Hometown: Oh, Wesley,
Wesley is forced to confront the past and his feelings over his father's death.
Jim and I spend a lot of time together the next few days. He helps me clean up, pack, and he even brings fast food sometimes. When he isn't here sometimes I think I might actually miss him. He's warm and genuine. I'm surprised by the feeling, I'm probably just horny.
Yeah, just horny.
Jim was gone when I woke, the bed being much colder without the grizzly clinging to me. I microwave some noodles for breakfast, make bad instant coffee, and start packing more of Dad's junk.
The hours drag by in silence as I organize old clothes, blankets, and dishware into boxes to prepare for the next critical step in the process, a yard sale. Yard sales are a hot social event out here, I have no doubts that everyone in town would be there. I'm not looking forward to it, but I have to empty the house somehow.
Maybe I could just rent a trailer with Jim and–
Knock Knock Knock
“Jim?" I head to the door and pull it open. “I told you, you don't have to–" Reflexively, I straighten my posture and take my hat off. “Mrs. Park!"
“Wesley Groves as I live and breathe! Look at you, baby!" A large brown bear wearing a bright blue and pink dress stares down at me, she's even taller than her son. Her eyes are big and green and warm and kind, like her sons.
“Come in and have, uh, a seat." I gesture toward the living room. Boxes and piles of old things block most of the seating. I hastily move a white plastic basket of laundry onto the floor to make room.
“I brought you some dinner. When Jim told me–" She puts a tray of lasagna in my arms.
“You talked to Jim?"
“You were eating take-out and TV dinners I thought to myself 'That poor boy just lost his Pa, bless his soul, he needs a proper home-cooked meal' So–"
“That's very kind of you Mrs. Park but–"
“I made a week's worth of meals for you–take a seat, Wesley–"
“Yes, Mrs. Park." I sit on a pile of old socks and try to keep up with the woman as she rants about how I need to eat better, how proud everyone was when I won those competitions, and for getting my degree.
All of this precedes a lecture about how I need to come home more, or at least call and write. But I shouldn't worry because she understands competition, work, and school must have taken up all my time.
On the other paw, it's a shame I seem to have forgotten where I come from and that I haven't found anyone to settle down with. She expects a man as capable and successful as me to find a good man to get with and raise some babies.
“I'm–I'm focused on my career right now." I sputter.
“I don't know much about what men of your persuasion want, but surely there's a man who caught your eye." She smiles.
“Maybe… Maybe someone I work with, and I am taking a break!" I nod around the house. “See? Back home and–"
“Wesley, there's more to life than work and shooting." She shakes her head.
Not for me, I think.
“You and Jim talked, then?" She changes the subject again.
“A couple of times." I blush remembering last night's particularly passionate make-out session.
“It broke my heart when you two stopped bein' friends." She strolls into the kitchen and shouts. “Wesley Groves! This place is a mess!"
“I've got a lot of stuff to sort, Mrs. Park." I hold my cap to my chest.
She begins to carry dishware and kitchen appliances to nearby boxes.
“That's really not necessary Mrs–"
“Nonsense! You shouldn't have to do all of this alone. You _don't _have to do this alone." She opens the fridge and frowns. “Goodness, Wesley. I'm going to call Jim–"
“You really don't have to do that I–"
“What have you boys been up to?! Talking and drinking, or some other mischief?"
I try and fail to find the words. “We've just been, uh, talkin'," I pause. “Mam."
“I hope you boys made up–"
“Well–"
“He was so excited you were comin' home! You have no clue. Oh, Wes, he was just crushed when you left that summer."
“What?"
“Poor boy barely left his room. I thought he was hibernatin'!" She laughs. “Anywho, "
“Really?" I ask.
She ignores my question and begins to order me around the house. Under her direction, I continue to pack up boxes of silverware and non-perishable foods. She cleans out the fridge and freezer before filling them with an impressive pile of Tupperware full of home-cooked meals.
By the time the sun starts to set, I can see the countertops again. A once-pristine marble countertop splattered with unidentifiable stains. Ketchup, maybe. Empty dark oak cabinets sit overhead, less dusty than they were this morning.
I only ever came in here to microwave some mediocre TV dinners. The ones that took no commitment to make with the always-burnt brownie and the always-icy corn. Another way to save time and get out of here sooner.
Why is she helping? Why did she make all that food for me?
The question hangs in my mind as we continue to clean and more and more of my old home reveals itself. Beneath the boxes and dust is that old dirty brown carpet, plain white walls slightly yellowed by cigarette smoke, and floral print curtains hiding cobwebbed windows.
“It almost looks liveable now, doesn't it?" Mrs. Park giggles.
“Yeah." I nod, somewhat surprised by the transformation.
She approaches a door off of the living room. “Isn't this Roy's bedroom?"
“Yeah. I haven't been in there yet." Not for any reason, I just...Haven't.
She cracks open the door. “Goodness, it's worse than the kitchen."
Peering inside I grimace at the state of it. The bed sheets look like they haven't been changed in months at best, an ashtray on the nightstand overflows and I wonder how Dad didn't burn the place down. Fast food wrappers litter the floor and a stack of cardboard boxes looks ready to tumble out of the closet at any moment.
I frown seeing the pictures on the dresser. Mom, Dad, and I all smile together for a holiday photo. Among them are more photos of a young me throughout the years. Elementary school, middle school, birthdays, and most jarring, a picture of Dad and I standing side by side. Smiling.
When was this taken? Dad has an arm around me and he's smiling proudly as I hold up a shiny gold medal. The most unbelievable part of the photo is that I look happy, too. Shotgun slung over my shoulder my hair falls just past my ears.
I haven't had it that long since…I must have been sixteen. That can't be right, that was after I came out. Or was outed, more accurately. Dad and I always fought and he was always so harsh with me. This can't be right.
“You're a big strong man, get those boxes out of the closet sweetie. I'll start clearing the floor." Mrs. Park says.
“...Yeah."
I stick my head in the closet and groan seeing my old jacket, the one from the picture. I rub my fingers over the cracked brown leather and up to the faux-fur collar. On the back, the word “GROVES" is emblazoned in all capital letters. Beneath that is a patch shaped like a rifle and 'Lowpine High Trap'.
Setting the jacket aside I begin to remove the boxes. They're mostly light but when I reach the bottom one I find it difficult to lift and something metallic or hard rattles inside.
I open the heavy box and mutter to myself. “What the hell?"
“What is it, Wesley?" Mrs. Park says over the rustle of a garbage bag being filled with burger wrappers. “Jim ought to be here soon, he said he was on his way."
Her words pass right through me as I scour the contents. I uncrumple an old newspaper clipping. 'Groves Wins State Jr. Marksmanship', I grab another. 'Wesley Groves Awarded State Marksman Scholarship.' All of them are about competitions I won or placed in.
I reach deeper and find something rectangular and plastic. It's a VHS tape labeled 'Dallas 2017'. I shot there, and I won. I frantically pull more and more tapes and newspaper clippings ultimately finding medals and trophies from my time competing in high school.
There it is. The silky fabric is entwined between my fingertips and I hold the small gold medal in front of my face. “1st Place–Pine County Fair, 2009".
“What… What is this?" My arm starts to hurt. “What is this?"
Mrs. Park stands over me and smiles. “He kept everything about your shootin', Wesley."
“Why?" Pain shoots up my forearm as the cold metal presses into my palm.
She crouches next to me and pulls me into her. “He was so proud of you."
“Could've fooled me." My voice cracks.
“I know he was…harsh, at times." She starts. “But he loved you."
I scoff.
“You should've seen him when you were shootin' in the Trials!" She smiles.
I frown. The Olympic trials. I had qualified but didn't make the team. I was just going to be a backup in 2020 which the pandemic had derailed, I still got to go to Tokyo in '21 but I sat on the bench the whole time. This would be the part that made sense when he would have–
“He dragged everyone to Bucks, and bought a round for what must've been half the town."
“Why?" I whimper.
“He jumped and cheered and had everyone up on their feet. He was hollerin' about you all night." She sighs. “Made us all watch you. He even cried!"
“Yeah, because I was just a backup."
She sighs. “Wesley, he wasn't disappointed or–"
“Then why was he crying?! Because I lost, because like usual I wasn't enough for Roy Groves! I was never–"
“No, no that's not true at all Wes!" She rests her head on mine. “You were his boy, his pride and joy,"
I remember the trials. Dad had called after my last round but I didn't pick up, I didn't want to listen to him tell me how I'd let him down. He didn't leave a voice mail, he didn't text, and I never called back.
I wish I did.
No, no I don't!
I push away. “Why couldn't he just say that?"
“Wesley, he tried, he really did."
“It's not fuckin' hard!"
“Wesley Groves! Language."
I clench my jaw.
“He just… he just had a hard time with that sort of thing."
“Why?" I squeak. “Why did he do this," I gesture at the box, the photos, the coat, “Instead of just saying it?"
She pulls me back into her arms. “Oh, Wesley, it just wasn't his way."
My chest hurts. I can't breathe. Why did he keep all of this? Was it some kind of a joke? Of course! He kept it so that on the off chance I came home he can mock me, or take credit for MY achievements. That was it.
I shove everything back into the stupid box and stand.
“Wesley?" Mrs. Park asks. “Where are you going?"
I run from the house as early evening shadows drag across the yard and I only partly notice Jim's rust-red truck rattling down the dirt road. The headlights stop on me and the door opens.
“Wes!" He shouts. “Hey, buddy. Momma inside?"
I snap my head toward him and change course. “Can you get rid of this for me?" I thrust the stupid fucking box into his arms.
“Sure I…Are you sure? This stuff looks kinda sentimental." He looks down at me. “Wes, you doin' alright?" A paw moves to my shoulder and I swat it away.
“It's trash."
“Wes, buddy, what–Hey!"
I stomp toward the shed in the backyard and kick the door down. I tear through boxes and shelves. I know it's in here. I glare at a table covered in tools and loose bullets and find my prize: The old Groves .22, the gun I'd learned to shoot on.
In the wreckage, I find a half-empty box of ammunition. Someone calls my name from the house, but I don't hear it. That feeling twisting up my arm into my chest can only be one thing: Rage.
He kept everything so he could lord it over me, so he could take credit for teaching me to shoot! I wouldn't let him.
“Wes, where are you goin'?!"
“Jim! Go after him!" a second voice.
By instinct, I follow an unseen path.
Branches and thorns scratch my exposed forearms and my cheek but I don't care: I'm on target. I'm always on target. Clenching my teeth I search the clearing, another fucking mess for me to clean up. Whatever. Later.
“Wes be careful! It's gettin' dark–Urgh!" Jim yells.
Could always count on Dad leaving a few bottles laying around, at least. I heft the box onto my shoulder and pull five filthy bottles from it. I set them on the ancient roof of a car with vines snaking up over the door and through the broken window into the sun-bleached interior.
Wipe those fuckin' tears, boy.
That's what he said. He shoved me around until my stance was good, he made me stay out until fucking dark. I did it eventually though, I hit five bottles. All for what? So he could brag about me? Brag that he was the one who taught me to shoot?
I take my stance. “Fuck you. This is mine."
Inhale.
Hold.
Pull.
A bottle explodes.
“This," I run my fingers along the butt of the rifle until I touch cold iron. “This is mine, not yours."
I fire again, another bottle explodes in the twilight.
Loading the rifle I hear a voice. Jim.
“Wes, what's goin' on?"
I turn to face him, careful to keep the rifle pointed at the ground. I laugh joylessly, Dad would be pleased I remembered gun safety.
“Momma's worried, Wes–"
“I don't care about your momma." I aim.
Jim stumbles over his words, shocked. It was utter blasphemy to insult someone's parents, especially a lady as well respected as Mrs. Park.
Inhale.
“Wes, you go n' apologize to my momma right now!" He demands. “She's all kindsa worried!"
“No." Pull.
Glass twinkles in the air. Two to go.
Jim steps in front of me. “Wesley, you fuckin' prick."
“Move."
“Jesus tap-dancin' CHRIST Wes!"
I try to step around him but he blocks me. “Move, Jim. Now."
“What the fuck is your problem, huh?" He shoves me.
“Dude, don't fucking touch me."
“You finally come home and just treat everyone like shit? Everyone whose tryin' to help you!"
“I didn't ask for help, I don't need help!" I clench the rifle in my hands.
“'Course not, you're the big-shot sharpshooter, the smarty-pants college boy. Too good for us simple folk, huh?" He shoves me again.
“Jim if you touch me again I'll–" I lift the rifle.
He rushes me, lifting me by my shoulders and holding me against a tree, causing me to drop the rifle.
“GET OFF ME!" I rage.
“Not until you talk to me, Wes! Fuckin' hell!" His fangs are bared and his nose is pressed up against mine. “Talk to me! What the fuck is wrong?!" His eyes soften. “Please, Wesley, what happened? I'm worried. After these last few days, you gotta know you can talk to me."
“Why? Because I let you suck my dick? Cause I sucked yours?"
“I thought–"
“What?"
“We're friends, Wes, we can–"
“Friends? Seriously?" I laugh. “You're just a fuckin' hole to me, Jim."
He drops me. “I thought we… we w-was becomin' friends again." His ears are flat and he wrings his hat.
“Nah, I just needed a warm mouth. Thanks for that, Jim." I stroll past him and pick up the rifle, casually aiming it and shattering the fourth bottle.
“You–you d-don't mean it. Wes I know you're angry n'–" He whimpers. “I-if you 'pologize w-we can still be f-friends."
“I don't want to be friends." I want to be angry.
“Wes, we can st-still be friends." He says. “Mo-momma says you're u-upset 'bout your Pa. I–"
“Fuckin' hell Jim," I smile at him over my shoulder. I can just make out his face in the deepening shadows, his silhouette is nearly lost against the formless and all-encompassing woods that surround us. “Stop stuttering. Jesus. You sound stupid."
“Wh-when I g-get upset I–" He wipes tears from his cheeks.
“You think 'cause you let me cum down your throat I forgive you? Cause I gave you a little scritch behind the ears? Hah!" I'm surprised by my own cruelty.
He shrinks back and squeezes his cap to his chest. “I said I w-was s-sorry… F-for when w-we w-was boys."
“Okay?" I inhale.
“D-don't you f-forgive me? W-we k-kissed a-and–"
A pop followed by breaking glass cuts him off and I lower the rifle.
He cowers under my gaze. “We-Wesley?"
“Thanks for the head, and the other stuff I guess." I wave him off.
“You're a f-fucking," He squeezes his eyes shut and whines. “Piece of shit!" he bites the words.
“Now you get it." I load more rounds into the rifle and set up some more bottles, I can barely see them.
“S'no w-wonder you're all alone, Wes." His voice trembles, not sad but angry. “You'll regret treatin' people this w-way."
I shake my head. “The only thing I regret," I aim again. “Is that I came back to this shithole at all."
“Eat shit." He growls and I hear branches breaking as he leaves.
Five more bottles break. Then another five, then another five. Even in the dark, I can do this easily. Dad thinks he can mock me? Jim thinks we're friends? Everyone here thinks they know better than me. They don't know me at all!
Nah. They don't know shit.