Brynner Gaschler, 1993.
wreckage."
When eighteen came around, Bryn's father, Henry, had a hard time holding onto his son. The reckless boy made plans to leave for the city with his band (a group of teenage musicians from a neighboring town) and when Henry returned home to find the guitar gone, his drawers empty, and the small amount of cash missing from a coffee can in the kitchen cupboard labelled "college,” he figured that his son had made good on his word and left Suckcity, Arizona for skylines and grungy bars.
That day, Henry Gaschler sat on his son's unmade bed for the first time since he was a child and stared at the posters peeling off the walls and the empty drawers, and he felt a small sense of pride in his boy for getting out of the town that swallowed everyone whole. The rest of him worried about Brynner's heart dangling dangerously from the sleeve of his bomber jacket.
It was five months before Henry came home from pulling over-time at the car factory and found his son sleeping in his room like he'd never left at all. His keys were on his dresser, his guitar in its stand, his clothes were on the floor like he hadn't been living out of a suitcase for the last 153 days. Henry watched him for a moment, taking in the bulge of his ribs against his skin and the bruising that dotted his back. Then he turned and went to make breakfast like he always did, as though the ghost of his son wasn't hanging over his shoulder.
Henry was reading in the kitchen when Brynner emerged from the darkened bedroom, stepping barefoot onto the linoleum and into the sunlight shining in from between the yellowing curtains hanging over the sink. Henry kept his eyes on the graduation announcements in the newspaper, setting his sights on the names that should’ve sandwiched Brynner’s between them.
Brynner dropped down into the chair opposite Henry and folded his arms as he leaned forward onto the table, tapping his foot against the floor as he caught sight of the names. "Fiona," he soft softly, his clouded brown eyes turning up toward his parent as he slowly sat back in his seat, "she in there?"
Henry looked up over his paper at the boy sitting across from him. That name meant something to him – meant something to everybody in this town. Despite the girl’s father paying Dr. Morrison for his silence, the news had spread quickly.
It was hard to keep a secret in Osla.
Henry studied his son, knowing there was only one reason Brynner would've heard, knowing now the reason he'd returned from his dreams in the city. An aching part of Henry broke from him as he accepted the realization and he wondered how a child like Brynner could get himself into such a mess. Because Brynner was still a child. He wore jeans with more holes than cloth and never remembered to cut his hair, even though the sides had once been shaved short. He was bruised from rough-housing and Henry couldn't have guessed as to when he last showered.
He was a free-spirited child in the body of a reckless eighteen-year-old with dreams that kept his feet off the ground. He lived his life free of responsibilities and consequences and never thought twice about a future in this place. As much as Henry worried for his son, he’d never wanted to see him in this town again.
Henry turned his eyes back to the paper to answer his son's question. "No," he said after a few silent moments, dark eyes meeting darker one, "Something you two have in common."
Brynner gave a half-hearted smile, despite his father's disappointment. "Sorry," he said, his eyes on fire as he thought about the possibilities of a life he wanted, "I had to go - I couldn't keep living like that. It was suffocating."
Everyone who'd ever known Brynner had learned that anger wasn't something he recognized. He never got upset about anyone else's words and would smile at the recommendations from others that he should change - that he should worry more about the world he was in rather than try to find his own. Everyone knew that this stemmed from Henry.
The summer that Brynner turned ten, he shunned the very concept of wearing shoes on his feet and spent the entire summer exploring the woods behind his house barefoot. And every week when he took his small discoveries to the corner store downtown to show Mr. Regent, he walked the gravel backroads without a second thought to the people staring at his toes and passing judgement on him and Henry.
When it came time to start the fifth grade and Brynner was expected to lace up a new pair of shoes and return to civilization, he calmly explained to Mrs. Evelyn, his teacher, the very ideology behind his bare feet. And when his principal called his father to have him bring Brynner's new tennis-shoes, Henry questioned why it was all such a problem.
Although fundamentally different, Brynner and Henry were cut from the same set of stars.
Under Henry's lenient parenting, Brynner grew wilder. He expanded without limits, becoming the stark opposite of his silent father. Henry's silence was Brynner's courage and he grew so much in his freedom that he became the first person to outgrow Osla, Arizona. Henry was content with simplicity, but Brynner saw the world he yearned for every time he closed his eyes.
Sitting across from Brynner in the small yellow kitchen, Henry wondered what kind of son he'd raised. "What're you doing back?"
Brynner fiddled with the unlit cigarette in his fingers, tapping the end of it against the laminated placemat that he colored when he was a child. "I heard Fiona doesn't want it," he said, looking up through his lashes, the words meeting silent opposition in the small house, "Bobby Jameson called a couple weeks ago, said she told her brother that it's mine."
Henry already knew the answer to his question, but he asked anyway, hoping to find solace in Brynner's reaction. "Were you sleeping with Fiona nine months ago, Brynner?"
The eighteen-year-old cupped his shaking hand around the cigarette as he lit it with his father's lighter. He stared through the smoke as he exhaled and he licked his lips, tasting the nicotine on his breath. His eyes closed as they turned towards Henry and then he nodded, biting the metal lip ring between his teeth.
That day, Henry Gaschler sat on his son's unmade bed for the first time since he was a child and stared at the posters peeling off the walls and the empty drawers, and he felt a small sense of pride in his boy for getting out of the town that swallowed everyone whole. The rest of him worried about Brynner's heart dangling dangerously from the sleeve of his bomber jacket.
It was five months before Henry came home from pulling over-time at the car factory and found his son sleeping in his room like he'd never left at all. His keys were on his dresser, his guitar in its stand, his clothes were on the floor like he hadn't been living out of a suitcase for the last 153 days. Henry watched him for a moment, taking in the bulge of his ribs against his skin and the bruising that dotted his back. Then he turned and went to make breakfast like he always did, as though the ghost of his son wasn't hanging over his shoulder.
Henry was reading in the kitchen when Brynner emerged from the darkened bedroom, stepping barefoot onto the linoleum and into the sunlight shining in from between the yellowing curtains hanging over the sink. Henry kept his eyes on the graduation announcements in the newspaper, setting his sights on the names that should’ve sandwiched Brynner’s between them.
Brynner dropped down into the chair opposite Henry and folded his arms as he leaned forward onto the table, tapping his foot against the floor as he caught sight of the names. "Fiona," he soft softly, his clouded brown eyes turning up toward his parent as he slowly sat back in his seat, "she in there?"
Henry looked up over his paper at the boy sitting across from him. That name meant something to him – meant something to everybody in this town. Despite the girl’s father paying Dr. Morrison for his silence, the news had spread quickly.
It was hard to keep a secret in Osla.
Henry studied his son, knowing there was only one reason Brynner would've heard, knowing now the reason he'd returned from his dreams in the city. An aching part of Henry broke from him as he accepted the realization and he wondered how a child like Brynner could get himself into such a mess. Because Brynner was still a child. He wore jeans with more holes than cloth and never remembered to cut his hair, even though the sides had once been shaved short. He was bruised from rough-housing and Henry couldn't have guessed as to when he last showered.
He was a free-spirited child in the body of a reckless eighteen-year-old with dreams that kept his feet off the ground. He lived his life free of responsibilities and consequences and never thought twice about a future in this place. As much as Henry worried for his son, he’d never wanted to see him in this town again.
Henry turned his eyes back to the paper to answer his son's question. "No," he said after a few silent moments, dark eyes meeting darker one, "Something you two have in common."
Brynner gave a half-hearted smile, despite his father's disappointment. "Sorry," he said, his eyes on fire as he thought about the possibilities of a life he wanted, "I had to go - I couldn't keep living like that. It was suffocating."
Everyone who'd ever known Brynner had learned that anger wasn't something he recognized. He never got upset about anyone else's words and would smile at the recommendations from others that he should change - that he should worry more about the world he was in rather than try to find his own. Everyone knew that this stemmed from Henry.
The summer that Brynner turned ten, he shunned the very concept of wearing shoes on his feet and spent the entire summer exploring the woods behind his house barefoot. And every week when he took his small discoveries to the corner store downtown to show Mr. Regent, he walked the gravel backroads without a second thought to the people staring at his toes and passing judgement on him and Henry.
When it came time to start the fifth grade and Brynner was expected to lace up a new pair of shoes and return to civilization, he calmly explained to Mrs. Evelyn, his teacher, the very ideology behind his bare feet. And when his principal called his father to have him bring Brynner's new tennis-shoes, Henry questioned why it was all such a problem.
Although fundamentally different, Brynner and Henry were cut from the same set of stars.
Under Henry's lenient parenting, Brynner grew wilder. He expanded without limits, becoming the stark opposite of his silent father. Henry's silence was Brynner's courage and he grew so much in his freedom that he became the first person to outgrow Osla, Arizona. Henry was content with simplicity, but Brynner saw the world he yearned for every time he closed his eyes.
Sitting across from Brynner in the small yellow kitchen, Henry wondered what kind of son he'd raised. "What're you doing back?"
Brynner fiddled with the unlit cigarette in his fingers, tapping the end of it against the laminated placemat that he colored when he was a child. "I heard Fiona doesn't want it," he said, looking up through his lashes, the words meeting silent opposition in the small house, "Bobby Jameson called a couple weeks ago, said she told her brother that it's mine."
Henry already knew the answer to his question, but he asked anyway, hoping to find solace in Brynner's reaction. "Were you sleeping with Fiona nine months ago, Brynner?"
The eighteen-year-old cupped his shaking hand around the cigarette as he lit it with his father's lighter. He stared through the smoke as he exhaled and he licked his lips, tasting the nicotine on his breath. His eyes closed as they turned towards Henry and then he nodded, biting the metal lip ring between his teeth.