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

to rid myself of this feeling that I’m some kind of domestic parasite. But from the very beginning of our relationship, whenever it came down to my place or yours, it was always going to be hers. There was never a question. My cramped apartment never stood a chance against Tamara’s cozy farmhouse. It is situated in a small grove of cedars, giving the illusion that the house is tucked into the woods, even though the neighbors are a baseball toss away. There’s even a weeping willow in the backyard, just outside the kitchen window. Tire swing and all.

Tamara has been killing time in the kitchen. The bottle of wine I’d opened is now half empty. Not that I’m keeping tabs. Her glass rests on a stack of printouts. We’re going to fill out the adoption forms together, plow through them one of these nights. I’m not going to say anything, but I notice the thinnest dribble of wine has formed a red ring around the top page. I’ll have to reprint that sheet before we fill it out. Nothing says adoption denied quite like a merlot stain bleeding through your application, front and center.

“So,” she says, stretching the “o” out. The suspense is killing her.

“So,” I volley back, milking it.

“Sure were up there for a long time. I was about to send a search party.”

“Worried?”

“Of course not.”

I join her at the table and pick up where I’d left off drinking, catching up to her. The alcohol hits my blood.

“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”

“Ask what?” I grin. The cat who totally killed the canary. Weegee ain’t got nothing on me. I’m feeling pretty proud of myself, I must admit, now swirling in a tide pool of wine.

I’m a dad! I’m a daaaaad! I’m—

“Such an asshole,” she says, rolling her eyes. But she’s smiling. Definitely smiling.

This is our life now.

We are making a family together, cobbling the bits and pieces of our previously shattered lives, stitching them together into a cuddly, huggable Frankenstein’s family.

Tamara had Elijah when she was twenty-six. Her playlists of Black Flag and Minutemen turned into lullabies and the sounds of rain or ocean waves to get Elijah to fall asleep. If we ever had friends over for dinner and used her iPod for the evening’s soundtrack, the shuffle option would quickly shift from Slint to “Baby Beluga.”

“It was terrifying,” I say. “I just yammered on and on…I couldn’t stop. But he said—”

My cell phone abruptly chirps, cutting me off. Probably a robocall, I think. Nobody calls me at this hour. But the caller ID lists a familiar area code. One I haven’t seen in a long time.

I answer. “Hello?”

No answer back. It takes a moment for the automated recorded voice to click in, but I swear I hear a layer of white noise from the other end of the line, as if someone is listening.

“Who is it?”

“Telemarketer,” I lie as I hang up.

Tamara’s hand finds mine across the table. “What’d he say?”

“The salesman?”

“Elijah.”

“Oh. He…” My throat hitches. “He said yes.”

“I knew he would. Here…” Tamara lifts her glass. “To making it official.”

“To making it official,” I echo, clinking her glass with mine.

“Welcome to the family.” Tamara leaves her chair and slips into my lap. Her arms wrap around my neck, embracing me. When we kiss, she tilts her head down until her hair falls over my face.

She bites my bottom lip.

“Ow…Be careful.”

“Almost forgot.” She leaps off my lap and runs to the counter to open the cupboard. She glances back at me. “Turn off the lights.”

“Why?” I run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting the slightest hint of blood.

“Just do it! Hurry! It’s almost midnight and then it’ll be too late.”

I do as I’m instructed, turning off the switch. The kitchen is swallowed in darkness.

I hear a scrape—the strike of a wooden match—and slowly, the outline of Tamara’s body begins to glow.

It’s a candle.

Tamara slowly turns toward me. One hand cups the flame so that it won’t extinguish.

“Happy birthday to you,” Tamara sings.

She holds a single red velvet cupcake in the palm of her hand. The candle casts its low glow across her skin, as red as the icing itself, leaving her looking bathed in blood.

My entire body feels as if it’s about to unravel. Everything that had been clenched suddenly releases itself.

“What? You think I’d forget?”

“Tam. We talked about this.”

“I know, I know…I couldn’t let it slip by. Not without celebrating just a little bit. Just between us, nobody else. You and me, I promise. It’s bad luck to not celebrate your birthday.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” She straddles me again, holding the cupcake between us. The flame flickers.

“I don’t even remember how old I am anymore.”

“Old,” she says. “Now make a wish.”

The flame vanishes. Darkness sweeps over the room. The dimensions of the kitchen are undefined in the absence of light. The space feels larger somehow. Endless.

I don’t feel like I’m here anymore.

“What’d you wish for?” Tamara’s voice whispers in the dark.

“I’ll never tell.”

“Take a bite.” Tamara guides the cake to my mouth. The icing is sweet, but just underneath that frosting, I can taste my blood. “How is it?”

“I bit my lip.”

“Poor baby. Here.” She presses her lips against mine, searching for blood, licking away the icing. “You know, witches were asked to bake a cake during menstruation. Sometimes…they’d even put a drop of their own blood into the batter. To hypnotize whoever ate it.”

“Is that what this is?” Tamara’s mind always goes to the weirdest places. It’s part of her charm, but I can’t help wondering how her thoughts led her there. “You casting a spell on me?”

“You tell me…Is it working?” I can see her smile as the moonlight coming through the kitchen window hits her face. Her snake tattoo.

I remember when I first saw Tamara’s scars. As she described it, her mother had been frying chicken cutlets when the phone rang, leaving a pan full of oil simmering on the stove. Little Tamara, just six years old, wandered into the