Whisper Down the Lane

by Clay Chapman

  “Yes.” I manage to stand, the corn husks flexing under my feet. “Stepson.”

  I can’t read her reaction. “You should be more careful.”

  “You’re right.” I pluck Elijah from the ground. “I should get him back to his—”

  “It’s not safe,” she interrupts. “Even here, it’s not safe. In the dark.”

  “No, I guess it’s not.” Eli wants to stay with Sandy, his legs locking, refusing to move. I start backing away, dragging Eli by his arm. “Thank you. Thank you for finding him.” I take a moment to acknowledge Sandy, waving at her. “Thanks to you, too. See you in class?”

  Sandy nods. It seems like she’s afraid to look at me. Why would she be afraid? Of me?

  By the time I wave and say one last thank-you, I spot Mr. Stitch hovering above her. His slumped head seems to take this all in, as if he’s on their side. Even Mr. Stitch doesn’t approve of my parenting skills. I swear I can see that burlap sack for a head shake on his shoulders.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s find your mother.”

  INTERVIEW: March 3, 1983

  KINDERMAN: Sean, your mother told me that you like to draw. She says you draw pictures all the time. In fact, she told me that your house is full of pictures drawn just by you. Is that true?

  CRENSHAW: Uh-huh.

  KINDERMAN: She even calls it the Museum of Sean because you’re the only artist on exhibit. Your mom brought in some of her favorite drawings that you’ve done. She wanted to show me how much of an artist you are. I have to agree, Sean, they’re great! You really do have a wonderful imagination. I was wondering…Would you do some coloring with me? I have a brand-new box of crayons that I was going to open and color with by myself…but then I figured, Oh, wait, I’ll share these with Sean! What do you say? Can we color together?

  CRENSHAW: Okay.

  KINDERMAN: Great! Maybe you can show me how you draw such amazing figures. Whenever I draw, my people look all funny. I think I need your help.

  CRENSHAW: Okay.

  KINDERMAN: This is so exciting, Sean! I can’t wait. Here’s some paper and here are the crayons. Twenty-four colors. Which is your favorite?

  CRENSHAW: Green.

  KINDERMAN: Me, too! See? We’ve got a lot in common, you and me. I bet we’re going to draw something really amazing together.

  CRENSHAW: What should we draw?

  KINDERMAN: Good question. What are some of your favorite things to draw?

  CRENSHAW: I like—I like dinosaurs.

  KINDERMAN: Dinosaurs are great! What’s your favorite kind of dinosaur?

  CRENSHAW: Stegosaurus.

  KINDERMAN: Mine, too! What else do you like to draw?

  CRENSHAW: Um…Cars.

  KINDERMAN: Do you ever draw stuff that’s happened to you? I was thinking…maybe you could draw a picture of your teacher.

  CRENSHAW: Why?

  KINDERMAN: What? You’re not good enough to draw a picture of somebody you know? Your mom told me you could draw anything…

  CRENSHAW: I can do it.

  KINDERMAN: Good! That’s great, Sean…Thank you. Now, if somebody asked you to draw a picture of Mr. Woodhouse, what would you draw first?

  CRENSHAW: His…head?

  KINDERMAN: Okay. How about you show me? What color are his eyes?

  CRENSHAW: Um…blue?

  KINDERMAN: Are you sure about that? I thought they were…

  CRENSHAW: Green?

  KINDERMAN: Brown-green! That’s what I thought. Here. What about his hair?

  CRENSHAW: Brown.

  KINDERMAN: Perfect. What about his body? How would you draw his body?

  CRENSHAW: Like…this.

  KINDERMAN: Sometimes people have different things on their bodies. Like pictures. Or words. Sometimes even numbers. Like the number 6. Does Mr. Woodhouse have anything like that on his body, that nobody really sees because he’s always got his clothes on?

  CRENSHAW: Like he hides it?

  KINDERMAN: Exactly. Something not many people see. Maybe he shows it to a few people. But not a lot. Has he ever showed you anything on his body before?

  CRENSHAW: (Shrugs.)

  KINDERMAN: It could be a picture on his skin—or maybe it’s even a part of his body. Has Mr. Woodhouse ever showed you a part of his body before?

  CRENSHAW: A secret part?

  KINDERMAN: Yes, exactly. A secret part. Adults call those private parts. Has he ever shown you something like that? Could you draw a picture of his secret parts for me? Do you know where a person’s private parts are on their body?

  CRENSHAW: (Draws.)

  KINDERMAN: When did he show it to you? In school? During class time?

  CRENSHAW: (Shrugs.)

  KINDERMAN: It wouldn’t have been during recess, would it? When all the other kids are playing outside? Or was it on a field trip? A special field trip?

  CRENSHAW: It was a field trip.

  KINDERMAN: I thought so. I’m wondering if we could draw another picture. You can use as many colors as you want, okay? The whole box. Some of your classmates told me about how Mr. Woodhouse took a few students on a field trip.

  CRENSHAW: To the zoo.

  KINDERMAN: Yes, well, we already knew about the field trip to the zoo…but some of your classmates mentioned another kind of field trip. One that happened at a different time. Do you know anything about what field trip they mean?

  CRENSHAW: Yes?

  KINDERMAN: Did you go on this field trip? With Jason and Sarah and—

  CRENSHAW: Craig was there, too.

  KINDERMAN: Craig Richardson?

  CRENSHAW: Uh-huh.

  KINDERMAN: Interesting. Maybe you can tell me a little bit about what this field trip with Mr. Woodhouse was like…Do you think you could do that, Sean?

  CRENSHAW: I don’t know.

  KINDERMAN: Know what? It’s okay to talk to me about it. Or, better yet, you can draw a picture! When we asked Jason, he said it was pretty scary and he’d rather draw it than talk about it. He used a lot of the black crayon. And the red.

  CRENSHAW: Because it was dark?

  KINDERMAN: That’s what Jason said! That it was dark. Why was it dark, Sean?

  CRENSHAW: Because…Because it was at nighttime?

  KINDERMAN: Jason told me the same thing! How do you think Mr. Woodhouse was able to take you on a field trip at night?

  CRENSHAW: Because he waited until Mommy was asleep.

  KINDERMAN: Where did he take you? Was it outside? Like, in a field? Or a cemetery? Where they bury people who have died? Was it near a church?

  CRENSHAW: (…)

  KINDERMAN: What if I said you were helping me, Sean? Helping a whole lot of people. By telling me what happened to you, you’re helping to make sure nothing bad ever happens to you or any of your friends. But to do that, we need to know everything that happened. We need you to explain it to us. To show us. It can be with words, if you want. Or with pictures. Whatever feels better to you, okay? But you have to show me, Sean. You have to tell the truth.

  CRENSHAW: Okay.

  KINDERMAN: So. Where did Mr. Woodhouse take you? Do you want to draw it? Draw a picture for me. Show me. Can you show me what you did on these field trips?

  CRENSHAW: (Draws.)

  KINDERMAN: That’s a great picture, Sean. Can I ask…Who is that?

  CRENSHAW: Jason.

  KINDERMAN: And that must be Mr. Woodhouse, then.

  CRENSHAW: (Shakes head.)

  KINDERMAN: No? Who is it then?

  CRENSHAW: That’s the gray boy.

  KINDERMAN: Gray boy?

  CRENSHAW: (Nods.)

  KINDERMAN: Does the gray boy have a name? Is he a classmate? It’s okay to tell me. You’re safe now. Nobo
dy’s going to hurt you…Do you know him?

  CRENSHAW: (…)

  KINDERMAN: Do you know who the gray boy is, Sean? Is the gray boy another student? Is he a teacher? Sean? Who is he?

  CRENSHAW: He doesn’t live here anymore.

  KINDERMAN: Why not? Where is he now?

  CRENSHAW: He’s with Jesus.

  (END OF INTERVIEW.)

  DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

   RICHARD: 2013

  Screaming doesn’t need sound, I realize. There is so much screaming in the car right now. Even though the drive home is in complete silence, Tamara shrieks with her entire body.

  Elijah’s body wails in the back seat. Their emotions echo noiselessly through the car.

  I try to play peacekeeper and turn on the radio to block out this howling that has no sound. I find a song that I sort-of-but-not-really know the lyrics to, doing my best to lighten the mood. “Oh—here we go. Who wants to sing along?”

  Nobody responds so I dive in with my best reinterpretation of Taylor Swift. “Everything will be all right if we keep dancing on like we’re a hundred and two.”

  “That’s not how the song goes,” Eli says.

  “Who cares what the real lyrics are? We can make up our own—”

  Tamara turns the radio off, forcing us to sit in this thick stillness.

  I peer over my shoulder and see that Elijah is asleep.

  “He’s out.”

  Tamara keeps her focus on the road, driving in ear-splitting quiet. She doesn’t look at me. Her foot presses on the accelerator, gaining speed.

  Everything blurs outside. The cornfields zipping past the passenger-side window blend into a sea of roiling green, barely illuminated by our headlights, churning in the dark.

  “Everything’s okay,” I offer. “Eli’s fine.”

  The speedometer keeps climbing. “What if we didn’t find him?” I get the sense she’s been having this internal conversation with herself the whole ride. All the what ifs have been building up and now that Elijah’s asleep, there’s no holding her back from going volcanic.

  “But we did find him,” I say. “I found him.” A little white lie on my part, but still. The gist is essentially true. I brought him back to her. An offering.

  “What if it had been somebody else?” Tamara persists, playing out the darkest possibilities in her head. Once she starts imagining the worst, it’s hard to pull her back. I can see the shadow play of child abduction flittering across her mind. “What if they took him? Kidnapped him? What if we were still looking for him now? What if…?”

  What if…? I know those gnawing thoughts. I’ve had my own. Chewing on my ear.

  Whispering.

  “Tamara,” I say, as evenly as possible. “Slow down.”

  “What if…” Either her imagination peters out, or the grim finale of her fantasy is too much to say out loud. Best not to let Tamara stew too long in these morbid thoughts. She needs to get out of her head, away from the gruesome worst-case scenarios.

  “At least we don’t have to tell him he can’t ride Satan’s Taint this year.”

  “Don’t.” The arrow on the speedometer starts to lower, the miles winding back down.

  “The Devil’s Dickcheese.”

  “It’s not funny…”

  “Lucifer’s Scrote.”

  “Don’t try to make me laugh. I don’t want to.” I swear I see her smile but she still wants to role-play Panicked Parent.

  Fine. I give up. Let her have it. That leaves me with the corn outside my window.

  Drifting.

  I’m in the station wagon on the interstate. I remember the car’s wood siding. The flip bench seats in the rear cargo. I’d crawl back there and fall asleep on the longer drives. It’s raining. My window is rolled down just a crack. Water drips along the lip of the door and soaks into my sleeve. Mom hasn’t said much these last few hours. Her hands grip the steering wheel as if it’s the only thing holding her up. Every time a pair of headlights reach into the car, her eyes immediately shoot up to the rearview mirror, taking in the encroaching vehicle behind us.

  I remember finding the reflection of her eyes. That look of panic illuminated by high beams, framed in the rearview mirror. Every passing car held the possibility of someone following us. Of being whatever we were running from. That’s what we were doing, yes?

  Running away?

  What did we pack? Barely any clothes. Not one toy. We’d been on the road since Saturday, crossing state lines. Eating McDonald’s in the car all the time. It used to be a treat, eating fast food. But now there was a graveyard of hamburger wrappers at our feet. The stale husks of Quarter Pounder crusts, soaked in congealing ketchup. Empty milkshake cups. A thick miasma of grease hung in the air. It coated my throat every time I took a breath.

  Mom had called it a road trip. We’re going on a road trip. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

  Even as a kid, I knew the higher register in her voice was a dead giveaway that all was not fun. The lilt in her voice was testament that she was hiding something. That she was lying.

  She was afraid.

  Mom let me sit in the front seat with her. Even I knew kids weren’t supposed to sit in the passenger seat, not until they were older. But this was a special adventure. Just us, she’d said.

  I hadn’t taken a bath since we’d left. Neither of us had. The car was beginning to ripen. The oiliness in the air, thick with French fry grease and body odor and breath, was only growing denser. Every time I rolled down the window, Mom would insist I roll it back up.

  Don’t, she said, almost shouting. We can’t let them in.

  How far were we going? Mom never said. Every time I tried asking her, she’d pretend like she hadn’t heard me. Where are we going, Mom? I asked and asked. Where are we now?

  An eighteen-wheeler barreled by, overtaking our car and blaring its horn. I could hear the rapid-fire attack of gravel kicking up and hammering the underbelly of our chassis as Mom momentarily let the station wagon slip off the road and onto the shoulder. She had to recover, yanking on the wheel, bringing our car back onto the highway with a stomach-turning swerve.

  Another car quickly came up behind us. The moment Mom noticed it in the rearview, her hands tightened around the steering wheel, fingers knotting, knuckles about to burst. The engine heaved, sending the car forward. The car was straining under the weight of Mom’s foot.

  Glancing at the dashboard, I saw the arrow on the speedometer reaching seventy miles per hour.

  Seventy-five.

  Eighty.

  A swirling hue of red and blue lights suddenly filled our car. The dancing spiral of colors spun over the ceiling and seats, as if we were at a carnival. Even my skin was speckled in red.

  Get down, Mom said, glancing into the rearview.

  I turned around in my seat before ducking down. Just to see who was behind us.

  Someone was in the car. Behind me the whole time. Staring back at me.

  The high beams of the police car shined right into my eyes, so all I could make out was the shadowy silhouette of our passenger sitting in my booster seat. Where I usually sat.

  Their features hid in the dark. But they were—

  There.

  Their body was nothing but muck, shadow and grease, like they didn’t want to be seen.

  The gray boy.

  He reached out for me. He called out my name: Sean…

  I closed my eyes. Squeezed them shut. Blotting it all out. Make it go away, I thought to myself, make it go away go away go away…

  The siren wailing through the rain. The hammer of the storm against the roof of our station wagon. Mom’s voice as she kept saying everything’s going to be okay everything’s going to be fine just don’t stop don’t stop stay down don’t move.

  But all I could think about was th
e gray boy in the back seat of our car, the gray boy who knew my name who whispered to me who knew my name the gray boy reaching out for me—

  The gray boy knows my name—

  The gray boy—

  The gray—

  When I open my eyes, all I see is Elijah fast asleep in the back seat.

  The windows are full of green once again, a sea of stalks bristling in the dark. The smell of hay is still in my skin. I bring my hand up and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with it.

  It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I had simply drifted off. Just a bad memory.

  Just a dream, as they say. Don’t they say that? Just a bad dream.

  When we pull into our driveway, the headlights barely brush over a creamy tangle hovering in the air, just visible above the backyard fence. Something is dangling from the willow tree bough where Eli’s tire swing hangs. I only see it for the split second the high beams pass over it before it sinks back into blackness. Tamara doesn’t mention it. She must still be lost in her litany of worst-case scenarios.

  I extract Eli from the back seat. It takes some maneuvering to unbuckle him, scooping him out from the booster without his limbs tangling in his seatbelt.

  Tamara opens the front door for us. We never lock up the house. Not here. None of our neighbors do. Nobody in Danvers does. But lately I’ve been wondering if that’s wise.

  I carry Elijah upstairs. He feels so light. A doll. Raggedy Andy. He doesn’t wake in the transition from my arms to his bed. I don’t know how long I sit there staring at him.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and silence the ringer.

  The area code. I know it. It’s—

  I’m not going to pick up. I let it go straight to voicemail. Once I know Elijah isn’t going to wake, I tuck him in and close his door.

  I sidestep the kitchen. Tamara’s waiting for me in there but I have to go out back. I slide a box cutter from the hallway table into my pocket and slip outside.

  I need to see.

  We added the tire swing to one of the weeping willow’s branches only a few months ago, during the summer, giving Eli something to do whenever we were out back. I would give him a push if he ever asked for one, sending him higher into the air, his feet piercing the sky.