if he felt the same insatiable aching for pain and then instantly regretted it. If he had ever thought about suicide before, even tried it. If he had looked at the bridge and considered jumping. Stared down a cliffside and imagined his body bouncing off those rocks and exploding like a motherfucking Fourth of July celebration.
These were cruel thoughts, and I didn’t enjoy them. I couldn’t even remember that week when I cut myself daily. The urge passed with a fresh Monday, and I’d never touched that razorblade again. Threw it out, actually. But the impact was permanent. On me, on my skin.
In my dark bed, alone, in a house without a father, I wished I hadn’t thrown it out. I wondered if my mother would come home, try to enter my room. Finding it locked, would she wonder if I’d gone through with it? Finally —what’s the expression— kicked the bucket? And, whenever I groaned my way downstairs for breakfast, would she be disappointed to see me?
Most people would forget about that man and about his unfortunate end. I wouldn’t. I remembered him, thought about him weekly at least. There were nights when I pictured myself in his position. There were nights when I wanted to be.
I wished I could have read his suicide note. Pondered his final words.
What would mine have been? In his situation, in his shoes?
Bruce Michaels is a star that burns too bright. Why fight the inevitable? Why persist?
No, those weren’t very good. They made me sound like a dick. But they weren’t the dumbest I’d ever thought.
I liked the final line, at least. Honestly, I mean… why persist?
Mason and Willow had each other. They were in a fine place. Better than fine. Those fuckers would probably get married by next summer if I had to guess. It wasn’t like they needed me any longer. Even if they thought so, they definitely didn’t.
Besides, they could find a new friend. Maybe even couple-friends.
And my parents? Would they even stay together? Divorced adults don’t need kids. Especially not one in college, accruing debts he could never repay. No, they truly would be better off without me. They might not even notice if I simply slipped to the other side. They were both busy people with a potential divorce and everything. Who knew what to call it. Who cared.
Besides, they could eventually make a new kid. Maybe it wouldn’t be quite as fucked up.
Layla. I’d given her a chance, hadn’t I? First, at the creek. I’d honestly tried to give myself away. She’d rejected me. Left me drunk, naked, alone. Maybe that’s how I’d die, too. But then, I picked myself up. I did better. We had a pretty good date, in my opinion, until I ran off like an asshole. No explanation. Didn’t even text her that night. She had every reason to hate me, to think about and curse me.
Sadly, I knew she wouldn’t. Worse than being hated, I would be forgotten. Just another failed boyfriend. A funny story for the next one to hear.
With all these thoughts in mind, I climbed into my truck with complete intention of killing myself. I made up my mind. I would drive downtown, park underneath the bridge again, and then walk onto that pedestrian sidewalk. Get out near the center where the wind smacked against your cheeks. Then I would jump and hope for the best. Or the worst, depending on your point of view.
When I started the engine, it comforted me. I imagined this would be the last time the old truck ever answered to my touch. My final trip. What a run we’d had together, the old junk bucket. Imagine a truck outlasting you. Jesus, I couldn’t have been more pitiful.
“I will follow you into the dark.” I sang the words in a shallow, throaty tone, so I turned the radio up until I couldn’t hear my own voice. Or my own thoughts. Death Cab for Cutie assaulted me in all directions, blaring through my speakers. Who, exactly, would I be following? That question left unanswered, I roared away from my home. They certainly wouldn’t follow me.
When I reached the end of my gravel driveway, I turned right and sped up. I had to make it there before I lost my nerve. I could feel it draining away already.
I ended up parking in a field, the same one Mason and I got drunk at from time to time. The place where I’d first considered death out loud and with a close friend. I pulled the truck over and waited. For a sign, for encouragement. Banged my head against the steering wheel a few times, hoping it might bleed or knock me out entirely. The song ended, and I restarted it.
After five times through, I backed onto the road once more and returned home in utter silence. To a house with no father, but at least not a house of grief. Not yet.
The moment had passed. The wave had crashed. Perhaps we were all better for it. Waves would come again, though. Endless storms in a place of empty dreaming.
Part 3
A Place of Passing Moments
1
Jed
For a time in my life, before the pizza restaurant made a profit and I hit it big with stocks and rental property, I was a normal person. Just a young man with a girlfriend and a minimum-wage job. Growing up in the 80’s, running around with friends, no cell phones or Netflix or any of that stuff.
There were only a few days that I remembered. Mostly, it was all a blur, but a few moments stuck in my brain. Like the day that Lucy and I went skinny dipping in the river or my first time getting drunk with Henry. My first experience at the boat races. A lot of firsts.
Everything was so different back then in Little Rush. Not booming, by any stretch, but lively. It felt like the city hadn’t fallen asleep yet, like we were holding onto the past. That wore off, naturally, and we became the sleepy river town of my adulthood. But for a time, it felt electric. For a time, I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Maybe I should’ve seen it earlier. The way cities and relationships fall apart. There’s always warning signs. In high school, y
ou never see them. Even after, it’s easy to ignore. But everything crumbles eventually, some over decades and some over hours. Growing up was the easy part. It’s forced on you. But figuring out what to do next… that was the struggle.
* * *
It had only been a few weeks since we graduated high school, but Henry was already fully integrated. I could see it in his eyes as we wandered downtown Little Rush, both of us stumbling just a bit. He had already given in to adult life. Had become one of them. A forty-hour worker, already a job at the power plant.
I had my suspicions that he would never leave town. He looked too much like his coworkers. An ill-kept mullet, scraggly mustache. He wanted to fit in there, had tried his hardest. And one of those days he just might.
The two of us emerged from one of the old factory buildings, shading our eyes from the sunset. I shot him a grin and wobbled up the sloping sidewalk, back toward Main Street. The energy in the air was palpable, potential for something more.
It had been just days since the festivities died away. Only forty-eight hours earlier, the riverfront had been swollen with crowds and tents. A hundred thousand boat-racing fans showed up every year. The annual Regatta, broadcast on national television, the only real spectacle around here. For us, back in high school, the drinking started on July first, peaked on July fourth weekend, and continued for days after the boats disappeared. Now, freshly graduated, the tradition held.
“Can’t imagine a crowd bigger’n this,” Henry had said on the first day as we neared the huge crowds. They were lining the river as far as you could see, young and old, single and families. All of them raucous, all of them entranced by those boats zipping by on the water’s surface, faster than life. “Can’t imagine it gettin’ any smaller, neither.”