Everything, Somewhere

by David Kummer

“Hundred-ten!” Jon bounced up and down in his street, head-banging to some song nobody else could hear. He pumped a fist in the air, actually punching the ceiling a few times. “That’s it, dude, that’s the stuff!”

  Indeed, the speedometer had reached its max point. Danny let the truck glide to a slower speed. He didn’t push on the brake at all, simply removed his foot from the gas. I took a deep breath, leaned into the cushioned seat. I focused on the ceiling now, frayed and browned from cigarettes. As the truck slowed and we returned to normal speeds, the wind rushing through the cab also slowed. I could once again smell smoke, that stench ever-clinging to the inside of Danny’s truck. I didn’t hate it. It felt kind of nice.

  “You want one, kiddo?” Danny asked.

  I turned to him, saw a cigarette extended toward me. His eyes, completely off the road by this point, traced the lines of my face. He chuckled and tossed it into my lap.

  “Give’m a light, Jon-boy.”

  Jon took the cigarette from me and touched the end of it with a lighter he’d extracted from a pocket. Then he handed it back and lit one for himself. I tried to copy his actions, ended up coughing the first few attempts. But after a while, I got the hang of it. By the time we were en route back to Little Rush, a few hours later, I thought of myself as a bonafide expert.

  Still no cop lights in the rearview mirror. I watched for them the rest of that day. And none ever showed up. I breathed a deep, woodsy sigh of relief as we passed by the “Welcome to Little Rush” sign. Wondered if my grandpa would smell it on me, these nicotine devils. Wondered if he’d even care.

  * * *

  Something about that memory always stuck with me. All those years later, returning to Little Rush, I couldn’t shake it from my mind. Of all the people from that summer, only my grandpa was more vivid in memory than Danny. I thought of the older boy as a wild stallion. That redneck, truck-driving, hard-skinned son of a bitch.

  Danny took up painting houses the next summer, I heard. From a mutual friend, I found out Jon and him got into a fistfight, so Danny up and left. To Florida. The most exciting, most daring man I’d ever known. Relegated to the exterior wall of someone else’s home.

  I thought back on that memory with fond emotions. The danger, the rush of blood, the adrenaline, the truck and cigarettes. All of it. But most of all him.

  Danny, with his new profession, became a heavy drinker. Spent all his money on it. Some say he got himself in a bar fight, shot right between the eyes with a 22. Others say he washed up on the beach one isolated morning, caught in a rip tide.

  I never knew what to believe. Only that I missed him. That I wished we could speak again, one last time.

  Something about that truck ride always stuck with me. Just couldn’t quite pin it down.

  2

  Jed

  When the news flickered across my Facebook feed, I didn’t believe it at first. The guy who’d shared it —an old school friend who still lived downtown— had a reputation for sharing fake news. The local gossip group, which I’d joined for a source of grassroots local news, picked up the story and ran with it. Somebody located the original TMZ article and shared that, too.

  At that point, I started to worry. I glanced up from my phone to Lucy, who lay on the couch underneath the open windows. All the lights were off in the house around us, save for the kitchen light and the sitting room lamp. This was her typical setup for late-night reading, while I sat in a recliner messing with my phone or watching TV. She held a Kindle in one hand, an oatmeal cream pie in the other, oblivious to the breaking news. For the moment, I didn’t disturb her. I kept digging, my heart sinking deeper with every subsequent sentence.

  Not Bruce. Not now. The man who’d given me advice about Mason… who’d brought with him a sizable economic boom, at least for a few weeks. This hallowed actor, this star of my childhood… Not Bruce. It couldn’t be true. TMZ had been wrong about this stuff before. Surely they were again.

  The sitting room lights felt dimmer than usual on that night. Outside, a hollow night had settled on the neighborhood. Mason had been gone a while, and who knew how long he might stay out. If he’d even come home. Not that I cared. The worst that could happen? You might say it already had. Willow, that poor girl, pregnant. I’d seen it in her eyes when they told me. She hadn’t expected this. And the way she looked at Mason, such hope and dedication in her expression… I hope they made it. I really did. She was probably too good for him in a lot of ways.

  I flicked on the television and turned to the local news channel, if only to check. Had they heard yet? Had they run anything on it? But to my dismay, or perhaps relief, they were talking about the weather. With this in mind, I settled back in my chair and clicked on the TMZ article. Time, at least, hadn’t run out. I still had time to make my own conclusions. To think.

  Lucy yawned from the couch, covering her mouth. “When’s Mason gonna be back?” She then lowered the Kindle and focused on me.

  “Dunno.”

  “You alright?” she sat up a little, like doing a crunch.

  I granted her a weary, half-smile and nodded. “Just reading an article.”

  “Oh, yeah? Anything interesting?”

  I shrugged, focusing again on the column of words against a petrified white background. “Dunno yet.”

  The allegations were pretty damning, and I could see why the locals had snatched it up so quickly. The idea that Bruce Michaels had come to Little Rush was wild enough. That he had done so running from a potential scandal made it all the more compelling. To my surprise, though, the TMZ article hinted at even more.

  Madeline Suso. That girl’s name, whoever she was, popped up multiple times throughout the short read. It couldn’t have been more than five paragraphs, just a blip on the radar that promised a bigger storm ahead. And yet, by the end of it, she’d become as engraved in my brain as Bruce Michael himself. They even had a picture of her from about fifteen years ago, some high school in Illinois. A skinny, blonde girl, huge smile across her youthful features. But what really mattered, in this instance, was her age. Sixteen years old. Younger than my own son.

  “Damn.” I brushed a hand through my hair, blowing a raspberry. “There’s no way…”

  “What is it?” Lucy perked up, sitting straight on the couch now. Her eyes locked on me, as if they’d never really left. “Is something wrong?”

  I groaned and said simply, “Check Facebook. I’m sure it’s somewhere on your feed.”

  As Lucy reached for her phone and then navigated to the app, I read the article a second time. Made sure of all the key points. She’d accused Bruce of sexually assaulting her at a party about fifteen years ago. He was in Illinois to film a movie. She said they’d both been drunk, and she wasn’t strong enough to resist. Something along those lines. Reading it again, my heart thumped painfully against my chest cavity. They used the word “rape” twice, placed selectively in the paragraphs. When I scrolled to the top of the page, I saw an image of Bruce from not long ago, right before he announced his move, in fact. A handsome, well-groomed man. A sly grin on his face, wearing sunglasses and slicked-back hair. The actor I’d grown up adoring, wanted to be like in many ways. And yet, if this was all true…

  “What a… what a…” Lucy gaped at me, letting her phone drop beside her on the couch. It lay there, the screen dark now. I stared at it, if only to avoid her. “That’s awful. I never thought he…”

  “If it’s true.”

  “Babe…” She shook her head and watched me closely. “Babe, that poor girl… There’s no way it’s a lie. You know that, right?”

  I nodded, slowly, gripping the fabric of my armrests like it alone could save my life. “I do.” And it was true. I did know. Bruce Michaels. A Hollywood legend. A monster.

  At that moment, the front door flew open, and I heard footsteps on the kitchen floor. Mason dashed into the sitting room, panting like he’d just run a quarter-mile sprint. I hadn’t even heard the car pull in or seen the headlights outside. Hadn�
��t heard him approach the house.

  Our eyes met, and I knew that he’d already seen it. Maybe the news, so visceral and sudden, is what caused him to come running home. I imagined him taking off at a moment’s notice from whatever date they’d been on. Speeding toward the house, eager to talk. With me. If not for the present circumstances, I might have smiled. But happiness didn’t feel right, not tonight, not here.

  “Dad… Did you see?” he asked between breaths, both hands on his knees. His shoulders shook, but from effort or shock I didn’t know.

  “Yeah.” I turned to Lucy, who watched him with a hint of confusion. As sure as she’d been that the awful story was true, I felt equally certain she didn’t understand the magnitude. For me and for Mason. “I’m sorry, man. It’s… it’s just terrible.”

  Mason nodded, arms wrapped around his midsection. “Our favorite actor. It’s just…”

  “I know what you mean.” The way he said “our favorite” killed me. I stood from my chair and moved toward him. He didn’t react, didn’t look up from the carpet, so I hesitated. “Even bad people can be good at their jobs.”

  “You think he’s a bad person?” He lifted his chin now, and I saw a glimmer in his eyes, a solitary tear. Such longing in that expression, the slight quiver of his eyelashes. Desperate for an answer. A firm answer.

  “I have no idea.” I crossed my arms now, noticed how similar we looked. Myself balding, a lot less impressive physically. But for the first time in a long time, he again looked like a kid who needed help. Just a kid, questioning everything. I thought about telling him that Bruce had met with me, given me crucial advice. I wanted to mention how Henry described Hudson, the positive changes since he spent more time over there. How Bruce had changed that young man’s life. But I held my tongue, if only because I didn’t want to confuse him even more. “I don’t know if we’ll ever, truly, understand.”

  “I need to…” Mason took a deep breath. Another tear threatened to fall, but he wiped it away with a subtle movement. Then, in a movement so fast and fierce I almost toppled over, he sprang forward and embraced with me a hug. His muscular arms, tight against my back, clinging for dear life. I just had time to pat his shoulder before he pulled away. “I need to go.”

  I frowned and cocked my head. From behind me, Lucy spoke up. “You just got here, baby.”

  “I need to talk to Hudson.” He scuffed at the carpet with his foot, avoiding both our curious expressions. “I’m just worried. If anything’s wrong, I’ll call you, okay? Be back later.”

  Then he ran out of the house, just as quickly as he’d come. I took a few steps toward the door, but it had already shut. Standing with my bare feet on the carpet, I watched, helpless, as he went. From that position, I saw the headlights pop on and heard the engine rumble. Then he pulled out onto the road, and two tiny red dots vanished into the distance. His convertible, the roof down, speeding away on a mission I didn’t understand.

  “You okay?”

  I felt Lucy’s hand on my shoulder. When I turned, she wore a pitying smile and threw both arms around my neck. “I know how much he means to you.”

  “Mason? Or… the actor?” I shuddered. The way I didn’t even want to utter his name. To think about him, what he’d meant to me. Is this what it felt like in those moments before a cult burns to the ground, when the followers realize they’re wrong? The man leading them, no longer a god. Mortal after all. Except… no. Bruce Michaels hadn’t become mortal. He was worse.

  “Both, baby.” Lucy hugged me, her embrace warm and inviting. Her lips brushed my cheek before her bony chin settled in the crook of my neck. “It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered, the words sweet on her tongue like honey. “Life goes on.”

  My phone buzzed against the table next to my recliner. I turned to look as it vibrated against the wood. It bounced around, this way and that, illuminated screen. Caller ID confirmed my fears. It was Mason.

  3

  Hudson

  I barely even felt them. That flat, stale liquid bubbling down my throat and to my stomach. Those four beers were probably the least I’d ever enjoyed alcohol. Usually, I could dive right into the drinking, but that night I struggled to get started.

  When I saw the headline, I… well, it was impossible to describe that feeling. I should’ve felt anger and disgust. I should’ve been depressed, and I knew all of that. But instead, it was like an electrical wire bouncing around, shooting sparks. A lightning bolt hit me. Like some stirring of guitars, building louder and louder, I felt it growing in me. As I read through the article, as the words passed across my fuzzy vision, I knew what came next.

  Earlier that day, I’d been sitting at the kitchen table downstairs. My father bustled around, throwing together a sandwich and fitting the meal into a plastic bag. He looked at me, and I raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t respond. For another few minutes, he hurried around, cursing under his breath. Ran the sink over his outstretched hand. Then he finally straightened up and smoothed his hair with a wet palm.

  “Goin’ to work,” Dad murmured, hand on the doorknob. He shrugged at me, a kind of “what can you do.” Then he opened the door and started out.

  “I love you.”

  I’d blurted those words out of nowhere. I didn’t expect to say them. But I did. I might’ve thought he didn’t hear if not for the slight stutter in his footsteps. Just as he closed the front door behind him, leaving me alone in the kitchen, he stumbled. A stiffness in his neck. No, he’d definitely heard me. And he chose to ignore it.

  This scene played into my decision. Once the fourth beer had emptied inside me and I finished reading the article, I had no doubt.

  It had been weeks since I’d talked to Mason. Every once in a while, I thought about him. I even chatted with Willow from time to time, but she had other things to worry about. A baby on the way. School coming up in a matter of weeks, no longer months. I couldn’t even imagine her stress, so I tried not to impose too much. Her and Mason, they had their own life now. Something far apart from me. I’d learn to live with that.

  I tried getting to know my father better, tried opening up. He never really listened. His eyes were usually glued to the television screen, baseball ever-present in our house during those July evenings. Even though I needed him more than ever, no miracle happened. He didn’t suddenly become more present. If anything, he distanced further. Mom was around, but busy. I didn’t blame her. These two, also, had a life apart from me. Working, farming, surviving in Little Rush. I didn’t have anything to do with that.

  So I fell even deeper into Bruce Michaels. The strange relationship we had. I spent a few evenings there every week, sometimes five or six. We talked, we had beers, even smoked occasionally. It was the kind of relationship I longed for. An older, wiser man who had been everywhere, done everything. He had so many stories to tell. Some of them took place right here in Little Rush.

  I loved hearing about how the city used to be, decades before I was born. I admired the way he painted that setting, the descriptions he used. Much different than my father. He understood it on a deeper level than I ever had. I couldn’t get enough of his life. From Little Rush to LA, all around the globe, so many women. Every bit of it, I savored.

  Maybe that’s why the breaking news hit me how it did. The fact that Bruce Michael could be so… such a bad person. The fact that he could hide it from me. I should’ve known. Should’ve never trusted him. Just another dirty celeb. Another worthless piece of shit that I devoted myself to. To think, at one point, I had given up on him. Then gone back. Another mistake.

  I moved with abandon around the house. Throwing on shoes, a shirt, grabbing my keys and wallet. My mom, in the living room, didn’t even notice when I left. Her eyes were fixed on the television screen. Outside, the sky had grown pitch black. I met it with a snarl and determination. The deadest of nights.

  I wondered how long it had been since I read the news. How long I’d sat in my bed, thinking, wondering. Starting to understand what I neede
d to do.

  Once I’d situated myself in the truck outside and started the engine, I took a moment to breath. To decide. There were a few options.

  I knew what everybody would expect. They’d expect me to kill myself. And I couldn’t blame them. It did have a nice irony to it. Maybe it was a fitting response to Bruce and what he’d done to me. All the lies.

  I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel and took deeper breaths, like I was trying to suck in the truck itself. I must have been in that position for twenty minutes at least. The world didn’t look quite right anymore. I could feel it coming on, an intense burning. I had to find more alcohol, for sure. But I also had to drive.

  Not to the bridge. I didn’t want to kill myself. I didn’t want Bruce to have that much control. If I let this push me over the edge, then I would’ve lost, and that’s not what I wanted. At least not yet.

  So I pushed my foot against the pedal and maneuvered my way down the gravel driveway. There were two options. There always had been.

  I could run away. I could leave Little Rush forever and create a new life somewhere else. With people who needed me and wanted me. Maybe find a girlfriend somewhere out there. A place with better weather and better people. A place without Bruce Michaels, without Mason and my family. I wanted everything that place had to offer. I knew I could find it.

  Little Rush held nothing for me anymore. But out there… somewhere, I’d find what I needed. A place with sunshine that didn’t burn your skin and a place with rivers that weren’t so cold. I could start over. I could be who and what I wanted. I just had to make it there. So I would drive, non-stop, through a full tank.

  At the end of my driveway, I turned right on the country road and made my way toward the nearest gas station. I would fill up there, get some food. Maybe steal some beer. I just had to make it somewhere. That’s all I needed.

  As the sky emptied and the clouds lost their shape, I started to think of an alternate ending. Something even more beautiful. A different kind of somewhere. The trees were hazy, and the cornfields blurred, just a mesh of colors that meant nothing. But downtown Little Rush, with the brilliant lights and parallel streets and hum of peaceful life…