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

CRENSHAW: Okay.

KINDERMAN: Okay. Good, Sean. So. Here you go. I want you to hold it like this, okay? Don’t touch any of these buttons, all right? Just let it do what it’s doing.

CRENSHAW: Okay.

KINDERMAN: Good. Now—remember what we said. Speak into the phone part right here. You don’t have to get too, too close to it. It picks up everything. Even the teensiest whisper.

CRENSHAW: Okay.

KINDERMAN: I think you should tell the Bad Snatcher all about Mr. Woodhouse and his yucky friends. Think you can? That’s the important stuff, Sean. That’s the real dirty stuff.

CRENSHAW: Yeah.

KINDERMAN: Let’s be clean again. Let’s get rid of all the dust bunnies inside us.

CRENSHAW: The bunnies.

KINDERMAN: You can do it. I’ll be right back. (Interviewer leaves the room.)

CRENSHAW: (Whispers:) Can you hear me? Hello?

CRENSHAW: (…)

CRENSHAW: (Whispers:) Mr. Woodhouse cut the bunny. He cut it with a pencil. He took a pencil and poked it. The pencil went inside. And the bunny got all red. He pulled the pencil out and there was this wet stuff and he pulled and the wet stuff came out with it. He made me eat it. I didn’t want to eat it but Mr. Woodhouse said he’d hurt my mommy if I didn’t. He made me put my fingers inside the hole and take out the stuff inside and eat it. He made us all eat some.

CRENSHAW: (Whispers:) Am I clean now? Am I clean?

KINDERMAN: (Returns:) How are we feeling, Sean? Do you feel clean now?

CRENSHAW: I feel clean.

(END OF INTERVIEW.)

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

I told Miss Levin that her child was safe in my class. I told her I would find out who had hurt her daughter. I would find this Sean and bring him to Condrey right away.

I lied to this woman without blinking. She came for help, confiding in me, and I didn’t even hesitate, simply letting the false promises slip out from my mouth without ever second-guessing myself. I told her what she wanted to hear so I could escape my own classroom.

Then I ran away.

A few teachers decided to go out after parent-teacher conferences wrapped up. Wanna come? Tamara asked. We’re going to try to get Mrs. Baugher tipsy again.

Thanks for the invite but I’m pretty tuckered…All these parents really did me in.

Tamara couldn’t help but snort. Oh, really? All those conferences, huh?

I made a show of it by stretching my weary bones. Line ’em up, knock ’em all down.

Okay, teach, she said. Go get your beauty sleep. Then, Sure you’re okay with Elijah?

Of course.

Maybe give him a little space? she offered. If he wants to talk, he’ll come to you…

Space, I echoed.

By the look on her face, I can tell Tamara is having second thoughts.

Go. Have fun. We’ll be fine. I’ll make it a boys night.

I won’t be out too late, I promise. There’s pesto in the freezer.

Green sauce, Elijah calls it. Never the red. The basil comes from Tamara’s garden, along with all the various mystery herbs I can’t keep straight. That corner of the yard is off-limits to me, she says. Now I can’t help but wonder what secret ingredients she’s growing back there to cast her spells.

It took a while before Tamara felt comfortable leaving Elijah at home with me. But once she did, I sensed a certain relief sweep over her. She didn’t have to do this all by herself anymore. Three years on her own was enough. She welcomed the help now. Depended on it.

Now I just had to master making Elijah his favorite meal. I’d spent most of my bachelor days straining spaghetti, dumping in a jar of Prego, and eating straight from the pot.

Surely I am capable of making angel hair pesto pasta. Surely.

The water boils on the stove, ready for the angel hair. No other pasta will suffice for Eli. I have a surplus of pasta left over from class. For our macaroni self-portrait projects, my students glue cheeks of lasagna onto a sheet of construction paper. Wagon wheel eyes. Rigatoni, penne, linguine. I always buy more pasta than we end up using. To the victors, the spoils of spaghetti…

Elijah colors at the kitchen table while I man the pot.

“Whatcha drawing?”

“Nothing.”

I spot a lot of red on the paper, whatever it is. “How was school today, bud?”

“Fine.” Elijah keeps coloring, not looking up from his paper.

“Anything happen?”

“No.”

Ah—the monosyllabic conversation. Wonderful. I am still in the doghouse with Eli. He presses the crayon hard against the paper, long red slashes branching across the page.

I glance back at the boiling pot on the stove. The roiling water.

What’s your first firm memory?

Psychologists say most children’s recollections kick in as early as two, but some cerebral phenomenon known as childhood amnesia eventually takes those memories away. But unique events—trauma—will leave their indelible imprint on a child’s mind. Trauma will linger forever.

I remember our station wagon.

I see Mom’s hair swirl just below the surface of the simmering water. Her head sinks deeper. If I can just reach her, grab her, I can pull her out of the water before she drowns. Pull her onto the side of the river and force the air back into her lungs. Let her breathe. She wanted me in the car. That had been her plan. She meant for us to be together. Our road trip.

Jesus Christ. I back away from the pot. Was I really just about to reach my hand into boiling water? What the fuck’s happening to me?

“Dinner’s ready, Eli,” I manage to say. “Wash your hands.” No response. “Let’s go. Clean the table. Now.”

Eli lets out a groan, clearly unhappy at the interruption. “Okay, okay.”

Dinner is stilted. Without Tamara around to run interference between us, there aren’t many topics for the two of us to choose from. He’s still mad at me, I get that. He hasn’t made eye contact with me all night, pretending to look elsewhere whenever I turn to him. I have to hope that he’ll forgive me at