NOVEMBER 2009

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Edge of the Horizon
By Susan Buttenwieser, Sep 23, 2009

Mr. Dunn squeezes right up against April’s backside, wrapping his thick arms all the way around her as they cast out together. His breath is a combination of coffee and unbrushed teeth. Finally he uncoils his grip, returning to the seat by her father in the back of the small outboard motorboat.

Holding the pole reluctantly, April hopes nothing attaches itself to the hook dangling in the murky water below as she checks her watch. Yesterday, her father promised they’d go fishing with his boss for only an hour. “Two, tops,” he said looking into his cereal bowl while he spoke, a cocoon of silence returning to the kitchen when he finished.

But they’ve been out on the lake since early this morning when it was smothered with a thick fog that kept retreating as they puttered past the other fishing boats, moving to some place they could never quite reach, always on the edge of the horizon.

Mr. Dunn’s pole bows and he reels in a large bass. April’s stomach writhes like the fish as he rips out the hook, leaving lingering bits of flesh. Its eyes gape as it begins the slow descent into suffocation.

Then April sees her. Not more than twenty yards away, Stella Brody is standing on the raft by the overcrowded public beach, rocking it back and forth. Then her boyfriend throws her in. They are the celebrity couple of Westfield Junior High, the whole school following the ups and downs of their relationship. Stella hoists herself back up on the raft. April can see her smooth hipbones peek out of the top of her bikini, a pierced belly button glistening in the sunshine. It makes her hands quiver.

April’s father offers her a sandwich: homemade chicken salad that her aunt made last night. She puts in a lot of mayonnaise, celery, and a dash of paprika, just the way her father likes it. He makes a small humming noise as he chews. April helps herself to a lukewarm Ginger ale from the bottom of the cooler instead. Mr. Dunn cracks open a Tall Boy.

Last winter, while giving April a ride home from school, he got off the highway two exits early and pulled into the parking lot of a single story building. The windows were covered up with black paint. “Lunch with a View” flashed on and off a sign hanging from the roof.

The place was empty except for two men seated right by a square block stage where a woman in a leopard-print thong writhed to baseline high-energy music. Mirrors behind her reflected everything not visible from the front. The walls and ceiling were covered in dark red carpeting that reeked of Dutch Masters.

Mr. Dunn brought April a Coke before heading for a back room. She sipped the soda and watched the woman dance. Her shiny body was so tan, it was almost orange and on her chest sat two huge mounds of flesh high above where they should have been. The men laughed as they threw dollar bills at her.

She didn’t even notice when Mr. Dunn returned. “Hello? Anybody home?” he’d smirked as she jolted, spilling her drink on the floor. When they got back in the car, there had been a throbbing feeling between her legs.


A family trolling a little boy in an inner tube whiz close by and the boat wallops up and down. April almost retches. “Dad, I feel awful,” she says quietly. “Can I just wait on shore till you’re done?”

After they drop her off at the boat slip, April heads for a small grove next to the beach and settles down on a log to read.

“Fuck you!” Stella is yelling at her boyfriend. They are out of the water now, arguing about something. He tries to grab her, but she wriggles free, and runs towards the trees, towards April.

“Douchebag,” she says to no one in particular. Then she notices April. “You spying on me?”

“No,” April’s voice wavers and for a moment, she feels like she might cry.

“Hey, relax. I’m not gonna hit you or anything,” she takes out a pack of Camel Lights from her bag and thumbs it open. “Here,” she says. April pulls one out and Stella lights it for her. They smoke and look out over the lake, not saying anything. The nicotine makes April feel lightheaded.

“Your mom died, right?” Stella asks after awhile.

April nods.

“That really sucks shit,” she finishes her cigarette and tosses it to the ground. She looks her over. “You ever consider wearing some make-up?”

They sit, legs spread apart, knees touching, leaning into each other as she reaches for April’s face. One hand holds her jawbone, puts on mascara and eyeliner, her brow crinkling up as she concentrates on the tiny curled brush, the purple pencil. “Close your eyes,” she says and then soft fingertips are caressing April’s eyelids, fingers running through her hair, gently brushing against the back of her neck.

“You should wear your hair back,” Stella says. “Blow dry it as soon as you get out of the shower. You know, while it’s still really wet. You actually look really pretty.”

“So do you,” April swallows over and over trying to keep her breath steady as she inhales Stella’s scent, a mixture of suntan lotion and Herbal Essences shampoo. Still wet, the bikini clings tightly to her breasts.

But Stella is busy putting everything back into her bag and doesn’t seem to have heard her. “Okay, gotta go deal with asshole boyfriend situation. See you around then.”

When she’s gone, April gets down on her hands and knees until she finds the remains of Stella’s cigarette.


Later, in the quiet of evening, April takes the crushed cigarette out of her pocket and lies on her bed. A faint hint of purple glittery lip-gloss circles one end. It smells of Stella and tobacco, all mixed together. It smells of possibility. Branches scrape the window as April presses it to her open mouth.