Everything, Somewhere

by David Kummer

  10

  Little Rush

  When they found his body, it had been decomposing for two weeks. The blood-splattered wall had dried completely, like a grizzly coat of paint. The couch sagged under his weight. The corpse alone since that instant when he pulled the trigger. The gun itself had fallen onto his lap and remained there until the police collected it.

  Nobody came to look for him, because nobody had a reason. Townspeople assumed he had fled once the news broke. National news didn’t want to interview him, didn’t want to ever broadcast his face again. Little Rush, collectively, turned their back and tried not to think about the man in their midst. The man they’d welcomed with open arms and clamored for his approval. The man they’d been so eager to see, and now couldn’t bear to think of.

  Teenagers got in the habit of driving by the house and flipping him off. This escalated to throwing things at the house. Eggs, empty bottles. His only interaction with the town came via these trouble-seeking high schoolers. And as the days passed, they got even more daring with the pranks.

  It was a few angsty teenagers who discovered his body. They had been throwing stones at the house but grew tired of this sport. The four teenagers, two boys and two girls, inched closer and closer to the house. Mischievous grins spreading over their adolescent courage.

  “Let’s go break the window!” one of the boys said.

  “Can we just leave…?”

  “God, can you even imagine what he’d do?”

  They started toward the house after that, glancing around for any cars or any potential witnesses. Nobody disturbed their mission. Not even Bruce Michaels seemed to notice. So when they reached the front door and peered in the window, it was no surprise they all jumped backward and one of the boys screamed.

  Bruce Michaels, slouched on the couch, blood crusting the side of his head. Brain matter and blood adorning the wall behind him and the cushion to his left. His lifeless corpse frozen, staring right at them, skin as white as paper. Tongue sticking out, head leaning back against the wall. His eyes like a vacant motel.

  They called the cops a few minutes later, and within an hour, the news had broken. Everybody in town heard. Everybody conversed in low voices, almost afraid to be heard talking about the man. The local paper ran a story. The national news picked it up, and Bruce Michaels had his final hours of relevance.

  Most of them were astonished, but not necessarily saddened. The man had already died in the public’s mind. He had become less than nothing. He had become the antithesis of all those acting roles. No longer the deep-thinking, rugged, wilderness man, or even the high-class art thief with a penchant for love. He had become Bruce Michaels, rapist. Bruce Michaels, villain.

  Little Rush cast out the national media soon after Bruce’s dark secrets were revealed. In the same way, his own body was cremated and shipped away. To an ex-wife, the locals said, or maybe sold to the few fans who clung to his memory. Whatever the case, the man was gone. At long last.

  Hudson, upon hearing the news, took it harder than most. Sitting in his room, headphones playing a Phoebe Bridgers song, he stared outside in the vague direction of Bruce’s house. And with a hand over his mouth, he cried silently for a few minutes. Struggling to comprehend. Struggling to make sense, still, of the fallen god he’d worshipped. The mortal man who had caused so much pain and also so much joy.

  Hudson knew that he had done it on the couch, because it was the only thing that made sense. Where his grandpa had died. That’s what Bruce said in one of their many conversations. He, of course, would die in the same exact spot. Always chasing a legacy he could never obtain. Maybe, Hudson decided, that was the real memory of him. A man who tried to become more. A man who had done awful things and attempted to run from them. But in the end, there’s no field big enough to hide in.

  “Gone…” Hudson wiped his eyes one last time and cleared his throat, standing up from the bed. “I guess it’s over for us all.”

  Little Rush, the scene of such a brutal end, the home of a fallen god, would continue on as if nothing had changed.

  11

  Willow

  I figured out the deal with alcohol that summer. It had taken me a few years and an unplanned pregnancy, as well as a best friend nearly dying in a drunken car crash, but I knew by the end. It’s just a really simple cheat code. It’s a shortcut to the highest peaks and lowest valleys of emotion we can reach as mortal humans. And it feels damn good.

  But I’ve figured out that reaching those same peaks without it feels even better. It’s just harder to achieve. When you get there, it’s majestic. A hearty, full stomach laugh with friends or the moment when a strip of sunlight hits your frozen cheek. And the valleys, they aren’t quite as low.

  The three of us were seated around the table one last time. The cabin, shrouded in darkness, stood beside us like a barrier from the outside world. Just the three of us, slouched in our chairs, fingertips drumming on the table, a gentle forest breeze singing all around. There’s something about the way an October evening touches your skin.

  The boys didn’t seem to notice, but then again, I’ve always suspected they aren’t as in tune with the seasons. They weren’t the ones wearing flannel and dark leggings and boots. My classic fall attire, maybe a bit basic, but ask me if I care. It’s comfortable, and I look as good as I’m gonna with layers and layers on. Mason prefers crop tops or whatever in the summer, but those days were past. Not only was it cold outside, but I had a bump. A small one, not as cumbersome as I had expected, but a bump, nonetheless.

  Mason held an e-cigarette between two fingers, the way he did with real ones. He inhaled it and blew out through his nose, a cloud thicker than any Marlboro.

  “You look like an idiot with that,” Hudson said, rolling his eyes.

  Mason shrugged and offered him the device. “Tastes better, smells less.”

  “Just as likely to kill you.” Hudson reached for it and sucked on the end. “I’m never getting one of these.”

  Mason smirked and gave him an “uh-huh, sure” expression.

  The recently installed porch lights offered a clearer-than-usual scene out here. Over the past few weeks, there had been quite a few additions to the cabin. Weeds and brush around the porch cleared away, making it a bit easier to circumnavigate the house without contracting poison ivy. The driveway out front paved and expanded. Inside, numerous projects, like the upstairs floor and the kitchen sink replaced. It certainly felt different, less rugged, if a private cabin in the woods could ever be called that.

  We all felt it that night. A slight shift in the world. This was the last weekend of the year suitable for relaxing outside, coming at the back of a curiously warm Fall Break. And it truly marked the end. The end of our time in the cabin. The end of break.

  Senior year, after this, would hit full steam ahead. No more learning old material. No more dancing around those tough questions. Just a daunting wall we had to climb or shatter against.

  “Can you believe about that football player?” Mason asked us both, shaking his head. “Shootin’ up in the bathroom two weeks ago. I mean, what the hell? If you’re gonna do drugs, at least—”

  “Says the kid who got drunk in a stall during sophomore year,” I interrupted, jabbing a finger through the air.

  “That’s right!” Hudson clapped his hands together and laughed, leaning back in the chair so far that it almost toppled. “You snuck him out, right? Or was that…”

  “That was Dannielle.” I scowled at them both and tried to hide my smile.

  “Let ex’s be ex’s.” Mason threw up his hands in self-defense. “Talk about something else besides my impulsive sophomore year.”

  Hudson folded his arms, and his eyes flicked toward me. Then, with a satisfied smirk, he cleared his throat and directed his attention to Mason. I recognized this as the buildup to some great punchline.

  “You left all that impulsiveness behind, right?”

  Mason nodded. “I’d say so.”

 
; “Would you say it’s impulsive to… oh, I don’t know...” —Hudson raised his eyebrows— “stab someone at the county fair?”

  “Hey!” Mason lashed out across the table, snagging his e-cig from Hudson’s grip. He settled back in his own chair, taking a smoke now, and laughed behind a hand.

  The two bickered for a while about who had done the most impulsive things in high school. There were stories passed, of course, that would’ve gotten either in a wild amount of trouble, but senior year brought a willingness to admit some of our past mischiefs. Cheating on a test freshman year was suddenly the least concerning thing in the world. As was fooling around with someone during class or a well-laid prank on the teacher. Nothing they said, though, could ever touch my experiences over the past three years, not that I bothered to share just then. While they went on and on, I sighed and observed.

  There were moments all through high school when I’d recognized why people called it “the best time of your life.” Sparse moments, fleeting and fickle, but in their own way important. This brief escape from reality, a quiet night with friends, topped them all. The best time of my life…

  Hudson held his Coke can with a familiar grip and slurped a third of it in one go. Mason, smoking whatever flavor he had for the week, had a soda in front of him too. I didn’t touch alcohol, of course, and hadn’t since the pregnancy test. But it struck me in that moment that none of us were drinking. None of us had in months. Not even Hudson. I didn’t know if this was a choice recommended by his therapist or something he’d decided independently. But I felt happy for him, for all of us, the way that was only possible on a comfortable October evening.

  “What about you?”

  I sputtered to awareness and saw Hudson’s eyes trained on me, his lips parted in a question.

  “What?” I answered.

  “Most impulsive thing you’ve done in high school.”

  Still on this, I thought to myself before scrunching up my nose and churning over a few ideas. “Probably… well, one time I threw old milk in this kid’s trunk. Stayed there for a while, too.” I beamed at the memory. “Oh, and I slashed Blough’s back tires once.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mason said, smacking the table with a hand. He threw his head back, laughing, and Hudson joined in. “That’s a felony!”

  Hudson leaned forward onto the table and rested his forehead. He held his stomach and took a minute to collect himself before managing, “I hope that’s your worst.”

  “Not even close.” I winked and brushed my hair behind an ear.

  The night progressed, and the sky grew deeper purple until it might’ve been mistaken for black. Somewhere behind those clouds, the moon and stars were hanging like shattered light bulbs. We traded high school stories for the next hour or so, played a few games of “Fuck, Marry, Kill,” and forced Mason to decide which one of his ex’s he’d hook up with. This took some finagling, and I pretended to be angry at times, but he finally settled on Danielle.

  Just as I thought.

  Mason quit smoking at around one in the morning, and we were all out of Cokes. The cooler, now full of melted ice, lay on the wooden porch beside us. The boys had given into a deep and unshakable silence, broken only by the songs of cicadas and treetops. Every so often, I thought I could hear the creek bubbling, just a short walk downhill away, but this might’ve been my imagination.

  Every few minutes, Mason and I would exchange a meaningful look. Hudson didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were locked on the trees, peering into darkness. I might’ve thought he’d fallen asleep if not for the occasional grunt and shift in his chair.

  Mason gestured at me, but I shook my head and nodded back at him. He frowned and ran a hand through his hair. I shot him the sternest expression I could manage and pointed at Hudson, trying to be discreet. Mason bit his lip and shook his head rapidly.

  I sat up straighter in my chair and sighed. “Hudson…”

  He turned to me, eyes wide, curious. “What’s up?” Seeing my face, his profile darkened just slightly. “Everything okay?”

  “We haven’t told anybody yet…” I smiled at Mason and reached a hand across the table.

  “Oh god, it’s twins, isn’t it?” Hudson let his head fall against the chair’s back. “Not double Masons. That’s…”

  “No, no.”

  Mason took over before I could continue, his voice deeper than usual and unsteady. “We’re… Me and Willow, that is… We’re gonna graduate early. In December.”

  Hudson started to speak, but I held up a hand. “So we can get married in the spring before… everything.” I rested a hand on my stomach.

  “You’re getting married?” Hudson covered his mouth with two hands and stared with owl-eyes. “Oh wow! Did you…?” He shifted to Mason and cocked his head. “Did you propose?”

  “Last week.” He beamed, clearly proud of this. I interrupted again before he could start on a story that Hudson wouldn’t care to hear right now.

  “We’re gonna be around town, of course.” I leaned toward Hudson this time and extended a hand. “Just not… at school.”

  He nodded, more solemn. As if it had just hit him. The three of us, no longer classmates. The great divide we’d been dreading, watching in the distance, and now it stood less than three months away. None of us spoke as his brain churned and soaked up the information. His smile didn’t leave altogether, but it flickered and became something less.

  “I’m happy for you guys,” he said at last. His lips were tight, but he nodded fervently. “I’m… I really am.”

  “Have you decided what you’re doing… after you graduate?” I asked him, if only to shift the conversation.

  He shrugged and picked at the fabric in his jeans. “Think I might take a year off from school. Just work, you know.”

  “That would be great!” Mason exclaimed, banging on the table yet again. “We’re gonna be…” He shot me a look asking if he should share the news. I motioned for him to go on. “We’re gonna be here, too.”

  At this, Hudson’s chin rose, and his eyes locked on me in particular. “But…”

  “Online college,” I told him, tapping the side of my head. “So it looks like we’ll have at least one more year together.”

  12

  Jed

  I heard, once, that there’s a time in your life when everything is weddings and celebrations and babies. A time full of new life and relationships, hope and promise. But that shortly after, quicker than ever expected, there’s a time of funerals and divorces and loss. Gut-wrenching, soul-crushing loss.

  What I’d never heard explained was the time in between. Where your children and your friends’ children are experiencing that first phase. The part where they’re joyful and radiant and beautiful.

  We never expected it to come so soon. Lucy and I weren’t really sure about the pregnancy in the first place. What to think or how to act. And credit to Willow for being resilient and unflinching in the face of awkward situations. She was the one to always start conversations. One to push Mason in the right direction, to make the good and tough choices.

  “We could graduate in December with just two extra classes this semester,” Mason had insisted to me. “Really… free up the spring.” Then he took a deep breath and stumbled on, “I wanna marry her in the spring.”

  There isn’t enough said about the incredible willpower that goes into planning a wedding. On top of all that, the middle stages of pregnancy and the final semester of high school… I couldn’t imagine handling all of that simultaneously. But somehow, some way, those two did it. Those marvelous, wild teenagers. Kids, really. Not much more than kids. And yet, so much more. So much older than I ever realized until that instant.

  When I sat in front of that old barn, a picturesque setting for occasions just like this, I held my breath. I couldn’t help it. Lucy, beside me, squeezed my hand tight, and our eyes filled with tears as they stood facing each other, the minister behind them. In all my years, I’d seen buildings taller than the
mind can comprehend, artwork that touches the soul, heard music that seeps into your bloodstream and loiters there. But never, in all my years and moments, had I seen something like that.

  The barn itself was a rather unremarkable scene from the outside. Situated along a winding, country road, only a sign at the front marked it. “The Old Barn,” it said, matter-of-fact and unambiguous. Underneath that, “For weddings, birthdays, proms, and more since 1955.” Just up a gravel driveway, across a freshly manicured lawn, there stood a large, unremarkable, red barn. The kind you might find in a children’s book or a postcard of rural Indiana fantasies. But this place was the real deal. When we stepped inside for the first time and Mason introduced us to the man in charge of the arrangements, I couldn’t help but grin.

  Rustic and elegant at the same time, the wooden walls and sloping roof were a flawless picture. A beautiful frame for this happy day. There were smooth, white chairs in rows and rows, gorgeous tapestries on the walls, a blended scent of oak and perfume drifting through the air. Ornate lights hung from the ceiling and along the sides, the kind you could ignore if you tried, but they made the whole place come alive and the air dance. It smelled like the best parts of an apple orchard and looked like the final moments of a sunset. They couldn’t have picked a better spot.

  “I do.” Mason, standing in his tuxedo, dark bow tie just under his chin. His broad shoulders and straight back made for an intimidating posture, but the subtle tears glinting down his cheeks humanized the whole affair. His soft gaze completely arrested by the flawless bride.

  Willow stared at him, makeup touched onto her beautiful features, her own cheeks dry but lips slightly parted. She wore a dress with short-cut sleeves and a loose midsection, no veil blocking her from the crowd. When the minister finished his section, she responded, “I do.”