Whisper Down the Lane

by Clay Chapman

  Watching me?

  “You’ve been great with the kids. They love you, that’s clear. You bring such a…wonderful energy to Danvers.”

  “…Thank you.”

  “We really have high hopes for you here, Richard. We want you to consider Danvers home. You and Tamara. The two of you can be a part of our family for a long time.” There’s something slithering underneath her words. I can feel it.

  “That’s great.”

  Condrey beams. “Good luck tonight.” Then just like that, she leaves.

  Do I want to be a part of this? This family? With a matriarch like Condrey?

  Any parent can wander into my classroom and see what their child has been working on. I’ll go through the same rigmarole all the teachers do—talking about the student’s behavior, do they follow directions, do they turn their work in on time, do they work well with others, do they respect their classmates and adults, do they have a positive can-do attitude.

  Nobody comes in. I could take a nap and no one would notice. I sit behind my desk and settle into the silence, marinating among the doodles and finger paintings. The macaroni portraits. All the squiggly lines like wriggling worms.

  Penny for your thoughts, Tamara would say in a moment like this. I’ll throw in a nickel.

  Believe me, I’d say back, brushing it off, you don’t even wanna know…

  Believe me.

  Watching you, Condrey said. Why is Condrey always watching me? Energy, she said. Wonderful energy. She has high hopes for me. What does she want from me?

  I pulled out our most recent projects for parents to pore over, ready to point out any artistic flourishes I might find. Moms and dads love to tell admission counselors their children have that magic touch. Susie Q’s art teacher sensed her talent from the get-go. Just look at her finger paintings. See the signs of Van Gogh? Even in sleepy Danvers, parents are looking for that Ivy League angle as early as elementary school.

  My adopted parents were retired alpha types. They’d already gone through it with their own kids by the time they scooped me up. I was Tim and Nancy’s victory lap. Something they could brag about at their tennis socials. If there was an after-school club for artistic kids, they signed me up. Every minute of my life was accounted for. I never had a free moment to get lost in my thoughts. Which was the point. If I didn’t stop to think back, maybe I’d forget who I was.

  Forget Sean.

  Tim and Nancy were in their fifties when I entered their lives. Tim was too old to play catch without feeling the creak in his shoulders. They were around but they weren’t there for me. They didn’t spin stories and surprise me with milkshakes and tell me I could always talk to them. Tim had a heart attack when I was in high school. Nancy’s death was more drawn out. She suffered from dementia for the last few months of her life before passing away. I would visit her on holiday breaks from art school, but she would always look at me as if I were a stranger.

  Who are you? she’d ask. I didn’t blame her. Who had I been to her, really? I never felt like her son—more like someone passing through a witness protection program. It seems strange how adamant they had been about keeping me occupied, as if they meant to distract me. I should be thankful, how they bent over backward to provide me every opportunity to find myself, a new version of me, but it felt like they were burying me in extracurricular activities.

  I snap back to my classroom. Someone is standing in the doorway.

  Sandy’s mother patiently waits for me to notice. “Mrs. Levin!” I hop up from my desk and greet her at the door, shaking her hand. She hasn’t stepped inside. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Miss.”

  “Sorry. Miss Levin. Hi—I’m Richard. Richard Bellamy. Sandy’s art teacher.”

  She winces at the sound of my name.

  “Please. Have a seat. Sorry the desks are so little.” I offer her the entirety of the classroom and all of its masterworks with a sweep of my hand. She takes in the room before entering, as if to search for a trap. She sits at one of the tiny desks, her eyes never settling.

  “Is Sandy feeling at home?” I ask. “I know a big move can disrupt a kid’s equilibrium.”

  “Yes,” she says, though it doesn’t sound like Miss Levin is answering in the affirmative.

  “I was hoping you’d stop by,” I say, “to say thanks again. For the other night.”

  “It’s fine,” she says, brushing it off. “I’m just glad your son is okay. Nothing bad happened?”

  “Eli? No—he’s already forgotten all about it.” I pull out a few paintings of Sandy’s and bring them to the desk. “Let’s talk about Sandy! I don’t say this lightly: she’s one of my most talented students. Here are some watercolors we did this week. She’s really got an eye for landscapes. I don’t know if you’re interested, but there are some summer programs that…”

  Miss Levin isn’t looking at her daughter’s paintings. She’s staring at me.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Sandy showed me.”

  “Showed you…what?” I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Her piñata project?”

  “The bruises.”

  Hold on.

  Wait.

  I hold out my hands in the gentlest, most placating gesture I can manage. This just went from zero to sixty—and way beyond my pay grade. How the hell am I supposed to handle this?

  “On her legs. Her…upper thighs.”

  Jesus, this is too much.

  “Okay. Wow. I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you think someone is hurting her?” I glance over Miss Levin’s shoulder, toward the door, just to make sure it’s open. Wide open. For some reason it feels safer to have it that way.

  Sandy has always been shy. There have been times when she reminded me of myself when I was her age.

  Not you. Of Sean, a voice whispers at the back of my mind. Right. Right right right.

  Miss Levin doesn’t answer.

  “Sandy’s never brought up any of this with me, Miss Levin. I haven’t seen anything happen in my class—and if I had, believe me, I’d bring it to the principal’s attention right away.”

  “You didn’t know?” Her face darkens. “You didn’t notice?”

  I pause. “Miss Levin, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  I study her face. And that’s when I realize she’s afraid of me.

  “Have you spoken with Mrs. Condrey?” I ask tentatively.

  “Sandy said it’s someone in your class.”

  “My class? Who?”

  “Someone named Sean.”

  The classroom constricts. It won’t settle. It won’t stop spinning. Every picture on the wall comes to life, the finger paintings and stick figures turning their heads toward me, sucking the oxygen out of the room, until there’s nothing to breathe.

  “Sandy told me it all started when you taught them how to play that …that game.”

  “Game? What game?” But I know her answer before she responds.

  “Horsey.”

  INTERVIEW: April 7, 1983

  KINDERMAN: Can I show you something, Sean? I don’t know if I told you this, but I am an inventor. I can make all kinds of special machines and super cool devices that can do all kinds of neat things. Like this…I call it the Bad Snatcher. You ever make a cootie catcher?

  CRENSHAW: (Nods.)

  KINDERMAN: This is like that, but real. Kinda looks like a telephone, doesn’t it?

  CRENSHAW: Yeah.

  KINDERMAN: See this part? That’s where you talk into it. The difference with this kind of telephone, what makes it so special, is that when you call somebody with it, if there’s something that makes you sad, it takes all that sad stuff and bad stuff and disappears it. Poof. All gone.

  CRENSHAW: Really?

  KINDERMAN: All you have to do is talk into this part—this p
art right here—and it’ll take all that stuff you don’t want inside of you and sucks it all out. Kinda like a vacuum, you know? Does your mom vacuum around the house a lot?

  CRENSHAW: (Nods.)

  KINDERMAN: Does your house get really dirty? All that dirt and all those dust bunnies hide under your bed? Your mom plugs in her vacuum and sluuurps all the dirty stuff away and the house is all clean again? That’s exactly what the Bad Snatcher does. It slurps all the dirt and dust inside us. Because people are like houses, too. We want to be clean. Spotless. But sometimes, some things inside us, the secrets, they make us feel a little dirty…Do you ever feel dirty, Sean?

  CRENSHAW: (…)

  KINDERMAN: We all feel dirty sometimes. It’s good to have a special device like the Bad Snatcher. The Bad Snatcher takes all the bad stuff away so that we can feel clean again. All you have to do is lean in and talk into the phone part here.

  CRENSHAW: (…)

  KINDERMAN: You can even whisper into it, if you want. You don’t have to worry about anyone else listening in. Even me. It’s just you and the Bad Snatcher.

  CRENSHAW: (Leans in, examines the microphone.)

  KINDERMAN: Have you ever talked into a tape recorder before? Maybe your mommy has one, or somebody at school has one, or maybe a friend?

  CRENSHAW: Mark has a tape recorder.

  KINDERMAN: Oh, good! What do you do with it?

  CRENSHAW: We tape ourselves.

  KINDERMAN: When you recorded yourself and played it back how did it sound?

  CRENSHAW: Like somebody else.

  KINDERMAN: It does, doesn’t it? It’s hard to recognize your own voice. Almost like someone else is saying it…That’s what the Bad Snatcher does, too.

  CRENSHAW: Your machine does that?

  KINDERMAN: It does. All the secrets, all the dirt and dust inside you…it takes it away and it never comes back. Good as new. Clean. Wanna give it a try?

  CRENSHAW: Okay.

  KINDERMAN: Great! All right. Let’s think of something that feels really stuck inside. Something that you might’ve thought you’re not allowed to tell anybody…

  CRENSHAW: I pushed Jason in the lunch line when he tried to cut.

  KINDERMAN: Yeah, but I’m talking about big secrets, Sean. That’s just a crumb! What about the stuff you told the policeman? Do you remember that?

  CRENSHAW: (Pauses. Nods.)

  KINDERMAN: That was a pretty big secret! And I’m worried if you hold on to stuff like that for too long, you’re gonna start feeling very dirty inside. Very, very dirty. You might never feel clean again. Because that’s what happens when we hold onto a secret for too long, Sean. It changes the way we feel about ourselves forever. That dirty, grimy feeling never goes away. It’ll be inside you for the rest of your life. Can you imagine living in a house that your mommy never vacuums? You have to clean yourself, Sean. You have to let those secrets out. All of them.

  CRENSHAW: (…)

  KINDERMAN: Tell me what happened in Mr. Woodhouse’s classroom.

  CRENSHAW: (…)

  KINDERMAN: I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this situation, Sean. People are getting hurt. Children like you…Do you want any more children to get hurt, Sean? Do you?

  CRENSHAW: No…

  KINDERMAN: Then you need to tell me everything that happened with Mr. Woodhouse. You need to stop him and his yucky friends from letting this continue. They’re out there, Sean. Right now. More than we know. More than we can count. Hiding in plain sight. Do you want to help?

  CRENSHAW: (Crying:) I want my mommy…

  KINDERMAN: Stop crying.

  CRENSHAW: I want my mommy!

  KINDERMAN: No, Sean. You don’t get to hide. You started this. You were a brave boy before, but now you’re just being a little fraidy-cat. You can’t be afraid now, Sean. It’s too late. You need to be brave. You need to be clean. Come clean.

  CRENSHAW: I…I want to be…I want to be clean.

  KINDERMAN: How about this. I’m gonna give you the Bad Snatcher. I’ll let you hold it, all by yourself. I’m gonna leave the room for a little while. No one else will be listening. You can tell it anything…and it’ll be gone. Like it never happened.

  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.”