ABSTRACT SOMERSET, KANSAS by Evan L. Petee This is a collection of ten stories. In “The Boy King” a boy imagines that he rules his neighborhood. In “The Cemetery House” a woman moves into a cemetery house and battles her inner demons. In “Malaise” a man grieving over the loss of his son enters therapy. In “Somerset, Kansas” a man visits the house where his father was murdered. In “The Bread Man” a boy befriends a man injured in an accident. In “The General” two brothers take revenge on their stepfather. In “Regression” a psychotherapist devolves into a monkey. In “The Adventures of Wolf Boy” a teenager deals with the loss of his brother by creating comic books. In “End Times” an older couple visit the city where their son was murdered. In “The Winter of My Disco Tent” a man obsessed with a famous writer tries to win her love. SOMERSET, KANSAS A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of Miami University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts Department of English by Evan L. Petee Miami University Oxford, Ohio 2003 Advisor _________________________________ Eric Goodman Reader __________________________________ Constance Pierce Reader __________________________________ David Schloss CONTENTS The Boy King 1 The Cemetery House 8 Malaise 19 Somerset, Kansas 26 The Bread Man 37 The General 41 Regression 53 The Adventures of Wolf Boy 64 End Times 75 The Winter of My Disco Tent 87 ii The Boy King Wade Hoppel, ten and seven-twelfths years old, a B minus, C plus student, though soon to be recognized as a genius by the Interplanetary Commission on Boy Geniuses, during a gala ceremony, rules the town of Lanfield, Arkansas, that little suburb of Jonesboro, that magical, lush hamlet, about to be renamed Wade Town, or Wadeville, or just plain Wade. His bike, an old Huffy, blue like the sky, if the sky was scratched up, dented and rickety, with its genuine banana seat – room for Queen Heather to sit, should she soon see the light – and with rusty rims and a back tire not too fond of holding air for long, but never mind these last details, is his chariot, his mobile throne. He’s added dual mirrors and dual horns, should either eye want to glance at the past world trailing away, or either hand want to squeeze out goosy noises. He saved up his sporadic allowances to add these deluxe accessories, and also helped Mrs. Rodriguez with some yard work – ten dollars for three hours work, kingly wages – though he didn’t tell his mom about this last business, and she didn’t ask where he got the money for the horns and mirrors, anyway. He rides his little Harley, his majestic horse, his Junior Police vehicle, yes, it’s the Huffy, over paved, gravel and tar, and dirt roads, slooping up and down the angled berms on the concrete streets, thud-thuddling over sewer grates, and, on the sweltering days, popping the tar bubbles on the tar and stone avenues with his bike tires, pretending he’s gliding over steamy and murky tar pits that once sunk the Tyrannosauruses of Lanfield and Greater Craighead County. He motors down sidewalks and over lawns where sidewalks ought to be. He races down alleyways, sometimes stopping to check dumpsters for jewels, briefcases full of money, broken toys, or dirty magazines like Bikini World, they are all so smiley and happy-legged, and hits the trails behind the school, sloshing through the mud, then riding up and down – weeeee-heeeee! – the drainage ditch separating the woods from the housing development, until someone yells, “Hey kid, get the hell off of our property.” Oh they don’t know to whom they are talking to, they just don’t know. And therefore they are almost forgiven. King Wade’s wheeled adventures began in pre-school with a beat-up, generic version of a Big Wheel (its front wheel having to be duct-taped many times in order to maintain itself), and soon, perhaps in record time, he was promoted to tricycle riding, the trike red and shiny, the first and only wheels to arrive in his life in a factory-sealed carton, the beautiful cardboard bearing the words “Majestic Bike Company,” the tricycle inside blanketed by newspaper wrap from some far away land, the unreadable headlines surely proclaiming wonderful news. In those early years he could pedal as far as the end of the driveway, the edge of the mysterious world. Even when not supervised, some invisible chain, some understood tether, told him when to brake, when to turn back. By late first grade he had his first two-wheeler, a silver, no-name bike bought at a garage sale, with training wheels attached, for awhile, though he’d still tip over, his elbows and knees ever-pink. Wade was allowed to ride as far as five houses west or five houses east, but only when Mother was watching, usually sitting on a lawn chair in the front yard, like she did, then. 1 In Second, he could cruise up to two streets over. Fatefully, Heather, future queen and by far the most beautiful girl at Lanfield Elementary, perhaps in the known galaxy, lived two roads away on Forest Street. He couldn’t play with her, wasn’t permitted to even step foot on her property, her dad hated his dad and his dad hated her dad, but she’d always smile and wave. She wore pink dresses then, always in pink dresses. By Third, his travel limits were extended to the reach of his mother’s voice, which wasn’t much of a bonus, because her voice could only fly about two streets, maybe three streets on a windy day, where the wind would take hold of her voice, each chime, each note, find Wade, and deliver the message: Wade, it’s dinner time; Wade it’s getting dark, come home Wade; Wade, your dad’s on the phone. Hurry. He only has a minute. Hurry. If it was this last message, he’d jet home and breathlessly grasp the phone in time to hear his dad say, “Just wanted to say hi. Got to run. Be good.” If he had had more air in him, he might have said, “Wait Dad, can we talk some.” Though even on the days his dad called when he did have air in him, he was not able to make that request. That was in the days when Dad phoned, those sweet Days of Then. In Fourth he got the Huffy, retrieved from the Kazenkratz’s junk pile, those fools, and Wade could legally ride as far as the elementary school, and the wooded trails behind, as long as he was with a boy that Mom approved of: Robbie, Foster or Milton. Should he risk fate and ride alone in the woods he might fall off his bike and hit his head on a large trailside rock and die alone, recounting his few days on Earth until life left him, the boy having been called home to some really big dinner. So never ride alone, Wade. And his mother warned him that there were bad men in the woods who might do terrible things to Wade. What exactly they might do she didn’t say, couldn’t say, just too frightful to talk about. Wade figured that freakish monster-men clubbed boys on their heads, ate their brains, then put the boy’s clothes up for sale at the consignment shop run by the Garden Club ladies. Never ride alone, Wade. That way, someone can run for help. By Fifth, there were no riding rules anymore, and only three home rules: do your homework, go to school, and keep quiet. Presley had moved in. Mom’s whole world became Presley. Presley is so great. Presley is so handsome. Presley is so nice. But cool sideburns, was really the only thing worth saying about Presley. With no coming home time, and no limits on where he might go, the whole world was now Wade’s. If only there was enough light in a day, and he had more leg power, he might ride far, very far, extend his fiefdom throughout the county and the state, then cross over into Tennessee and claim lands and peoples there. If only there was more light in a day. If only he had more leg power. * * * Two Saturday’s ago, Wade spent nearly the whole day riding. He left home after a lunch of cold cheese sandwiches. Wade now hates cheese, especially since Presley loves cheese, always nibbling with his ugly oversized teeth on cheese doodles or cheese crackers, like a smelly, ignorant rat, a Presley rat. The boy announced, “I’m gonna be gone for awhile.” Presley said, “Send us a postcard,” and Mom said “stop that” and hit Presley, but in a joking way. Wade vowed to never send them a postcard. He rode and rode, and finally came upon Lake City, the border of his hamlet. He boldly traveled twenty, maybe thirty feet past that city’s “welcome to” sign. There, he saw a boy, near his age, on a bike, not on a one-speed but on a ten-speed, maybe a twelve-speed, new and shiny red. The king of Lake City, doing his patrolling. Wade was not ready for a battle, not yet. But he’ll be back, he promised, and his mighty forces will topple that blonde boy’s empire, and Wade Town and Lake City will be united. People 2 will cheer and call his name “Wade, our king!” They will throw roses at his feet.