Bud Smith: F 250

“Whaddya guys want? Carrots? Fresh water?”

They blinked at me but looked content. I sat on the couch and watched the fire for a little bit. Then I went out into the living room. Trish followed.

“You look good,” she said. “Happy.”

“That’s the rumor, and I believe it.”

“Something came to my apartment for you a couple days ago. A letter.”

She passed me the envelope.

“Oh boy, what’s this?”

It was from Mark. He hadn’t been able to get a hold of me, because I was always somewhere different in those days. So he sent the letter to one of my friends (my oldest friend, now that I think of it). Trish left me to read it.

Lee,

Wanted to write to you and let you know that Seth was lucky to have a friend like you. Sometimes the world can get pretty gray. It’s not all sunshine. Today, I feel a hurt in my heart lessening because my brother’s ashes are resting in a safe little spot here on our mountain. Everybody ought to have a tomb like this for themselves and their loved ones.

The lake is quiet. It barely moves. I like that. The water is, mostly, the way I remember it. We both loved it here as kids. We didn’t have the easiest childhood, with our mom and dad ditching us the way that they did, but we used to look forward to the summers here.

Now, I think I’ve got no choice but to stay here. I’m leaving Chicago. This place is the right kind of quiet. There’s a sentimentality here that I don’t wanna be away from. I think everybody should cling onto that aspect of their lives.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the water now as I write this, remembering how my brother and me used to paddle out into the lake to fish. We never caught any fish, of course, but that’s because there weren’t any to begin with. And our outtings always ended the same way, with the rowboat flipping.

Put two brothers in rowboat, if it doesn’t flip, something’s wrong.

Really, what I wanted to say to you was thanks. Your friendship has meant a lot to me. You and Seth were like brothers, and anybody who is a brother to mine is a brother to me. Please try to stay in contact. It’d mean a lot to me. My address will always be here at Tull Lake, and you are welcome, whenever you’d like, to come and stay.

The neighbors seem friendly and ask about you often. The guy across the water, he came over yesterday and we had a talk. He said he’d hit the old rowboat with his speedboat and vaporized it. He’s going to bring over a new one he says. That’s probably for the best. New boat, new memories.

Maybe I’ll even be able to catch a fish in it.

I hope things are easy. I hope you keep things light. I hope you enjoy it all deeply.

Be good at all costs,

Mark

P.S. About what we’d talked about. Florida and your missing person … I did finally get in contact with your mom thanks to some big help around the office. She was hard to find. If you’re ready and want to talk to her, I have an address and a telephone number. I hope that’s some help. She sounded good, like she would like to talk. Pick up the phone.

Denise came into the living room holding baby Ace, who was so small and quiet. She sat down on the blue couch across from me.

“How are you these days? Okay?”

“I’m alright,” I said. “Bombshell after bombshell.”

“My parents still hate me.”

“Give them time,” I said.

I told her about living on the West Coast and flying back and forth to see June when I could. Denise told me about how she was terrified when she found out that she was pregnant, but that it was the best thing that had happened to her.

“I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for this little guy.”

Denise pushed down the strap of her shirt and exposed her breast. The tattoo: Daddy’s Little Angel. Ace sucked her nipple, and Denise looked down at him.

“Everybody wants something. It’s nice to be able to give them what they need.”

“Yeah.”

“‘Cause, life is weird and hard …”

“Certainly.”

“But, I don’t feel like how I used to feel.”

“You never will.”

“Things change, right?”

“Yes, they do,” I said. She winced. The baby bit her. He was feeding a little too rough.

Elvis said something about angels and heaven and hope on the record player. It sounded spot on. In the kitchen, I could hear the cup shaking and then the roll of dice on the table.

Big Thanks to Rae Buleri; the Idiom kids — Mark Brunetti, Keith Baird, Andrew “Ink” Feindt, and Chris McIntyre; the Uno Kudo crew — Aaron Dietz, Chuck Howe, Erin McParland; An extra big thanks to Ashley Perez, who was kind enough to give some close thoughts on F-250 when this novel was just a third draft; thanks to Christopher Allen for his close eye and attention to detail, Scott McClanahan, Brian Alan Ellis, Sara Lippman, Ben Loory, Amber Sparks, Ryder Collins, Alex Reed, Jason Neese; and the fine people at the Night Owl Cafe — Robert Vaughan, Meg Tuite and Michael Gillan Maxwell. You each helped make this book something a wee bit better. Thanks to my family, both sides, the Smith’s and the Buleri’s. Much love. Muchas Gracias.

Bud Smith is the author of the novel Tollbooth, the short story collection, Or Something Like That, and the poetry collection Everything Neon. He works heavy construction in New Jersey, and lives in New York City.

www.budsmithwrites.com