by Clay Chapman
So what am I going to draw? I stare at the white space on the sketchpad, losing myself in the vast expanse. When working with charcoal, you bring darkness to the page. The shadows come first. Before the image clarifies, before you even see what you’re drawing, it’s all black.
I prefer charcoal because of its impermanence. It’s a delicate substance but there’s a brittle quality to it as well. It allows for quick sketching to capture an image before it disappears from the mind’s eye. But charcoal fades faster than most other materials. Without a fixative, the charcoal particles won’t adhere to the paper. Not permanently. They will fall off, like dust. The image itself drifts away from the page over time, until it’s gone altogether.
It’s cold out here. Tamara is right—I should winterize this place. The temperature’s only going to drop the deeper into the year we go. Winter is on its way and without a heating system, I’ll freeze. Just over my shoulder, I spot a cardboard box in the corner and remember what it is. I reach in and pull out what I know is already there.
The sweater fits perfectly.
Beside a few loose threads, it’s still a good sweater. Snug. It’s strange to be wearing it, but let’s just consider it a quick remedy for the cold. I’ll take it off before I head back to the house.
I saved all of Tamara’s CDs, stuffed in a box along with a dinged-up Discman. I sift through her old albums until I find the perfect soundtrack for tonight’s endeavor.
The Police. Synchronicity. I haven’t listened to this in ages.
I slip on Tamara’s headphones, the foam disintegrated but still usable, and press play. Let The Police take me away. Track one kicks off and I pick up a stick of charcoal.
Sketching has always been a somnambulistic act. I don’t want to think. Don’t want to be conscious of what I’m drawing while I’m working on it. I tend to shut off and let the work take me away, as if in a trance. I’ll eventually wake up to an image. Music helps.
I wait for the shadows. Wait for an image to rise from my mind. One stroke. Then two. I’m conducting a sort of séance here.
Skrch.
Skrch.
Skrch.
The charcoal scrapes over the sketchpad.
Skrch.
Skrch.
Skrch.
Shadows seep into my peripheral vision, the charcoal dust blotting out everything around me, until I head off somewhere. Somewhere else. Far away from here.
Skrch.
Skrch.
Skrch.
The image materializes over time, like conjuring a memory. What am I drawing? Even I don’t know. Not yet. Not until I snap out of it.
At some point I realize I’m more than halfway through the album. Where did all that time go? I step back and take in the image.
Mom.
Her hair fans all around her head, as if she’s drifting underwater.
There’s someone else. Someone hiding just over her shoulder. A boy. The shading is faint, as gray as a wasp’s nest. His eyes are two black slashes. He has no mouth to scream.
INTERVIEW: January 10, 1983
KINDERMAN: I’d like to introduce you to someone, Sean. A friend. I think he could probably be a friend to you, too. Would you like to meet him?
CRENSHAW: Okay.
KINDERMAN: This is Mr. Yucky. That’s a funny name, isn’t it? Mr. Yucky isn’t really yucky. It’s his name because he helps boys and girls like you talk about all the yucky stuff that they don’t want to talk to anyone else about. Have you ever had any yucky stuff happen to you that you didn’t want to tell anybody, Sean?
CRENSHAW: (Nods.)
KINDERMAN: Well, I’m glad I get to introduce you two to each other! Mr. Yucky and I have been friends for so long. I’ve introduced him to a whole bunch of other boys and girls, just like you. He’s helped so many kids. He loves to help. When I first met you, I thought, Oh, I bet Sean could really use a friend like Mr. Yucky. They’d had so much fun together. They would have so much to talk about. What do you think? Do you think you’d like to be friends with Mr. Yucky?
CRENSHAW: Okay.
KINDERMAN: Good! That’s great to hear…Mr. Yucky, this is Sean. (Modulating voice:) Hey, Sean! (Voice returning:) Don’t be shy…Did you know Mr. Yucky has already met your classmates? He’s talked with them about some of their yucky stuff…You can tell they feel so much better already. It’s nice to have somebody to talk to. Who’ll listen to you, don’t you think? That’s what Mr. Yucky does best. He listens. Listens to everything. Even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to talk about. Okay?
CRENSHAW: Okay.
KINDERMAN: Do you think you have something you want to say to Mr. Yucky?
CRENSHAW: (Shrugs.)
KINDERMAN: It’s okay. There’s nothing to worry about. Mr. Yucky is your friend now. We’re all friends here. And that means we can talk about anything and everything. The good stuff, the bad stuff. Because that’s what friends do, right? They tell each other everything. No secrets. You don’t have to keep any secrets from Mr. Yucky, okay? Even the stuff you don’t think you should tell other people. Even your mom. Are there things you don’t tell your mom?
CRENSHAW: Yeah.
KINDERMAN: Oh yeah? Like what?
CRENSHAW: (Shrugs.)
KINDERMAN: You want to tell Mr. Yucky? You don’t even need to look at me, if you don’t want. I’m not even here. It’s only you two, okay? You and Mr. Yucky. (Modulating voice:) Hey, Sean! Whatcha thinking about? You got something you wanna tell me? Something that happened to you at school? With your teacher?
CRENSHAW: (…)
KINDERMAN: You like to play games? I heard you’re really good at games.
CRENSHAW: Yeah.
KINDERMAN: You ever play a game called horsey?
CRENSHAW: Yeah.
KINDERMAN: How do you play?
CRENSHAW: You get on your hands and knees and pretend you’re a horsey and another person gets on your back and rides around like they’re a cowboy.
KINDERMAN: What about your teacher? Have you ever played horsey with your teacher, Mr. Woodhouse? Did he show you and your friends how to play?
CRENSHAW: No.
KINDERMAN: Huh. That’s weird…Because when we talked to Samantha, she said Mr. Woodhouse showed the class how to play horsey during naptime. Do you think Samantha made that up? Do you think she lied? Are you calling her a liar?
CRENSHAW: No…
KINDERMAN: Are you lying, Sean? Are you a liar?
CRENSHAW: Mr. Woodhouse said it was quiet time and…he turned off the lights.
KINDERMAN: Does he always turn off the lights?
CRENSHAW: At quiet time, yeah.
KINDERMAN: Then what?
CRENSHAW: He, um…He told us to find a spot on the floor.
KINDERMAN: And then? Sean? What happened next?
CRENSHAW: He, um…He got on the floor and pretended to be a horse.
KINDERMAN: Are you sure?
CRENSHAW: He let us ride him like a horse.
KINDERMAN: Who? You? Your classmates?
CRENSHAW: We took turns riding around the class and—and sometimes he’d pretend to be a horse and make sounds.
KINDERMAN: What kind of sounds?
CRENSHAW: Horsey sounds.
KINDERMAN: Can you pretend to make the sound now?
CRENSHAW: Yeah, it was like…like…like…like this. (Grunts.)
KINDERMAN: That doesn’t sound like a horse. Don’t be stupid. Are you stupid?
CRENSHAW: No.
KINDERMAN: ’Cause that sounds more like somebody getting an ouchy.
CRENSHAW: No, it wasn’t an ouchy sound. It was a good sound.
KINDERMAN: A good sound?
CRENSHAW: Yeah, a happy sound.
K
INDERMAN: Have you heard adults make that sound? A man and a woman?
CRENSHAW: (…)
KINDERMAN: Sometimes parents make that sound together. Have you ever heard your parents make that sound together? Your mommy and daddy?
CRENSHAW: Sometimes.
KINDERMAN: When Mr. Woodhouse made these sounds, did he seem happy?
CRENSHAW: Yeah.
KINDERMAN: Did he seem to be having fun?
CRENSHAW: Yeah.
KINDERMAN: A lotta fun?
CRENSHAW: Yeah.
KINDERMAN: Was Mr. Woodhouse wearing any clothes when he was playing horsey, or did he take them off?
CRENSHAW: He took them off.
KINDERMAN: Were you wearing your clothes?
CRENSHAW: Yeah. I mean, no.
KINDERMAN: Were other students wearing their clothes?
CRENSHAW: No.
KINDERMAN: Was Charlotte wearing her clothes? Craig?
CRENSHAW: No.
KINDERMAN: What did Mr. Woodhouse do after he took off Charlotte’s clothes?
CRENSHAW: He—he made her ride him like a horsey.
KINDERMAN: Was that all he did?
CRENSHAW: Then he started making the sounds.
KINDERMAN: The horsey sounds?
CRENSHAW: Yeah.
KINDERMAN: And what did you do? What were the rest of your friends and classmates doing while this was happening?
CRENSHAW: We watched.
KINDERMAN: You watched?
CRENSHAW: Mr. Woodhouse made us watch and wait our turn to ride.
KINDERMAN: Then what?
CRENSHAW: He’d ride around the class and then it was somebody else’s turn.
KINDERMAN: You took turns?
CRENSHAW: Some were asleep.
KINDERMAN: Because this happened during nap time? Quiet time?
CRENSHAW: Uh-huh.
KINDERMAN: Seems hard to sleep while there was so much horsing around…Don’tcha think? How could your friends sleep through all the loud horsey sounds?
CRENSHAW: Because they were tired?
KINDERMAN: Did Mr. Woodhouse give you and your friends anything to drink?
CRENSHAW: He gave us cups of Hi-C. Orange. Orange is my favorite.
KINDERMAN: Did you see him make the Hi-C, or was it already made?
CRENSHAW: He, um, he made it.
KINDERMAN: So it was the powdery kind? He 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. T
here 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 and dads more commonly known as the Friends of Danvers. More like a cult, if you ask me. These parents offer up their time and energy to help maintain the Rockwell vibes all year long, keeping our town’s historic patina intact.
You’ve never heard of Mr. Stitch? Tamara had asked between bites of caramel corn.
What? Is he an ex of yours?
Oh yeah, she said, playing along. Best boyfriend I ever had. I’ll introduce you two. Just be careful. He’s a real jealous type.
