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

Tamara plops down at the table where a freshly uncorked bottle of merlot waits, purchased by yours truly. “Elijah had to stay after school.”

“What for?”

She takes a big gulp before answering. “He hit someone.”

I put the knife down and give Tamara my undivided attention. “Seriously?”

“Apparently he was sticking up for someone else. A girl from his class was getting picked on in the hall by a couple of third-graders, so…he just took a swing.”

I can’t believe it. “Who did he hit?”

“Condrey wouldn’t say. She doesn’t want parents to ‘take matters into their own hands.’ ”

“Did Eli tell you who it was?”

Tamara looks at me. It’s a difficult expression to decipher. “What? You want to hunt them down tomorrow? Give them a hard time?”

“Maybe I do.” I’m trying act manly. Dadly. Or something.

“That’d go over well,” she mutters. “That’s exactly why Condrey won’t say. She doesn’t want you pulling out the pitchfork and torches.”

“So Condrey’s protecting these dipwads? Fuck that. And fuck her for protecting them.”

Tamara puts her glass down and holds up her hands in surrender. “I’m not taking her side. School policy. I’m just worried Elijah’s going to be bullied by these creeps now.”

Eli is already a prime target, considering his mother teaches at Danvers. Tamara has always been the cool pre-K teacher. The Doc Martens. The highlighted hair. The subtle punk accents suggest she can throw down on a Sunday night and still show up Monday morning and power through her lesson plan without puking. You better believe my inner soundtrack was blasting the Ramones as soon as I laid eyes on her.

“Here’s the thing.” She pours herself another glass. “You can’t get mad, okay?”

“You can’t tell me not to get mad at something before you tell me what it is.”

“Promise me or I’m not going to tell you,” she says, a little too matter-of-factly.

“You saying that makes me know it’s something that’s going to make me mad.”

“This isn’t coming from me, I swear. It’s from the little man himself.”

“Fine,” I say. Annoyed. “I promise I won’t get mad.”

Tamara takes another sip. “He doesn’t want you to know.”

That stings. “Why not?”

“He…” Tamara searches for the right way to articulate this, how best to thread this parental needle. “He doesn’t want you to feel like you have to talk to him about it and…you know. Make it into a thing.”

Some invisible force presses against my rib cage. “And what did you say to him?”

“I told him okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What else was I going to say?”

“You could’ve said—I don’t know, ‘Hey, maybe Richard could help out. He’s a guy.’ ”

“Oh, is he now?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Please. You’re a guy. Tell me.”

“All I’m saying is…Maybe he could use a different perspective on this.”

“From who, exactly?”

“Someone to help him navigate what he’s going through. Help him understand it from a—from a guy’s perspective.” As I am saying this, I am keenly aware of how wrong it sounds, but the only course of action is to keep on talking.

Tamara is ready. “What you mean is, because he’s been raised by a woman, it’d be helpful for Elijah to finally have a dude to step in and tell him how it really is?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I abandon my burnt meal, the scabs of scorched peanut butter and wilting vegetables, to kneel before her. “You are, hands down, the best mom I ever met. You raised a kickass kid.”

She doesn’t respond so I pry her legs open just enough that I can ease between her knees. I press myself against her chest, kissing her between my effusive compliments.

“Elijah’s a rock star,” I continue. My hand slides under her shirt, snaking its way along her rib cage. My fingertips scale each rib, climbing until I feel the coarsened skin along her chest. Even now, it still startles me. “He stuck up for a classmate because you raised him right.”

“Damn straight.” Her breathing deepens at my ear, catching itself.

I run my index and middle finger along her scar tissue, tracing the textured flesh that spreads over the bulb of her shoulder and down her arm.

“I’m just here to fuck things up,” I say. “Ruin the amazing work you’ve already done.”

Tamara pulls away. “Are you trying to get out of cooking? Should I fix it?”

“No. I started this meal, I’m going to finish it, and you’re going to like it, damnit.”

“Good luck,” she says into her glass, teeth biting the rim. I don’t know if I believe she is forgiving me, but still—she is choosing to move on, letting me pull my foot out of my mouth, which is a relief. She takes another sip, swishing the wine in her mouth before swallowing.

“Who was the girl?” I ask.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say…I could kill those third-graders, though. Little shits.”

“Got any thoughts on who they are?”

“Still want names?” Tamara grins, her cheeks warm with wine. “What’re you gonna do, tough guy?”

“I’m going to find them in the hall. Drag them outside and—”

“Elijah!” Tamara says unnaturally loudly.

I turn and see him in the doorway, eavesdropping on my master plan, eyes wide.

“Hey, Eli,” I say. “You hungry?”

DAMNED IF YOU DO

  SEAN: 1982

Where did these bruises come from?

It was such a simple question. The answer was already there, perched on the tip of Sean’s tongue. All he had to do was say a name. One simple name.

Tommy Dennings.

That wouldn’t be so hard, now, would it? It was the truth, after all. The bruises were Tommy’s fault. He had zeroed in on Sean at the beginning of the school year, targeting him on the playground. In the boy’s bathroom. The cafeteria. The hallway. Sometimes even in the classroom, in front of all the other boys and girls, whenever Mr. Woodhouse had his back turned. Word had finally spread among the other kids that Sean wasn’t actually a Richie Rich; he was a charity case, and he didn’t have a dad like all the other kids in class. The perfect target.

Now he