by Clay Chapman
“But do you really, genuinely believe that Sandy Hook didn’t happen?”
Miss Gordon glances around the circle of chairs, searching for someone to speak up. To join her. Most eyes, save for Tamara’s, are now staring at the floor. “I—I heard it. On the radio.”
“But it’s not true,” Tamara says. “You know that, right? What you’re saying isn’t true.”
Condrey clears her throat. “We’re getting off topic here…”
Tamara’s head turns sharply toward Condrey. “I feel like this is something we should discuss. If there’s a member of the faculty that actually believes Sandy Hook didn’t happen—”
Miss Gordon sure isn’t happy with Tamara’s tone. “I’m just telling you what I heard. You might not agree, but those are the facts as I believe them.”
“Does anybody else agree with her?” Tamara’s spine is ramrod straight. “Anyone else want to chime in? Because if something like this happens here, heaven fucking forbid, I want to know who to depend on for help and who thinks it’s just a hoax—”
“Please.” Condrey holds out her hands, aiming her palm at Tamara, as if she is a conductor signaling to a particularly loud violinist to tone it down. She is losing control of her faculty meeting. The music is slipping right through her fingers. This shitty symphony.
“I just think it’s wise to hear all sides of the story,” Miss Gordon says, crossing her arms, ready to be done with this. Probably praying for the next bullet point on the agenda.
Tamara’s face sours. “Sides? What are you talking about? There are no sides to this story. It happened. It’s real. Twenty students died. Six faculty members died. It’s not a hoax.”
“Well.” Miss Gordon shifts in her seat, sinking just a bit, like a turtle retreating into her pink sweatshirt. “Everybody is entitled to their own opinion.”
“My God,” Tamara practically shouts. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Will somebody else say something? Anyone? Am I the only one who thinks this is insane?”
“That’s enough, Tamara.” Condrey is on her feet. “The school board has put active shooter drills into effect and that’s that. You don’t like it, you can take it up with Mr. Slonaker.”
We still have four bullet points left on the agenda—four fucking more—and you damn well better believe Condrey is going to make us sit through them all, addressing each and every one until we’ve reached the bitter end.
Tamara sits across from me with her arms crossed, muted for the rest of the meeting. Sulking. She won’t look at me. See that I’m on her side.
The next thirty-four minutes are quite painful. I fold—and refold—my agenda. Before I’m aware of what I’m doing, I’ve origamied my sheet into a fortune teller. I hadn’t made one of these since I was a kid. I’m amazed I even remembered how, folding on reflex. Kids ask it a question, and in a matter of numerical combinations, fitting your fingers into the slips, opening and closing its Venus flytrap mouth—one, two, three, four—your fate is revealed.
What do I want to ask it? Most kids test the fortune teller’s grasp of the future with soapy questions like Will I get married? Or How many kids will I have?
In my head, staring at the fortune teller in my hands, I ask it—
Who am I?
I open and close the paper, its mouth segmenting in one direction, then bifurcating in the other, as I count—One…Two…Three…Four…Five…Six…Seven…Eight.
When I flip open the fold, the answer is…
…will now be called Character Day.
Marquis de Condrey, sadist that she is, won’t put this meeting out of its misery until we perform one last teambuilding exercise. Or “team celebration,” as she calls it.
“We’re going to play Jump In and Jump Out.”
Tamara’s eyes finally find mine from across the circle for the first time since Condrey shot her down, imploring me to escape. Told you so, I psychically say back.
Everyone pushes their chairs back but we all remain in our circle, now holding one another’s hands. Mr. Dunstan squeezes my hand a little too tight, his palms sweating. I feel the clamminess of his skin slide over mine. Meaty fingers. Cold-cut flesh.
We no longer need chairs to complete the ring. We are the ring. The circle has integrated itself into our bodies. Condrey calls out one of the following four commands:
Jump left, jump right, jump in, jump out.
“When I call out the instruction,” Condrey says, “not only does the group have to do the command, but we have to call it out while we do it. Easy, right?”
Easy peasy.
But for round two, when Condrey calls out a command, the group has to repeat the instruction while doing the opposite. Jump left now means jump right. Jump in means jump out.
Not so easy.
Round three reverses it. Now we have to say the opposite while doing whatever the hell Condrey calls out. She presses play on the boom box, Enya setting an angelic rhythm to our haphazard hokey-pokey. This circle of teachers, clutching one another’s hands, hops in and out, left and right, creating a rhythm, a clumsy cadence of dancing bodies.
We’re dancing. All of us are dancing. Spinning in a circle. An impenetrable ring.
Sail a-way, sail a-way, sail a-way…
DAMNED IF YOU DO
SEAN: 1982
Miss Betty cranked the can opener along the rim of a Del Monte can. Sean stared at the purple veins lacing her hands as she flipped the jagged lid back and poured a bland mix of cubed potatoes, diced carrots, green beans, peas, corn, and lima beans onto a slice of white Wonder bread. She slipped the plate into the microwave and heated it up for one minute. Her finishing touch was a pinch of sugar. “My secret ingredient,” she called it.
Sean’s stomach grumbled.
“Sounds like somebody’s hungry,” Miss Betty exclaimed. “Let’s say grace.” She always insisted on saying grace, even if she wasn’t the one eating. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Sean stared back at her. What was he supposed to do? He mirrored Miss Betty without closing his eyes, dipping his own chin to his chest, watching her pruny lips mouth the words. Even though he’d been through this ritual before, he still didn’t know the words. Was he supposed to?
“Amen.”
“Amen,” he echoed.
Miss Betty opened her eyes and smiled. “Dig in.”
Mom was late. Again. The sun had already sunk below the surrounding tree line on their block. The other children from the street had gone home, leaving Sean behind with Miss Betty. It wasn’t the first time. It was becoming something of a habit, actually.
Sean didn’t mind. He kind of liked it, to be honest. The vegetable medley. The stillness that settled over her kitchen. The grandfather clock down the hall that gave her home a pulse.
The houses along their street were mostly small, one-story rentals choked by weeds and made of cracked concrete. Each yard either had a rusted swing set or a cinder-blocked car out front, hood open, its chest cavity missing its most vital components.
There were four houses between Miss Betty’s home and theirs. Sean could walk door-to-door in less than a minute but he’d have to turn the corner at Shoreham Street to reach his house. That meant Miss Betty couldn’t see him open his door. A lot could happen in that blind spot. She’d seen a white van with no windows slowing down along their block, as if the driver were fishing through the neighborhood for kids playing on their own. Miss Betty had called the police several times to tell them about the van with its corroded underbelly, insisting the mysterious vehicle had driven around her block five times in the last few days. She was able to write down the first three letters on the out-of-state license plate, if the authorities wanted it. Could’ve been Florida plates. Or Colorado. Miss Betty wasn’t sure. The police never sent anyone out.
All the kids loved to visit Miss Betty because she let them watc
h TV. Her twenty-one-inch Zenith color television set, embedded within a varnished maple console, was a tank. As long as her soaps were done for the day, Sean and anyone else could come over and watch whatever show they wanted. After-school cartoons were decided upon democratically. That usually meant Masters of the Universe or Scooby Doo if it was mostly boys—or Monchhichis if there were more girls there. Miss Betty never stepped in. She didn’t care what the kids watched, as long as there wasn’t any foul language.
Miss Betty wasn’t a babysitter. She made that clear to Sean’s mother from day one. “I don’t change diapers or burp babies,” she warned. That Sean was five and well beyond his diapering days didn’t seem to make much difference. Miss Betty was the proxy daycare for most families on the block. She never left home, save for her Wednesday hair salon appointment, so for a few dollars a week, she opened her door to any child who needed a place to play until their parents picked them up.
“By six, you hear?” Miss Betty reminded Sean’s mother on countless occasions. “Not six-oh-one and certainly not six thirty. You show up late again and your boy’s on his own.”
“Yes, Miss Betty,” Mom had said, properly chastised, time and time again.
Everybody called Miss Betty Miss Betty. Even the adults on the block. Was Betty Miss Betty’s last name? Or was it her first? Did anyone around these parts know for sure?
Miss Betty’s experience included raising four children of her own—three sons and a daughter, who collectively gave her a dozen grandbabies to dote over. Their christening photos lined the hallway on every inch of available surface area. Their smiling faces were everywhere.
But it was a boy who only appeared in a few pictures that Sean was curious about.
This lonesome child remained hidden farther down the hall, where the overhead lights had a hard time reaching him. When Sean found his black-and-white photograph, he paused long enough to take the child in. The boy looked to be close to Sean’s age. His skin looked gray. He wore a suit, his Sunday best, most likely on his way to church. His shoes were the darkest part of the photograph, while the rest of the picture had begun to fade away.
Who’s that? Sean had asked Miss Betty, pointing to the gray boy.
Oh, she replied. That’s my first son.
How come he’s only in this picture?
He wasn’t long for this world. He’s with Jesus now.
Since Sean attended Greenfield Academy, he rode a different bus than the rest of the kids from his block. They teased him for it, calling him “Richie Rich” to his face. Sean hated that nickname. It made him feel awkward when his mom was always counting pocket change. During commercial breaks, the other kids asked Sean—Hey, Richie Rich, what makes you so special that you get to go to Greenfield? Your mama fucking the headmaster? Miss Betty would kick those kids out of her house if she ever heard them speaking to Sean like that, but they still called him Richie Rich under their breath.
Sean was usually the last to leave, even when Mom was on time. Miss Betty would wait until the second to last kid was picked up before leaning over and checking to see if he was hungry.
“How is it?” Miss Betty asked, bringing him back to the present moment.
“Good,” he said between bites. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am, nothing. Please—Miss Betty’s just fine.”
“Yes, Miss Betty.”
At six o’clock on the dot, Sean heard ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. His body tensed.
Miss Betty excused herself. “You keep on eating.”
Sean waited in the kitchen, straining to hear their conversation. His dinner turned in his stomach. Sean always sensed the tension between Miss Betty and Mom whenever she picked him up. But today was different.
Sean didn’t want his mother to find out about what happened earlier that day. He’d had an accident on the bus coming home from school. Before boarding the bus, he’d felt the initial ticklings in his bladder but figured he could make it to Miss Betty’s in time. Using the bathroom at school came with problems, like Tommy Dennings. Sean preferred to hold it in whenever he could, but the longer the drive home took, the more the pressure mounted. That tickling became an itch, which soon grew into a burn.
And just like that, his corduroys turned warm. Sean froze in his seat at the rear of the bus, hoping nobody would notice. But as soon as the bus reached his stop, he had to stand. He had to walk down the never-ending aisle past all the other kids.
With each step down the aisle, Sean’s corduroys made a zip-zip sound as the fabric rubbed together. It was surprisingly loud, like claws on cardboard—skrk-skrk-skrk.
Tommy Dennings noticed the dark spot on Sean’s pants immediately and pointed. Tommy whispered to his pal Matt Saperstein just loudly enough for everyone to hear. Sean pissed in his pants!
Soon every kid onboard turned to see.
Pissy pants! they all sang. Sean is a pissy pants, Sean is a pissy pants!
Who had taught them this song? How did these kids all know the lyrics, just like that? It’s like they knew beforehand, ready for the moment when Sean would wet himself.
Sean was sobbing by the time he reached Miss Betty’s door. He fell against her soft stomach, pressing his face against her. She shooed all the other kids away. “Go play outside. No TV today.”
Miss Betty promised she wasn’t going to say anything—but still. Would she? He did his best to eavesdrop but could only catch scraps.
—not like him at all. Sean never wets his—
—has something happened that would—
—of course not! Not at home—
Both their voices dropped even further, until the conversation disappeared altogether. Sean knew they were still talking. Especially Miss Betty. Lecturing Mom. What was she saying?
Sean Crenshaw is a pissy pants…
* * *
—
Sean had never seen anyone on the freestanding swing set sinking on Miss Betty’s lawn. Whose swing set had it been? he wondered. Had it been the gray boy’s? None of the neighborhood kids went near it, except for the long-haired teenagers in the jean jackets and studs when they smoked cigarettes in the middle of the night while Miss Betty was asleep. Its metal posts buckled inward, like a knock-kneed daddy longlegs about to collapse in on itself.
The swing itself eased back and forth in the evening breeze, the rubber seat drifting on its chains. Sean imagined there was a ghost sitting on it right now, watching him walk by.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Mom said as they turned the corner. “Penny for your thoughts?”
He slowed just enough that Mom’s arm stretched back, tugging on his own. “Is your name really Jezebel?”
Mom stopped and turned. “Excuse me?”
“You always said your name was Susan.”
She kneeled before Sean so they were face-to-face. The streetlamp illuminated the back of her head, the light seeping into her hair. “Who said that?”
Before Sean could answer, Mom shot back up to her feet, dragging him down the sidewalk.
“Ow,” Sean cried. “You’re hurting me…”
“That’s it. No more staying at Miss Betty’s. I don’t want you going over there after school anymore. You understand me?”
Miss Betty had read to him that afternoon instead of letting him watch TV. The book had a leather cover and the onionskin pages were very thin. Not like a regular book. Miss Betty had flipped through until she found the appropriate passage, underlined in blue ballpoint pen.
“Thou sufferest that woman Jezebel, which calleth herself a prophetess, to teach and seduce my servants to commit fornication, and to eat things sacrificed unto idols.”
These words were completely lost on Sean, save for eat things. He could understand that. Sort of. But what did eat things sacrificed unto idols mean? What was Miss Betty saying?
“I want you to pray
with me,” Miss Betty had said. “It’s not too late, son.” She had squeezed his hands tightly between her own and wouldn’t let go.
His mother’s hands gripped him even more tightly. Everybody was pulling him around.
Tugging.
Yanking.
He felt like a puppet. Like Raggedy Andy getting dragged everywhere. Sean felt the tug in his shoulder as his mother pulled harder. His arm was about to pop by the time they reached their house.
Once they were inside, Mom tossed her keys onto the counter. She helped Sean out of his puffy coat, dropping it to the floor along with his backpack. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I just got angry. I had a long day and the last thing I need is a goddamn bible lesson from Miss Betty.”
It sure didn’t sound like an apology. Not a real one. Not to Sean.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s up, mister?”
Sean said nothing. He was mad. He was hurt.
Mom kneeled in front of him, searching his face. “Hey…”
One eyebrow arched upward, almost in an I got you now kind of way.
Sean resisted.
“Hey…”
His frustration was ebbing but he tried hard to hold on to it. He wanted to stay angry. It was unfair of her to do this. He liked Miss Betty. Or her TV, at least.
Before Sean could shrug away, Mom brought him into her arms and whinnied like a pony, making him giggle. She pressed him against her until he felt her heartbeat through his own chest. “Just you and me,” she whispered into the top of his head, the warmth of her breath seeping into his hair. “We can do anything, as long as we stick together. Okay? You and me.”
“You and me,” he echoed.
If he said it enough times in his head, you and me, it almost sounded like he believed it.
You and me.
You and me.
DAMNED IF YOU DON’T
RICHARD: 2013
Danvers is a renovated relic. I call it a refurbished town. Nobody wanted to live here for years. This unincorporated community had gone to seed ages ago. You couldn’t find it on a map, even if you were looking for it. The straightest shot was to cross the truss bridge that spanned the Rappahannock River, serving as a crossing for State Route 3. Once you were over the bridge, you still had about fifteen miles to go before spotting the first hints of habitation.
