Southern Kentucky and Oceans Far Away

By Brian L. Tucker

Few family members stick around long enough to see their children grow up. In Preston Adam's case, his father is estranged and rheumatic, living alone an hour north. Despite fallouts between his dad and sister, Preston attempts to make amends when his stepmother suddenly passes. In an odd twist of fate, she gifts him a trip from beyond the grave. His father, never one to ask for help, attempts to get him and his sister to go on an adventure. Preston resists, and his sister wants no part of it. With time running out, he decides to help his dad and see if travel is even possible. The two must rely on each other as health fails and trouble intercepts them. It is a quest to have fun and try to remember what families are really for. At the end of it all, will anyone still be smiling?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Dec 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798385206568

Brian L. Tucker

Brian L. Tucker is the award-winning author of several works, including the children's book The Scary, Gray Shark (2020). He is currently the MBA and business advisor at the Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina. Brian is an alumnus of the Bluegrass Writers Studio and recently completed his PhD in leadership at the University of the Cumberlands. He lives in the Holy City with his wife and daughter.

Book preview

Chapter One

A single piece of chocolate cake was housed under a pink dome in the kitchen. It was an espresso recipe with homemade icing.

I made it and licked my lips for three straight days as it disappeared.

Why don’t you have a piece, dummy?

Simple. I have diabetes. Not 2, but 1. I call it ‘the sucky kind.’

It’s the one where the pancreas doesn’t do a damn thing. Doctors call it dormant like it might wake me up one night and say, Hey, I’m back. Try the cake.

But it hasn’t so far.

Instead, I make desserts and watch others enjoy them.

It’s the small things in suburbia.

I high-five my cat, Rainstorm, as she walks back from her water bowl. She likes to offer a paw if it leads to a Temptations treat—it usually does. She digs the chicken flavor. We’re almost out. I shake the empty container, and a few squares clank against one another.

I’ll put it on the list, Ray Ray, I say to her. She meows a harsh You better.

The recliner is indented with the shape of my back. I’ve sat it in for what feels like months, even though it’s only been a few weeks. It’s one of those clamshell pillow tops, pushing my neck farther toward the TV than I’d like.

People say, I mean, my best friend and neighbor, Tuey, says, You weren’t fired at the bait and tackle, were you? I haven’t seen your car leave its spot in months, Preston.

Tuey was, and is, my best friend. He’s the only person I like asking about my particulars, knowing how long I’ve been parked in the living room. It’s no one’s business. So, I usually feel inclined to answer just him. He shuttles over and raps on my door periodically. Today is one of those days.

Naw, I wasn’t fired down at the shop. The people don’t come in much now anyways. Everyone’s afraid of mercury in the fish bellies, you know?

Tuey nods and stares into the street, equidistance from my place to his.

You know, Tuey, I don’t get out much on my days off. I like to save gas money. Have you ever filled up at the same place where you work? Spent your own hard-earned money before leaving the parking lot? It sucks.

I knew he didn’t. Tuey was a regular down at the city pool hall. He shot pool, which was all anyone had ever known him to do: the wager—cheeseburgers off the grill. The winner takes all of them. Tuey rarely lost. Not when it came to cheeseburgers. He had what the doctor told him was above BMI and borderline Type 2 diabetic.

"Don’t let that shit turn to 1. Believe you me. It goes to 1, and you’ll be the dumbass I was afraid you were all along. Naw, get away from that, and we might stay friends," I say.

Tuey hung his head like a scolded beagle. I really did mean well. No one needed to walk around with numb feet, and blurred eyes, if they could help it.

I put one of my stocking feet up on the porch banister and peered with Tuey out to the road.

Listen, Preston, what have you been doing cooped up in the house this long? he said, gulping down a sip of some brown drink in hand.

I glanced back inside for a split second. The Price is Right was coming on. I rubbed my neck out of habit. The pain was a welcomed friend. Rainstorm was perched on my chair’s cushion, stealing my butt’s abating heat.

Tuey, it’s time for the show to start, I dodged, shutting the door slowly, him peering inside, taking another brown slug.

When the door closed, I heard, Well, see you round, Preston, and his steel-toed boots clomping down the steps and back to his abode.

I looked out the window blinds and saw him kick-checking his Pontiac tires.

I laughed and wondered why he wasn’t at the pool hall scarfing cheeseburgers—the best in Kentucky. Must’ve lost more than he lets on, I thought, plopping into the clamshell. I forgot about Rainstorm and heard her before I felt her digging into my rear. It was a godawful whine, and I felt terrible about it. She hooted and hollered in front of the TV for a few minutes, then darted into the bathroom and hid in the tub.

No matter how much I shook the Temptations container, she wouldn’t budge from in there. She knew that plastic jug was almost spent.

Drew Carey was saying something, and I was missing it. I thought about the chair and why I’d sat in it for so much, for so long. It had to do with my dad. He lived an hour north of Seton and was a chair dweller, too. His wasn’t a choice, and he fought and clawed his way through a hell of a year—losing his wife, my stepmom, Audrey, a year before. It was twelve months of sleeping, eating, and pooping in a recliner with a hydraulic lift. I thought about him trying to close his eyes at night, a worn blanket falling out of his lap, and no one to help him get to the bathroom in time.

Rainstorm howled a reminder from the bathroom.

I hear you, Ray, Ray. I’m sorry. Really. I forgot you were sitting there, I said, deciding to enter the bathroom.

She peered at me over the top of the tub, eyes half obscured by the porcelain commode. Prove it, her eyes said.

I held my hands up in resignation and approached her cautiously. We’ll get more treats as soon as I can get the gumption to return to work. Okay?

Rainstorm lowered her eyes as only the feline goddesses can, hair still raised on her back.

I backed out of the bathroom and went for the can opener, the tuna tin. I hacked away at the metal, and she presented herself in the kitchen. There, baby. Bygones be bygones, I said, lowering the juice into a saucer.

She licked and licked until the dish was white again.

I patted her head and put the dish in the sink. The art of forgiveness was alive and well.

Chapter Two

Her name was Marigold, and I met her on a reality marriage show. She was from Malibu, went to Pepperdine, and studied to become a nurse. I still, to this day, don’t know what she saw in me.

Wait, let me back up. I should preface this by saying it was one of those ‘blind’ shows, Apple of My Eye. The idea was like many of them: talk to a person by letters alone, do this for four straight weeks, then decide whether you propose. I did, and she said, ‘Yes,’ and here we are. I’ve asked her a million times if she has misgivings, and she always says, No. I got who I wanted.

How she can say this, I’m not really sure. But, she moved from the set in Hollywood, where they filmed this ridiculous concept, to Seton, Kentucky, and didn’t look back. Now, she works as a nurse in our town’s health department, and I stare at the TV, praying for motivation to return to the bait and tackle shop.

She is the reason that chocolate cake isn’t going to waste: her and a baby. We have a 1.5-year-old girl who loves sharks. I hear that infantile shark song in my sleep, I swear. But they both love Daddy’s cooking, so I pledge to deliver the sweets for as long as possible.

But I want to get back to work, and I’ve resolved that today is the day. They deserve so much better than me, and I want to give them at least a figure who puts on pants in the morning. So, here I am. The right leg goes into the denim. Then, the left. I think of Dad telling me how everyone puts on their pants the same way, one leg at a time. Then, I stand up from the bedside and wrestle the metal button between the loop. The pants are on and fit snugly. I stoop for a discarded t-shirt, STP emblazoned on the front. I find some usable socks and put them on. My Red Wings are beside the door, where they’ve rested for all these weeks. Rainstorm is rubbing on them like she’s aware of my soon-to-be departed self.

"You could at least act like parting is hard," I say.

She purrs and scratches at the fridge door, her meow meaning, Turkey now.

I open the door and divvy out a piece for her and one for me. No time for eggs to cook today, as I know the delay could prompt the pants back off. I pat her on the head and grab my keys from the pottery bowl in tandem. I lock the door and lumber over to the Forester, grass growing around its wheels.

The key turns in the ignition, and I’m driving. My neck hurts in the less padded seat, missing the continual assist it’s had at home. I look left and right at each intersection and make good time to work. Pulling into the station, I see Joe skimming the minnow tank for any floaters. He waves a hand, and I shut the car off.

Joe is biting his lip, and I wonder if he’ll tell me I’m SOL. There isn’t any use clocking in because I’ve been gone too long, but he doesn’t. He wipes sweat from his brow and closes the fish tank lid with a thud. He holds the net up to show me the recently deceased minnows he’s found. Then, he turns them over into a trashcan and says, Fifteen already this morning. I need you watching to see if any kid is doing this for sport, Preston. Some little shit thinks it’s funny. They are putting their hands in there and grabbing them. I know it. You’d think their parents would beat their asses for doing such things.

I smile at him, even though I know he’s pissed. It feels like I haven’t missed a beat, and I take the minnow net from his hand.

Joe pauses to see the net leaving his grasp, adding, You have much catching up to do. This place is falling apart. I tell you. The bathrooms look like a war zone. Someone is stealing bubble gum. It might be the same punk killing the fish. You find this person, and I’ll see to it that we don’t even talk about you being gone for eons. I don’t care what kind of personal reasons you’ve been through, he said, shifting his ball cap further back on his head.

Deal, I say, walking into the open entryway, looking at the stock and coolers and checking inventory on everything this small operation has. I take the key with the wooden plank attached to survey the bathrooms. They are as terrifying as Joe warned. The women’s and the men’s. I make a mental note never to touch the key again without a bottle of sanitizer nearby. Joe smirks and says, Headed to lunch at Smitty’s. I would offer to get you something, but you ain’t earned it.

I grab the can of Lysol, industrial paper towels, bleach, and some rubber gloves. It feels good to sink my teeth into work. Even if I haven’t done it for a while, I know it’ll feel good to walk into the house this evening to two ladies who’ll see Daddy as a productive member of society. As I round the corner, I see a ripe peach and think about how far it’s traveled to get here. Georgia probably. You’re mine later, I think.

I make a mental note to check the minnow tank in the afternoon to see how many more fishes have succumbed to the heat or, more likely, some sadistic kid like Joe thinks.

Chapter Three

Marigold is in hysterics when I open the door to our abode. Her hands are in front of her, pleading like our preacher at Bethel. The baby, Sheila, is clinging to my pant leg, saying, More, Daddee. More, Daddee, on a loop.

I’m not sure what, or more of what, she’s wanting, but Marigold is picking her up and carrying her into the kitchen with a trail of wet footprints in her wake. Are you even listening, Preston Eugene Adams?

Oh no. All three names.

I’m gonna need a little help, honey. I think I missed something I wasn’t privy to. Did you have a conversation without me?

A wet dishrag flies into my face—more than half-soaked, smacking me with some momentum.

You went out. I thought you’d left us. Just buzzed somewhere else.

I’m in the kitchen now, tending to beans that look like they’re about to absolve into the water they’re boiling in. Sheila baby is chewing on a pepper pithe, and I know that’s not something she’s supposed to have. I drop the wooden spoon and snatch the pepper away. Then, tears begin to form in her eyes and pick her up. I know I stink to high heaven, but I want to make this right.

Why’d you do that? Marigold asks.

"I went to work, Marigold. That’s where I was. I went back today, I said with as much conviction as I could muster. I wanted you to be surprised."

She’s talking over the bean mush, and I’m holding our upset baby in this cob-webbed kitchen. There there, I soothe to Marigold as much as I do the baby. "Daddy went to work. I wanted it to be good news, you two. I got out of the recliner. Joes says hi, by the way."

Now, Marigold is looking at me and laughing a little. He did, huh?

She brushes the frizzy, brown hair from her face, and I see the sparkle I first saw on that dating game. She’s offering those pouty lips, and I get her an iced tea from the fridge.

Thank you, honey, she says, taking it with her free hand and twisting the top off.

I always loved that she was ambidextrous like that. It was one of those funny things that came out of her past on the show. Something I learned about her long before we ever saw one another. She wrote things like This is me writing with my left hand and This is my right hand, adding, Can you tell the difference, Preston? And I couldn’t then, and I still can’t today. They looked the same. I remember thinking, I can barely write with my dominant hand.

So, work saw your handsome face? she asked, over the steam rising and Sheila goo-gooing at me. I get a squeeze apple sauce for her, twist the top, and set her to it.

Yeah, I was back in the fold. Joe really needed it, he said. Some kid was killing off the minnows, and those bathrooms were no-fly zones. You shoulda seen the wreckage.

Marigold turned some fried chicken in the cast iron skillet and shook her head, not indulging me for any particulars.

I got a bag of peaches for y’all, I said, remembering the wares in the living room.

Marigold took them from my grasp and instinctively smelled them—the true sign of any fruit’s readiness. She commenced slicing them and put a few on the baby’s tray. I watched Sheila baby poke them and eventually discard her apple sauce for the slimy, sweet fruit.

I love them, Marigold said.

I know you do. One of your Southern favorites.

She took the chicken, bean mush, and some boiled potatoes from the stove top and sat them around the dinner table. I got the ketchup from the fridge for the baby and some salt and pepper for us. We held hands and thanked the good Lord for a productive day, and Sheila baby tried to say some gibberish.

Tell me about your day, I said, still holding my wife’s hand.

"Let’s talk about anything but that, she countered. I made some kids cry. I had one lady pass out on me. Who knew shots were so terrifying? she smiled. Honestly, I’d much rather hear about the toilets, I believe."

Not at the supper table, you wouldn’t, I said, stifling a laugh. The smell alone made me want to push the topic away.

Sheila’s got another tooth coming in.

Which one?

It looks like another lower lateral, she said like I’d remembered all of the mouth’s placement.

Instead of asking, I opened my baby’s mouth to see for myself, and I saw the mashed-up peaches and, sure enough, the redness and an emerging new tooth.

Sheila baby said, Ahh.

I said, Ahh, and she held her mouth open and giggled.

Good, I encouraged.

She’s teething a lot, Marigold said, patting Shelia’s head.

Tylenol? I asked.

Maybe. We’ll see if she’s fussy later.

Just say the word, and I’ll get the syringe, I encouraged like a surgeon.

Marigold diced up some of the fried chicken tenders and placed them on Sheila’s tray. I squirted some ketchup beside protein and potato, aware of the melee that was about to occur. The baby always looked like a war survivor anytime the ketchup came out.

What got you back into work clothes, honey? Marigold asked, turning from the tray to me. I mean, I’m proud as can be, but what got you away from your shows and. . .the chair?

She spoke of the clamshell recliner like it was a vested third party. And in many ways, she was right in doing so. It took so much energy to separate my backside from the green microfiber. Instinctively, I thought of Dad every time, and I winced a little—picturing him an hour away, trying to get himself upright.

She reached for my hand and held it softly. I’m glad you went in, is all, she said, spooning a rare bite of mush for herself with her other hand.

I owe it all to you, Marigold, I said, looking into her sweet, soft face. You get up and do this sort of thing every day. I sit in that chair, staring at that screen and waste hours. When I do get up, I usually piddle in here or toss bottle caps in the direction of Tuey’s. So, I need to pull my weight around here.

If you want to talk about it, I’m here, she says, looking at me like she did that first time we met in Hollywood.

I think about the picture postcard life she gave up—waves constantly breaking, seagulls always chirping—to be here with my sorry self.

Sheila baby taps her plastic spoon on the tray to indicate more peaches and chicken.

I squirt some ketchup instead, which sends her into a new crying fit.

Marigold knows what it wants and delivers the goods. It’s an unspoken gift that mothers know, and babies gravitate toward them.

I take my plate to the sink and rinse the residue before placing it in the dishwasher.

Marigold doesn’t push the topic, and I respect her more for that than anything.

I believe I’ll go and do it again tomorrow, I say, like I’m attempting some incredible feat, Kilimanjaro maybe. I feel like a useless human being just for uttering the words, but she doesn’t scold me.

Marigold brings her plate to the sink, and I rinse it and put it in the dishwasher with mine. Then, I help her clean up the baby—hands, face. The bib comes off and goes to the washroom. I wipe the rest of the stovetop and give the leftovers to our cur dog outside.

The living room feels fuller when we’re all in there. I do something bizarre and don’t opt for the clamshell recliner. Instead, I take Sheila baby and prop her up in the air like she’s a helicopter on my legs. I stink so much from work, but she doesn’t mind. Marigold takes our picture, and I beg her to join us. She eventually puts her phone down and takes Sheila in her lap.

We should play a board game, I say, surprising myself as I say it.

Marigold dusts off an old edition of Trouble, and I laugh as she brings out the pieces. Sheila baby is determined to crush the centerpiece dome with the dice beneath it with her pudgy hand. We take turns popping the plastic dome and moving our pieces around the board. Marigold wins, even in games like this, built on chance. And I smile at her and the baby. I grab a bag of marshmallows from the pantry and launch them at both until they can’t handle more sweets.

Marigold asks if it’s all right if she finishes the last piece of chocolate cake, and sweeter music has never been played anywhere in the world.

Of course, honey, I say. That’s why I made it. It’s all yours.

And I hear the silverware drawer being pulled open and the toddle of tiny feet joining her, and I don’t even miss the recliner all that much.

Chapter Four

The alarm went off, and I was out the door just an hour after Marigold and Sheila. My Red Wings felt good, braking on the curves leading from our mountain into town. The good vibes didn’t last long, as the Forester shut down at a red light on the outskirts of Seton. I felt the transmission shake, lurch, and complete silence. I put the gearstick into park and got out to survey the immobile hunk.

Out of habit, I grabbed the back of my neck and felt where the recliner would typically be. It struck a nerve, and I considered thumbing a ride back home. But I wasn’t there yet. My phone blipped, and a text flitted across my screen from Marigold—PROUD OF YOU, PRES!

I put the phone back into my jeans, stooped at the hood, flicked the metal hook over, and popped the hood upright. No smoke. I stared at the black engine, trying to divine some answer. It didn’t come. I tried the keys again, and nothing happened. I deduced it was probably the battery, but that was the extent of my expertise. I pulled the phone back out and dialed Joe. I preferred calls.

He answered on the fourth ring, You’re up?

Car’s dead.

Japanese ju—

I cut him off with a forced cough.

Where at?

First light. Near the park.

Almost made it.

Think it’s the battery.

I’ll be out there in five, he said, hanging up before I could tell him why I thought it was the battery. Didn’t matter. I put the phone back and