Tethered

Fourteen || Fireflies

{A River Through It ~ Matt Stell}

...And I know where I belong, and that steady current strong, no matter where I am, my heart's going to flow back to it, like there's a river through it...

----

The kitchen is hot and filled with the smells of Uncle Deacon's homemade stew boiling on the stove. We all clatter around, fixing the table and setting down plates while the radio plays. Uncle Deacon whistles along with the twang of the guitar, a familiar tune he knows the lilt of. Beau and I listen, a tight-knot tension resting atop our shoulders, our eyes exchanging glances, skirting around the bomb that will go off tonight. Part of me thinks our glances is to see which one of us will pull the pin out of the grenade by telling Uncle Deacon that I'm going to be riding in the Derby.

It's a miracle the news hasn't filtered back to him already, but apparently, since Aunt Rita died, he goes fishing every single year on Derby announcement day. He spends the day by the river and the reeds, alone. He brought back no fish with him, only a calmness in his nature that I am grudged to shatter.

Beau and I had arrived back at the ranch just after sunset, both of us in an electric-shock state of gape-jawed awe. The rush of events kept replaying the whole way home, and even while I wait for dinner, the same feeling of electricity rushes through me. Maybe it's nerves, or maybe it's a sudden wave of regret. Either way, I can't help but feel goosebumps rising on my skin.

"Dinner's ready," Uncle Deacon beams, plating up his servings of stew and fresh steamed vegetables.

We each take our plates and a seat at the wooden table. The low handing light over us makes me feel like I'm about to be interrogated, the trembling guilt of being unable to lie to him prevalent as I struggle to look at him, desperate to rip the bandaid off. I kick Beau under the table, begging him to take the lead as I struggle to swallow down my stew.

"The Derby initiation was today," Beau coughs, before taking a bite.

"Every year in Mid July," Uncle Deacon nods knowingly. "Past twenty-four years."

"Mr Taylor--" Beau begins.

"Son," Uncle Deacon catches his words, cuts him off like a fish caught in his hook. "I hope you're not about to tell me you did what I asked you not to do."

My eyes are on my dinner plate, my fork sloshing around my carrots, unable to take a bite. I have lost all appetite, my mouth suddenly dry. I lift my glass, gulping down water.

"No, um... Actually--" He tries to interject, but I know Uncle Deacon isn't finished.

"Because I will not have my best farmhand laid low," he states plainly, the gravity in his voice pulling my cloudy aspirations and hopes firmly back to earth. "I wouldn't ask you to do that, son. It's already fixed-- That Rucker boy is gon' win as long as his daddy is the Mayor or the boy retires."

My throat tightens at the thought that there is any truth to my Uncle's words. What if I'm doing this for nothing? Is there really no chance?

"But if... If we trained someone--" Beau tries again, patiently, like trying not to spook one of the horses.

"Ach," Uncle Deacon scoffs. "Who would want any coaching from me anymore?"