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

gave everybody in class a cup?

CRENSHAW: Yeah. Waxy cups. The kind that you can crumple with your hand.

KINDERMAN: Did you ever drink the Hi-C?

CRENSHAW: Yeah.

KINDERMAN: How did it make you feel?

CRENSHAW: It was sweet.

KINDERMAN: Did it ever have a chalky undertaste?

CRENSHAW: Chalk?

KINDERMAN: Powdery. Like there’s too much drink mix at the bottom of the cup. That it’s not stirred all the way. So it tastes a little chalky.

CRENSHAW: Yeah. Chalky.

KINDERMAN: Did it ever make you feel sleepy?

CRENSHAW: Uh-huh.

KINDERMAN: And then you’d take a nap?

CRENSHAW: Then we’d play horsey and then we’d take a nap.

KINDERMAN: Then what happened? It’s okay, Sean. It’s me! Your pal, Mr. Yucky! You can tell me anything. I’m not gonna tell anybody, I promise!

CRENSHAW: I don’t remember.

KINDERMAN: Don’t be stupid! You remember. Don’t you?

CRENSHAW: He—he would lay down with us.

KINDERMAN: How’d that make you feel? Were you sad? Scared?

CRENSHAW: Silly?

KINDERMAN: Did it make you feel uncomfortable?

CRENSHAW: I don’t think so. It was just a game. We all played it.

KINDERMAN: The class? Your friends and Mr. Woodhouse? Were there others?

CRENSHAW: Others.

KINDERMAN: Other who? Adults? Teachers?

CRENSHAW: No.

KINDERMAN: Are you sure? Really, really sure?

CRENSHAW: I mean, yeah.

KINDERMAN: Yeah, what?

CRENSHAW: It was teachers.

KINDERMAN: And were the teachers wearing clothes or no clothes?

CRENSHAW: No clothes?

KINDERMAN: And what were the teachers doing? Were they watching?

CRENSHAW: Watching.

KINDERMAN: Is that all they were doing? Are you sure? Were they making the happy sounds?

CRENSHAW: Some of them, yeah.

KINDERMAN: Were they playing horsey, too?

CRENSHAW: Yeah.

KINDERMAN: All of them?

CRENSHAW: All of them. And when it was over we’d put our clothes back on and take a nap.

KINDERMAN: (Voice returning:) What a brave boy you are, Sean. Don’t you think Sean’s a brave boy for sharing that story with us, Mr. Yucky? I think you’re very brave! Thank you, Sean. I bet your mother is very proud of you.

(END OF INTERVIEW.)

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

I swear I didn’t lose Elijah. Not exactly.

He was with Mr. Stitch.

The Fall Harvest Fair has always been a big draw in Danvers. For three days the freshly cropped soybean fields surrounding Hal Tompkins’s farmhouse turn into grassy parking lots. Slightly stoned teens don fluorescent-yellow vests and use air-traffic-control batons to direct a steady stream of SUVs into an evenly segmented grid. From there, the flannelled families of Danvers follow the colored lights and the sweet hint of cotton candy drifting in the breeze. In the background, you can hear the shuddering of portable roller coasters weaving along their rickety tracks. You can hear the screams.

Eli was in a bit of a mood during the ride because Weegee had gone missing. He refused to get in the car, standing on the front porch and calling out, Weegeeeee? Weeeeeeegeeeeeeeee!

I figured he was out roaming the neighborhood. Can’t say I’m heartbroken over the cat’s absence, but it’s probably best I keep it to myself. But now Eli’s sulking in the back seat.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Tamara offers. “Weegee will come home.”

“No he won’t,” he mumbles. It’s not like Eli to be so fatalistic about this sort of thing.

“Have faith, mister,” I say. “He’s probably just made a friend. Speaking of which…” Terrible segue—but you take what you get. “Looks like you and Sandy are becoming pals.”

“Who’s Sandy?” Tamara asks the rearview mirror.

“Nobody.” Eli sinks deeper into his seat, his eyes never breaking from his window.

“A girl from class,” I say. “She’s been having a tough time, but Eli’s looking out for her.”

“That so?” Tamara seems impressed. To me, she softly asks, “Is she…”

The girl Elijah punched a third-grader over? she implies with silence, which I readily receive. I nod. It’s unclear how much Eli picks up, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.

“Want to invite her over one day?” Tamara asks. Even I know that’s not gonna happen.

“We’re not friends,” Eli says, killing the conversation.

It’s unclear if Hal Tompkins grows corn for the purpose of feeding anyone anymore, or if he keeps his farm around solely for this one weekend out of the whole year. By Sunday night, his entire property will be flattened from the foot traffic, the cornstalks pressed against the ground, grass trampled into muddy submission.

The harvest fair has your regular autumnal draws. Funnel cakes. Hot apple cider. A pumpkin-carving contest. Face painting. Pintsized pumpkin heads run rampant through the fair, cheeks streaked in orange, as if they’re a bunch of headless horsemen racing around your ankles. There are even haunted hayrides on Hal’s ancient tractor.

But the real draw has always been Hal’s corn maze. He spends the months leading up to October mapping out a web of intertwining paths. Every year, he comes up with a new configuration—three endless acres’ worth of tangling footpaths, spiraling corridors, and dead ends that confound the whole community.

Mr. Stitch remains at the heart of the field. You know you’ve reached the maze’s center when you come upon the scarecrow perched upon his post, staring down with his impassive button eyes. There are stories about how Mr. Stitch is possessed by the ghost of a dead Confederate soldier. This field had been the site of some Civil War skirmish, long forgotten by now. Hal says he’s still picking bones of Union soldiers out of the mud. When he first assembled Mr. Stitch, the spirit of one particular Johnny reb rose from the soil and slipped inside that ratty husk. This ghost won’t let go, haunting this cornfield ever since.

At least that’s what the high schoolers say. Watch out for Mr. Stitch! Don’t get too close! And whatever you do, don’t ever say his name three times. You’ll wake him up!

Tamara told me the story on my maiden foray to the Fall Harvest Fair. I was, I guess, what you might call a Fall Harvest virgin. This was my official induction into Danvers.

Tamara got a babysitter for Elijah so we could go alone. We role-played high school sweethearts all night, playing overpriced games that would go toward the community’s coffers. The fair is staffed with volunteers, a loose organization of civic-minded moms