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  Praise for Panic River

  “Elliott Foster has dared to be honest in his newest work Panic River. Set in familiar Upper Mississippi River locales, his novel takes us to the secret interiors of familiar faces and their outdoor lives. His exploration of marriage, family, sexuality and gender identity is courageous, insightful, and compassionate, and his story has cliff-hanger qualities that make it a page turner.”

  – Emilio Degrazia, Minnesota Book Award winning author of Billy Brazil and Seventeen Grams of Soul

  “Foster’s hero is a man in pain, and the way forward hurts even more. But walls come down, hearts open, and there is such pleasure in sharing the journey.”

  – Sandra Scofield, National Book Award finalist and American Book Award winning author of Beyond Deserving and Swim: Stories of the Sixties

  “Panic River is a marvel: equal parts salient, searing portrait of Middle America and taut, orchestrated page-turner full of family secrets that don’t stay buried for long. Foster offers up an exquisitely-crafted panoply that grapples with American angst, toxic masculinity, identity, and the expectations we face every day of our lives, all handled with tenderness and deft skill. Yes, this is a luminous novel; I’ll happily follow Foster wherever he goes next.”

  – Robert James Russell, author of Mesilla and Sea of Trees

  “Elliott Foster became the voice of Minnesota cabin land with Whispering Pines. Now he crosses the river into rural Wisconsin with his darkly droll novel, Panic River. Foster writes characters that are so real and lovably imperfect that you want to shove anyone who bullies them down a staircase. The spark has been dwindling between Corey and his husband Nick, who has not been telling the truth. But in turning the pages I discovered that Corey and his family have more secrets of their own than there are deer in Barron County. And so begins the panic-filled hunt for the real meaning of Corey’s inheritance.”

  – Catherine Dehdashti, author of Roseheart

  “... Novel readers who choose Panic River for its theme of a middle-aged gay man facing his demons and much-changed circumstances will uncover the roots of these connections and will learn how they evolve. They will find Panic River a powerfully evocative, thought-provoking consideration of how life moves on, how freedoms evaporate and re-form, and how one man makes difficult choices that bring him full circle in an unexpected way.”

  – Midwest Book Review

  “... Overall, this book was a fascinating read about love, tough love, and all of the complicated relationships that happen when a person decides to be him or herself. Well-written with all types of little life lessons thrown in, this book was engaging and entertaining. A book well worth reading, geared towards young adults to adults.”

  – Kristi Elizabeth, San Francisco Book Review

  “Elliott Foster has written a tremendous novel, at once a testimony to courage and friendship and family bonds, Panic River is also wickedly intense and psychologically riveting. It is, in other words, the sort of novel that touches on every reading pleasure.”

  – Peter Geye, author of Wintering

  PANIC RIVER

  ELLIOTT FOSTER

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  FIRST EDITION October 2019

  PANIC RIVER. Copyright © 2019 by Elliott Foster. All rights reserved.

  No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Contact Calumet Editions LLC at 6800 France Avenue South, Edina, MN 55435.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

  Cover and book design: Gary Lindberg

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Panic River

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Also by Elliott Foster

  Prelude

  The Wounding

  1

  Inheritance

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  Deliverance

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  Reckoning

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For my father,

  who, in the midst of his life’s deepest pain,

  guided me through mine.

  Art washes away from the soul

  The dust of everyday life.

  Pablo Picasso

  Also by Elliott Foster

  Retrieving Isaac & Jason (Calumet Editions, 2019)

  Whispering Pines (Wise Ink Publishing, 2015)

  Prelude

  “Faceless” by Corey Fischer

  1988 Stockholm Art Fair

  High School Division

  Third Prize

  The sandy-haired boy at the center of the artwork stood scarcely camouflaged near the top of a rugged oak, his fingernails dug deep into the crevasses of its bark. His tiptoes touched a sturdy branch while one arm seized the trunk. It was a long way to the ground. He appeared to be looking out across the wide river valley, but only the back of his head was visible. His facial expression was hidden from view.

  The abstract oil painting filled the canvas with muted colors—grays and beige—with a sliver of crimson on the open palm of the boy’s free hand and several drops of the same color suspended toward the earth, below. There was enough detail to grasp that the boy had mounted a middling hardwood burrowing its tentacled roots into the thinly cloaked ground of an island. Brown river water flooded its base and birds of prey circled in the sky. Leafless branches radiated from the trunk—shielding the boy from above, supporting him from below, and beckoning him farther out from the trunk.

  In the distance a church steeple, slender and white, towered above a village resting along the riverbank. Still, the boy’s face remained hidden, his gaze fixed toward the far horizon. From this distance, the town was blurred in tones of sable and soot, except for that lone, ivory spire. From his post in the treetops, the steeple must have seemed small to the boy. From here, it wasn’t clear—was the boy searching for something on the horizon, or taking delight in having climbed to the top of the world?

  The Wounding

  July 2012

  1

  After dropping Nick at the airport Friday morning, Corey Fischer glanced down at his cell phone and tapped the Pandora app. A mélange of jazz began streaming through the car’s speakers. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror. Not bad for thirty-eight. He still had a full head of sandy brown hair although his face clearly needed moisturizing. Corey wondered why his skin had weathered so much faster than Nick’s. After all, they were the same age and had been together almost twenty years. They both looked better than most of their straight friends, though, especially the ones with kids.

  Corey pulled the gear into drive and followed the slow line of cars toward the exit from MSP. He sped up once he entered the freeways, heading back toward the condo he and Nick shared in Minneapolis overlooking St. Anthony Falls. Corey loved to stand on the condo’s balcony and stare at that cascading
water, often losing his sense of time.

  Above the falls he could see the placid tributary that looked virtually the same as it did when first chronicled in western literature by Father Louis Hennepin, the Recollect friar who named the falls after his patron saint, Anthony of Padua. Below the turbulent waters, however, the Mississippi changed dramatically—opening up into a steep gorge of muddy brown water pooled artificially deep ever since the creation of lock and dam number one a few miles downstream. Corey knew the river’s history and often strained to imagine the Mississippi’s naturally flowing rapids over massive boulders, now hidden far below the river’s murky surface.

  Corey wondered what he would do for the next few days with Nick out of town. He hadn’t found time to think about it, since he had been worrying constantly about their money quarrel two nights ago. The row had left Corey feeling small—Nick looking down on Corey due to his superior height, carrying on with his familiar grievance about the disparity in their incomes, insisting that Corey look for a higher paying job. They made up later that same night after two rounds of Belvedere and tonic, poured heavy with a splash of elderflower. They had sex on the sofa, initiated when Nick grabbed Corey’s hips and flipped him onto all fours up against the cushions. Corey submitted to Nick’s drunken aggression, allowing his clothes to be removed only far enough to expose what Nick wanted to see, and use. Corey never could resist Nick’s impressive manhood, that coarse black hair brushing against Corey’s smooth skin. Afterward, they shared a bottle of Vigonier over Vietnamese food delivered to their doorstep and eaten directly from a pair of white pint-sized boxes.

  He was looking forward to some time apart from Nick, but he also didn’t want to spend the weekend alone. He had the day off from work, with no concrete plans until his next shift at the museum Monday morning. Maybe he’d enjoy some quality hours at the studio. His latest painting was certain to be his best, and he was itching to complete it.

  On the other hand, he also found himself thinking lately of his mother. Her birthday was coming up next week, and it had been a year since his last visit. For once, maybe he should put some time in with her, even if it meant dealing with his dad face-to-face. He picked up the phone, searched for his mother’s name, and sent the call. The music inside the car faded when she answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning. May I speak to the lady of the house?”

  He could picture an emerging smile.

  “Corey? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fischer, it is I—your favorite son.”

  “Oh, I almost didn’t recognize your voice. It sounds like you’re in a tunnel.”

  “That’s because I’m talking to you through the car speakers. It makes me sound important.”

  She laughed. “Well, I’m just glad to finally hear from you.”

  He winced, trying to remember the last time he had called. It was at least two weeks since hearing her quiet voice.

  “I was wondering what you guys were up to this weekend. If you’re not busy, maybe I could come down?”

  “Yes, please. We’re not busy at all.”

  “Good. I need to finish some work at the studio first and then pack a bag. But I can certainly be there in time for supper.”

  “Oh, Corey, that’ll be wonderful. I’ll call Frank at the office and let him know.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you around five.”

  “Drive safely.”

  “I will. Talk to you soon.”

  He arrived at the studio in Northeast, an old Polish neighborhood full of vacant warehouses where artists could afford the cheap rent. As he clumped up the worn stairway to the third floor, he realized that his desperation to paint made his promise to visit Pepin feel compulsive and he regretted it, and in regretting it he felt disloyal. This would’ve been the perfect opportunity to stay home and paint. Lately, there had been too little time for doing what he loved. With budget cuts at the museum, Corey often shouldered the toil of two staffers for the salary of one. His days were filled with tours and preparing upcoming exhibits. He longed for the freedom to spend hours in this studio. He put the key into the lock, startled to feel it already open.

  He timidly pushed the metal door, tense in his shoulders despite the familiar scent of the hundred-year-old space with its concrete floors, exposed brick walls, and large, single-paned windows through which the Minnesota winter winds seemed to flow uninhibited. Corey was relieved to spy Carol at her potter’s wheel, her unmistakable long blond hair cascading down toward the middle of her back.

  “Morning. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  “I’m going in late to work. I wanted to finish up this piece and get it into the kiln. This is gonna be the one that puts me on the map, Corey. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s terrific—definitely your best work.”

  “Thanks, love.”

  “This is the one where you’re experimenting with the new glazing technique?”

  “Yeah. I’m about to apply the white glaze, then finish with this color—it’s a mix of Gerstley borate and K-44 Royal Purple Stain.”

  “I love it.” Corey was on the verge of telling Carol about his trip to Pepin but switched into work mode instead. “Oh, I hate to be a downer, but you may have a shitload of paperwork once you get to the museum.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I got verbal commitments late yesterday from the Whitney and MOMA. You get the fun task of filling out formal requisitions.”

  “No worries. I’m excited that we’re prepping this exhibit. Arshile Gorky has never been displayed in Minnesota before. It’ll definitely be a hit.”

  Corey loved discussing art with Carol. She was the only person who appreciated his life’s calling. Nick didn’t have the patience, at least not anymore. On occasion, Nick would feign interest, listening to stories about a visiting exhibit or the contrast between Expressionism and Fauvism, between Munch and Matisse. He became far more animated, of course, when the conversation turned to pop culture, fashion, or his own job at the bank.

  “I’m sure it will be, Carol. And it might just shine an overdue light on Gorky, not to mention surrealism in general.”

  “And the Armenian Genocide.”

  “That too.”

  “Say, I took a peek at your easel over there. You’re working on something pretty impressive yourself, mister.”

  “You think?”

  “For sure. It reminds me of Grounds of the Chateau Noir in the British Museum. Julian and I saw it on our anniversary trip. There are definite similarities—the cottage entangled in branches obscuring the sky, and the touch of orange that Cezanne used to lend vibrancy to the green of the trees.”

  Corey was familiar with that painting and of course was imitating Cezanne’s style, as a means of teaching himself to go deeper into impressionism. But the cabin and woods he cast onto the canvas were images of his own—seared into his memory from childhood, of a place he hadn’t visited in more than twenty years.

  “Huh,” Corey said. “I read that Gorky went through a Cezanne period... did you know that?”

  “No. Looks like you two have something in common then.”

  Corey didn’t mind the flattering comparison to an artist who was known for painting vivid images from childhood. He was particularly taken with Gorky’s distinct technique but disturbed that such a magnificent talent would take his own life after suffering a succession of tragedies at the age of forty-four, only a few years older than Corey was now. In the span of a few years, Gorky’s studio had burned to the ground, he was diagnosed with cancer, and he broke his painting arm in a paralyzing car accident. As if that were not enough, his wife then left him for fellow painter Roberto Matta and took the children with her. Corey couldn’t fathom a person sustaining so much loss, all at once. He hoped his own depression would never take him that far.

  Onc
e Carol left, Corey stood in front of his easel and began to paint. Lately, he had been attempting to master a far more abstract style. On the canvas he experimented with both color and light, applying hatched brushstrokes to convey images of people, structures, and landscapes with figures dissolving toward an invisible point of disintegration at the edges of the frame. His current project was a dark-hued image of a cabin set in the midst of a gloomy woods. The presence of a hunter in the distance was only guessed at from the faded orange hat atop what appeared to be a man. He spent an hour adding slight touches to the painting—the faint brown hint of a deer amidst the trees, blanched horns atop its skull, a noticeable spurt of crimson from its side.

  Yet, he struggled. Like Cezanne, Corey had attempted to paint this same scene multiple times—from different angles, in varying mediums, and with diverse amounts of natural light. Still, perfection eluded him. Or perhaps, the expectations he set for himself as an artist were as unrealistically high as those in most areas of his life. Corey stared at the canvas and decided he’d done enough for today. Then, he washed out his brushes in the sink. He looked up and noticed a flyer for the West Texas Art Fair in Marfa hanging on the wall. Why hadn’t he thought to travel there while Nick was away? He envisioned visiting his “painting friends,” as Nick called them, and checking out two up-and-coming artists whose compositions were being considered for a minor exhibition at the museum. But he could already hear the director denying his request. “There’s no room in the budget for that,” she would say. And he knew better than to travel there as a personal expense, given his recent fights about money with Nick. For a moment, Corey contemplated a furtive escape—telling no one and paying for the imagined trip with cash from his studio safe, funds he had accumulated from selling paintings over the years. He didn’t necessarily feel good about concealing that money from Nick. Corey had always considered himself a good person, at least as honest and moral as the next guy. Yet lying about this one thing—his secret stash—felt like equal justice, a fair arrangement given how many times Nick had lied to him.