by David Kummer
As we passed couples and families and lonely walkers, a barge emerged from under the bridge. When the conversation lulled, our eyes were drawn to the massive, low ship as it glided. It moved, from our perspective, just barely faster than we walked. Bruce pointed this out to me and looked on with wonder at the wide boat, indiscernible black mounds carried on its five linked ships. Almost certainly coal. We only ever saw that and metal scraps on the barges nowadays.
“You all make good money off the river?” Bruce asked me at one point. We were a few blocks away from the public swimming pool, where I suggested we should turn left and head up to Main Street. For the meantime, I would indulge his river questions. Everybody had them, all the new people.
“Not really,” I said. “Not for decades. Helps for advertising, a bit of tourism. Mostly it’s just… there.”
“Always loved rivers,” Bruce said, taking a deep sigh and rubbing the back of his neck. We maneuvered our way past a small family with a stroller that had stopped for the moment. Then he elaborated. “Always coming and going… the endless flow of water… It’s perfect, if you think about it.”
“Sure is.” I agreed without really thinking, moved my feet without walking. My mind had drifted elsewhere. Back to Mason. I wanted to buy him something from a shop on Main Street but didn’t know what exactly or how to play this off to Bruce. If I could appear vulnerable but strong, it might actually help my chances of landing an ad deal with the guy.
“These kids, they just don’t get it, Jed.” Hearing him use my name sent a jolt down my spine, but I managed to hide it. Bruce scoffed at a couple who shuffled by us, holding hands and locked in conversation. He seemed to take this as a sign to continue. “Just… just lookin’ at their phones and stuff. But there’s nothing on there —nothing!—like this goddamn river.”
“You’re right.” I thought of a way to interject here and went for it. “I got a son of my own. Teenager.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Tough age for boys. Both raising ‘em and being one.”
I nodded my head and gestured up the road at one of the empty factory buildings. “Me and my friends at that age, we were running around those empty places and throwing rocks and getting into all sorts of stuff. You know?” I stopped for a moment and pointed across the road at the sidewalk perpendicular to our own. “That’ll take us up to Main.”
We crossed, a slow but determined pace. There were no crosswalks or stop lights down here. Not enough traffic to warrant them, but just enough to make you nervous. Once on the other side, I stared at the incline. These streets ran to Main, all slanted at probably a thirty degree angle with some bend. It made them a real pain to lumber up. By the time we reached the top, I’d be struggling for air.
“I know what you mean,” Bruce assured me. “It’s not the same now. Real shame.”
On that journey uphill, I tried to bring up an ad campaign once more. This time, my own out-of-breath and raspy voice did me in. Bruce smirked as I faltered. He didn’t comment when we crossed the nicest street in town, the one just up from the river where the wealthiest downtowners lived. Nor did he mention the next one, with shabby apartments and foreclosed houses. No, Bruce simply drank in the sights of Little Rush. His eyes wandered with the same attitude he surveyed me. Thoughtful, silent, contemplative.
“Looks the same as back then,” he mumbled when we emerged onto Main Street. He peered around, shading his eyes from the sun, and a twitch in his lip hinted at some unseen emotion. “That theater, there. Just the same.”
“You’ve been here before?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Seen pictures.”
I accepted this and led the way down Main Street. We chatted for a while about the different buildings. I told a few stories I knew, like about Allen and his burgers, or the coffee shop not far down. Whenever we passed one of my own properties, I curled up into myself, reluctant for any sort of self-promo. Things were different with this man than others. I didn’t care if townies judged me. That’s what they were here for. But a new person, one from LA… his opinion mattered to me, and not just because of the name and dollar signs attached.
“I’m thinking dinner at Allen’s,” I suggested after we explored the area for twenty minutes, “and then maybe we can get to talking about this advertisement?”
“Sounds fine.” I knew this was for the first part of my question, not the latter.
We passed by a storefront, one that sold antiques and baseball cards mostly, along with a slew of pawn-shop objects. I stepped toward this building and said that I wanted to pop in for just a second to pick something up.
“Just a minute,” I explained, opening the door to enter
I emerged minutes later to find him leaning against a light pole, brows furrowed. He wore a thin smile and crossed his arms when I appeared.
“What’d you get?”
I held up a pocket knife and then stored it away. “Just this.” Without another word, I started to stroll away from the building and down the sidewalk, passing through a small crowd that had gathered.
“For your kid, right?”
I turned back to face him and stopped moving. Bruce watched me with a sad, compassionate smile that felt entirely out of place. We stood like that for a moment, sizing each other up, but not for a fight. Just to see who cracked first.
“I’m not…” My voice trailed off and with it any resistance.
Bruce nodded to himself. “Kid’s gonna get in trouble with something like that.” Then he motioned to the restaurant across the street. “Let’s head over. Getting hungry.”
I shuffled along beside him after that, head bent. We reached the crosswalk and waited for just a moment before heading across.
“I might be too harsh on ‘em,” he admitted, clasping me on the shoulder with a firm but gentle grip. “Can I tell you just one thing? I had somebody once, a parent of sorts. That kid don’t want stuff, Jed. Just wants you.”
Those words rang in my head for the rest of the evening. All through dinner, a general blur, they were torturing me. Advice that called me out, cut me from the inside. Yet I knew it was the truth. For the next hour, I tried not to meet anyone’s eye.
Bruce spent most of the meal chatting with other patrons of Allen’s Burgers, swapping stories and occasionally name-dropping a celebrity that set the crowd on fire. I’d never seen a man so charismatic, so aware of his charm. It unnerved me a bit, to be honest. If he could put on a show this mesmerizing over dinner, what could he do to a person over weeks, months? Maybe even to a whole city.
When I drove away from downtown not long after, Bruce stayed behind in the restaurant. He assured me on the way out that I would get my advertisement deal, sooner rather than later. But for the time being, he just “wanted to enjoy life here,” he said. This perfect equilibrium he’d found. Something about him felt off when he said this, like it was neither a complete truth nor a total lie. Either way, he stuck around while I returned home.
One thought played in my mind like a broken record. The entire way home... Just wants you.
* * *
Those steps were some of the most difficult, most awkward I’d ever taken. The carpet underneath my bare feet, hugging myself with both arms. I approached the bedroom door foot by foot and longed to turn back with each step. Wanted to hurry away and join Lucy in our bed, the warm comfort of her body and familiar pillows.
Nothing about this felt familiar. I’d not done anything like this in a long, long time.
I stood facing that plain, white door for probably a full minute. One hand on the smooth hallway wall, the other scratching at my chin absentmindedly. From inside the room, I could hear noises. It sounded like quiet, desperate crying. I shivered at the thought.
Then I raised my hand to the wood surface and knocked twice.
“Yeah?” Mason called out. It sounded like he’d been crying, for sure.
“Can I come in, just a second?”
Mason cleared his throat and I hea
rd him moving around. Then, “Yeah.”
I twisted the doorknob and opened the door just enough so I could step inside. Mason sat criss-cross on his bed, back against the wall, staring at his toes. Across the room, his computer hummed, but the screen was dark. A lamp on the desk, next to the monitor, emitted the room’s only light. Rather than snooping around, I stood straight and took a step near the bed.
“I… got you something.”
I dug into my jeans for a second, noticed his quizzical expression. Then I extracted the pocketknife and held it up.
“Here… here ya go.” I tossed it onto the bed, near his leg.
He picked it up and turned it over. Our eyes met, and I knew he wanted to ask, “why?” but held back. I appreciated that. Because I didn’t really know the answer.
We stood that way for another few seconds. Mason touching the pocketknife, inspecting it, but I could tell he was waiting for me to either continue or leave.
“Talked to Bruce Michaels today,” I told him, hoping this would elicit some kind of reaction. I added, “Might be coming over for dinner sometime. We’ll see.”
Mason nodded, still rigid like a board.
“Anyways, well... goodnight, man.” I started to back away, out of the room. Felt the moment slipping from my fingertips. I’d let it fall away so many times before. I gripped the doorknob so tight that my knuckles were turning pale. Just in time, I choked out, “Love you.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared at me in disbelief. I finally understood the expression he wore and had since I stepped inside. One of sadness and fear. Anxiety, even. But when I spoke those words, the tiniest flicker of a smile passed over him.
I would’ve liked for him to call after me, “I love you, too.” But this, of course, didn’t happen.
Instead, we took our own paths for that night. But at least I knew that somewhere down the line, maybe we would cross again. For now, that would be enough.
11
Willow
Each summer in Little Rush and the counties around us, the last stages of summer break were marked by an extravagant, delicious, greasy festival. The entire plot of land couldn’t be more than a few acres. That didn’t stop the spectacle. Anywhere you turned, there were pop-up arcade games, food stands that came from nowhere and were gone in a day, not to mention the permanent structures of the 4-H ground itself. The animal smells mixed with scents of cinnamon donuts and caramel apples. Everything and everybody fried. A delicate balance of odors and noises and emotions. The reckless abandon it took to ride one of the shaky, spinning amusement park rides.
The county fair. An elaborate, beautiful, unique aspect of rural Indiana life.
For kids my age, the county fair was often a lot more. Our first date, our first kiss, holding hands at the Ferris wheel’s peak. Throbbing headaches when we stepped off the worst rides, only to get back on soon after. The ever-present rumor of “oh, somebody lost a leg on this ride over in Ohio,” but everybody rode it all the same. If we didn’t, we risked standing alone in the middle of a sweaty and sun-burnt crowd, watching friends soar overhead.
Mason parked the car in an allotted spot, at least a football field away from the nearest ride. The cars in front of us were an endless sea, broken only by a few feet. They were all sorted into rows, spread across a grass field. As Mason shut off the engine and climbed out, I couldn’t help but think if it rained hard enough, we’d all be stuck in this mud trap.
After a walk across that makeshift parking lot, we snuck between two of the rides and emerged on a dirt stretch. The fairground was organized, roughly, into two long streets. These were more dirt than grass, densely packed with crowds and food vendors. This first stretch had fair rides on one side and carnival games on the other. Mason and I exchanged a look and a grin. This might be our last time here, and I wanted it to be perfect.
“How many you wanna ride?” he asked me, weaving through the crowd. He reached back and held my hand as I followed. “If we’re doing a lot, we should just get those wrist things.”
“Bracelets?” I offered. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“I’ll pay,” he said, more a declaration than a question.
They weren’t cheap, by any means. Especially not when dinner would cost an extra fifteen. Altogether, we usually spent thirty bucks each. Now that we were older and our parents didn’t drop us off, they’d also stopped lending us cash.
Someone bumped against me, and I groaned. Mason looked back, eyebrow raised, and then faced forward again when I didn’t comment. I’d been more sensitive to contact recently. The explanation was pretty simple, but I hated thinking about it. The fact that I couldn’t tell anybody only made me feel worse.
I’d waited five days after it happened to take the test. Buying the pregnancy test went easy enough, though the cashier gave me a weird look when I did so. I hate old men. Once I had it, I couldn’t bring myself to actually use it. A few days before my period was due, I finally came around and the answer… didn’t thrill me.
Even though I hadn’t yet missed a period, even though I felt no different physically, even though my only catalyst for taking the test was that Mason hadn’t used a condom… the damn thing had confirmed it. I was pregnant. I didn’t know a hundred percent, of course, and I wouldn’t for a week or two. Even then, I’d heard stories of false positives or close calls. Maybe I wouldn’t truly believe it for a while. But at the same time, I had no doubt. I’d convinced myself, already, that a baby lived inside of me. Our baby.
And I still hadn’t told him.
“Two bracelets,” Mason said, raising his voice over the throng of people.
In the tiny, sweltering booth, an overweight man rummaged through a drawer and then snatched Mason’s credit card. In a minute, he returned the card, two bracelets with it. “Put ‘em on ‘r left wrist,” he barked at us before shooing us away for the next customer.
With our left wrists adorned in cheap-but-stubborn Tyvek material, we moved away from the booth and faced the expanse of redneck consumerism spread before us.
After a brief discussion, we settled on the most vomit-inducing ride to start us off. The one where I’d stand up, strapped to a wall, inside of a circular shape. Then the object spins around like crazy and forms a sort of anti-gravity chamber. Mason always loved it, and I managed, so that’s where we stood in line.
I knew that the rides were safe, since I was only two weeks pregnant. But I couldn’t help thinking about it. In just a matter of months, I couldn’t do this anymore. My body would be wildly different. And I really didn’t wanna think about that just now.
The sun beat down, relentless, and I found myself praying for the next few hours to go by quickly. Once that torturous globe descended, the fairground would light up with all sorts of beautiful colors. The last few hours, the fair in pure darkness, formed the best memories of my childhood. The rides all whirring late into the night, only the teenage crowd left. I wanted to experience that one final time. Before college and life and the lifelong chase began.
“Look at this,” Mason spoke up, digging in the side pouch of his cargo shorts. He pulled out a sleek pocket knife a moment later and flipped open the blade. “Dad got me it.”
“That’s nice of him.” I leaned against the rail which boxed us into line. There were at least two more ride cycles ahead of us.
“He’s an idiot.” Mason shrugged and pocketed the tool. “Thinks he can just… buy me over, you know?” He scoffed and his face morphed into a cocky smirk. “Like with my mom. They’re all good now. He just… just bought her some shit, I bet.”
I frowned but didn’t speak up. Mason’s relationship with his dad had always bugged me. According to Mason, Jedidiah was “never really there for me” and “spent all his time working.” He definitely held some sort of grudge, and his mom giving in had annoyed him beyond belief. But at the same time, shouldn’t he celebrate his parents working out their issues? Did he want to experience divorced parents? No, he didn’t. He just didn’t kno
w any better.
“Nice knife, though,” he murmured, feeling the spot in his pocket where it’d slipped to.
I couldn’t help but grin, turning away to mask it.
The next hour passed in a literal daze. By the time we passed through five of the rides, doing them each multiple times, I could barely walk straight. I threw an arm around Mason’s shoulders, like two weary soldiers returning from the war, and suggested we go eat. It was a short walk from this dirt stretch to the other one, where real food awaited, along with free water stations and always some kind of entertaining demonstration. Last summer, I’d witnessed a young karate school perform, with one of the kids my own age splitting a dozen bricks with his bare hand.
On the way, Mason stopped and chatted with a few other kids. He always knew people, no matter where we went. Even one adult tried to butt in with a comment about Jed, but Mason brushed this off. I stood by, silent, uncomfortably aware of myself. It struck me that I didn’t have many friends, apart from those acquired through Mason. I knew this wasn’t healthy. After all, my parents were similar before their divorce. In their case, my mom had all the connections, leaving Dad irritable and friendless. He hadn’t developed much in that sense.
We chose to eat at a setup near the fairgrounds’ edge. A few tables stood in a rectangle shape, with a canopy overhead. The servers would come out into the center space with our food and their own small talk. The building adjacent to these tables smelled of grease and deep friers. Through the two windows, I could see people bustling around with trays, holding up baskets, and causing a general clamor that lent itself to a peaceful dinner. The commotion inside only served as a foil to the peaceful atmosphere around the tables.
When we’d placed our orders and received a bottle of soda each, Mason slouched forward, elbows on the table. He turned to me and smiled cheekily. “You look gorgeous, babe.”