Whisper Down the Lane, Clay Chapman [best short books to read txt] 📗

Wednesday hair salon appointment, so for a few dollars a week, she opened her door to any child who needed a place to play until their parents picked them up.

“By six, you hear?” Miss Betty reminded Sean’s mother on countless occasions. “Not six-oh-one and certainly not six thirty. You show up late again and your boy’s on his own.”

“Yes, Miss Betty,” Mom had said, properly chastised, time and time again.

Everybody called Miss Betty Miss Betty. Even the adults on the block. Was Betty Miss Betty’s last name? Or was it her first? Did anyone around these parts know for sure?

Miss Betty’s experience included raising four children of her own—three sons and a daughter, who collectively gave her a dozen grandbabies to dote over. Their christening photos lined the hallway on every inch of available surface area. Their smiling faces were everywhere.

But it was a boy who only appeared in a few pictures that Sean was curious about.

This lonesome child remained hidden farther down the hall, where the overhead lights had a hard time reaching him. When Sean found his black-and-white photograph, he paused long enough to take the child in. The boy looked to be close to Sean’s age. His skin looked gray. He wore a suit, his Sunday best, most likely on his way to church. His shoes were the darkest part of the photograph, while the rest of the picture had begun to fade away.

Who’s that? Sean had asked Miss Betty, pointing to the gray boy.

Oh, she replied. That’s my first son.

How come he’s only in this picture?

He wasn’t long for this world. He’s with Jesus now.

Since Sean attended Greenfield Academy, he rode a different bus than the rest of the kids from his block. They teased him for it, calling him “Richie Rich” to his face. Sean hated that nickname. It made him feel awkward when his mom was always counting pocket change. During commercial breaks, the other kids asked Sean—Hey, Richie Rich, what makes you so special that you get to go to Greenfield? Your mama fucking the headmaster? Miss Betty would kick those kids out of her house if she ever heard them speaking to Sean like that, but they still called him Richie Rich under their breath.

Sean was usually the last to leave, even when Mom was on time. Miss Betty would wait until the second to last kid was picked up before leaning over and checking to see if he was hungry.

“How is it?” Miss Betty asked, bringing him back to the present moment.

“Good,” he said between bites. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am, nothing. Please—Miss Betty’s just fine.”

“Yes, Miss Betty.”

At six o’clock on the dot, Sean heard ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. His body tensed.

Miss Betty excused herself. “You keep on eating.”

Sean waited in the kitchen, straining to hear their conversation. His dinner turned in his stomach. Sean always sensed the tension between Miss Betty and Mom whenever she picked him up. But today was different.

Sean didn’t want his mother to find out about what happened earlier that day. He’d had an accident on the bus coming home from school. Before boarding the bus, he’d felt the initial ticklings in his bladder but figured he could make it to Miss Betty’s in time. Using the bathroom at school came with problems, like Tommy Dennings. Sean preferred to hold it in whenever he could, but the longer the drive home took, the more the pressure mounted. That tickling became an itch, which soon grew into a burn.

And just like that, his corduroys turned warm. Sean froze in his seat at the rear of the bus, hoping nobody would notice. But as soon as the bus reached his stop, he had to stand. He had to walk down the never-ending aisle past all the other kids.

With each step down the aisle, Sean’s corduroys made a zip-zip sound as the fabric rubbed together. It was surprisingly loud, like claws on cardboard—skrk-skrk-skrk.

Tommy Dennings noticed the dark spot on Sean’s pants immediately and pointed. Tommy whispered to his pal Matt Saperstein just loudly enough for everyone to hear. Sean pissed in his pants!

Soon every kid onboard turned to see.

Pissy pants! they all sang. Sean is a pissy pants, Sean is a pissy pants!

Who had taught them this song? How did these kids all know the lyrics, just like that? It’s like they knew beforehand, ready for the moment when Sean would wet himself.

Sean was sobbing by the time he reached Miss Betty’s door. He fell against her soft stomach, pressing his face against her. She shooed all the other kids away. “Go play outside. No TV today.”

Miss Betty promised she wasn’t going to say anything—but still. Would she? He did his best to eavesdrop but could only catch scraps.

—not like him at all. Sean never wets his—

—has something happened that would—

—of course not! Not at home—

Both their voices dropped even further, until the conversation disappeared altogether. Sean knew they were still talking. Especially Miss Betty. Lecturing Mom. What was she saying?

Sean Crenshaw is a pissy pants…

—

Sean had never seen anyone on the freestanding swing set sinking on Miss Betty’s lawn. Whose swing set had it been? he wondered. Had it been the gray boy’s? None of the neighborhood kids went near it, except for the long-haired teenagers in the jean jackets and studs when they smoked cigarettes in the middle of the night while Miss Betty was asleep. Its metal posts buckled inward, like a knock-kneed daddy longlegs about to collapse in on itself.

The swing itself eased back and forth in the evening breeze, the rubber seat drifting on its chains. Sean imagined there was a ghost sitting on it right now, watching him walk by.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mom said as they turned the corner. “Penny for your thoughts?”

He slowed just enough that Mom’s arm stretched back, tugging on his own. “Is your name really Jezebel?”

Mom stopped and turned. “Excuse me?”

“You always said your name was Susan.”

She kneeled before Sean so they were face-to-face. The streetlamp illuminated the back of her head, the