Brock Clarke - The Happiest People in the World

“Oh, buddy,” Matty said. He closed his eyes and took a step toward his son. “Please just kill me,” he said. Then Matty took another step. He felt something on his right, close by, and realized that Henry had taken those steps, too. Matty wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Would it be better or worse to die standing next to someone who also deserved it? Anyway, he and Henry stood there, waiting. Matty knew, even through his closed lids, that it was dark outside. He felt dark inside, too. The waves crashed into one another, so loudly that Henry couldn’t hear anyone breathing — not Kurt, not Henry, not even himself. For a second he wondered whether he was dead, whether Kurt had already shot him and Matty had somehow missed it, when he heard Kurt yell, “Fuck!” three times. Then Matty heard sprinting noises. He opened his eyes. Kurt wasn’t standing in front of him anymore. He glanced to his right, and Henry was standing there, looking at Matty with big eyes. Matty then turned to his left and squinted into the dusk and saw his son, his beautiful boy, run into the sea, up to his knees, and then hurl the gun as far as he could. It landed with a plunk . Then Kurt turned and walked back toward them, jeans wet, looking sheepish, the way you do when you make a big, dramatic gesture and then have to go hang out with the people who saw you make it.

“Don’t say anything,” Kurt said when he got back to where Matty and Henry were standing. They didn’t. They turned away from the sea into which Kurt had thrown the gun and stared at the other sea for a while, until finally Kurt said, “I don’t want to go home.”

“Me, neither,” Matty said.

“But where. .,” Henry began to say. His voice sounded scratchy, as though he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a very long time. He cleared his throat and tried again. “But where will you go?” Henry asked. And frankly, Matty had no idea. He thought of all the places they could go, all the places he’d never been. There were too many of them, and he was afraid that in all of them, there would still be his brother, there would still be Locs, there would still be Ellen. No, Kurt would have to decide. Kurt had decided not to kill him, and now Kurt was going to have to keep deciding until he decided otherwise.

“Tell us about Denmark,” Kurt said. “Tell us about Skagen.” When Henry heard that, his head jerked back toward the other sea, where Kurt’s gun was. It seemed, for a second, like he was going to run toward it. But instead he stood there for a long while, armed crossed, frowning, seemingly in the process of making his own decision. His lips were moving, as though he were talking to someone, even though neither Matty nor Kurt could hear any words. Finally, Henry nodded and said, “It is said that the Danes are the happiest people in the world, and if that’s true, then the people from Skagen are happier even than that.”

“That sounds nice,” Kurt said. He’d meant for that to be sarcastic but was in fact startled by how much he wanted it to be true. Henry smiled at him and said, “It does.” The three of them then walked away from the water, toward their cars. When they reached the dunes overlooking the parking lot, Henry said, “I think everything is going to be just fine. I really think you’re going to like it here.” He didn’t sound as though he totally believed it himself. But they got into their cars and drove back toward Skagen anyway. They had to. There was absolutely nowhere else for them to go.

Thanks, once again, to Keith Lee Morris, Trenton Lee Stewart, and Michael Lee Griffith.

Thanks to all the people who, over the last four years, listened to me talk about this book, or distracted me from talking about this book, especially: Sarah Beth Estes, David Stradling, Jodie Zultowski, Nicola Mason, Leah Stewart, Pete Coviello, Mike Paterniti, Sara Corbett, Mark Wethli, Cassie Jones, Aaron Kitch, Allison Cooper, Ann Kibbie, Kevin Wertheim, Jon and Naomi Mermin, Justin Tussing, Sarah Maloney, Barb and Michael Stoddard, Marilyn Reizbaum, Nicole Lamy, Josh Bodwell, the Longfellow Books crew, Rupert and Kiki Chisholm, Dorn and Jan Ulrich, Tara and Trent Ulrich, Anne Maclean and Colin Clarke, Alonzo Clarke and Carla Romano Clarke, and E. G. and Peter Clarke.

Thanks to the writers who allowed their kind words to be printed on this book’s back cover.

Thanks to my friends, colleagues, and students at Bowdoin College, University of Cincinnati, and University of Tampa.

Thanks to Bowdoin College for its financial support.

Thanks to the editors at Five Points, who published an excerpt from this novel.

Thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Sheinkman.

Thanks to Chuck Adams, and to everyone at Algonquin Books.

And thanks especially to Lane, Quinn, and Ambrose, for traveling with me to Denmark, and for everything else.

Brock Clarke is the author of An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, which was a national bestseller and has appeared in a dozen foreign editions, and three other books. He lives in Portland, Maine, and teaches creative writing at Bowdoin College. Find him online at www.brockclarke.com. (Author photo by Selby Frame.)