Whisper Down the Lane

by Clay Chapman

  These parents were going to rip Mr. Woodhouse apart. They wanted blood. His blood. They called out his name, shouting it over and over, until it sounded like an invocation.

  Woodhouse, Woodhouse, Woodhouse…

  “You okay?” Tamara whispers into my ear. “Where did you go just now?”

  “I’m right here.”

  “No…You went off somewhere again. In your head. Can you tell me?”

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “I just want to get—”

  Far, far away from here.

  “—this over with.”

  That hand. I keep seeing the child’s hand in my head. Its flaming fingers waving at me. It looked so real. I could’ve sworn it was flesh and bone—but it was just the severed appendage from a department-store mannequin, lopped off at the wrist. Its fingers had been dipped in some sort of combustible substance. Sterno, maybe. What looked like blood before was just more tempera, pilfered from my own art supply closet.

  This isn’t happening, I keep repeating to myself.

  Sail a-way.

  Sail a-way.

  Sail a-way.

  “I’m here, okay?” Tamara squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

  Condrey called an emergency PTA meeting that evening. There’s no getting around this. She can only get out in front of it. She has to craft her own narrative of the incident in hopes of steering the conversation away from the rattled parents now demanding answers. A paranoid din has overtaken the auditorium. Every last seat is filled with distraught parents.

  I don’t recognize any of these faces. The demographics of Danvers keep shifting. Fewer suits and ties, more beards and vintage dresses. Hipster parents. Condrey kowtows to nearly every demand these eco-moms and -dads have. Composting. A community garden. Solar panels. A gluten-free lunch menu. Now they want answers for what happened in their school.

  The Friends of Danvers want blood.

  “If I could have everyone quiet down, please,” Condrey announces into the microphone onstage. “Let’s begin, everybody, thanks.”

  I spot Sandy in the audience. Miss Levin brought her along, which seems strange. Parents don’t usually drag their kids to these meetings. They’d be bored out of their minds. Hell—I’m usually bored out of my fucking skull. But Sandy’s mother won’t let her out of her sight. Not anymore.

  Sandy’s head is in its standard lowered position. She doesn’t look happy to be here. Pretty safe to say nobody is. I’m right there with you, Sandy, I think. Let’s sail a-way, sail a-way, sail a-way.

  Tamara and I sit in the rear. Teachers steer clear of these meetings, but we’re parents too. Or, at least, Tamara is. I’m an imposter, a cuckoo who lays its eggs in the nest of another bird to nurture and raise. Brood parasites, they’re called. Maybe I’m a parental parasite. A cuckoo dad.

  Tamara leans over and whispers, “How long did you talk to the police?”

  “Three or four hours. They wouldn’t let me go.”

  “What did they ask you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Just routine questions.”

  “Jesus. You don’t have to snap at me.”

  Detective Merrin had put me under the microscope, like I was the one who had done this, as if I were the guilty party here. Like he didn’t believe me.

  Mr. Bellamy, he started. It was impossible to make eye contact with him. Merrin was closing in on his sixties. He’d probably attended the ritualistic crime seminars thirty years ago. Most police departments had to sit through the FBI slideshows on how to handle cases like mine that had been cropping up around the country. Had he learned about the warning signs? The telltale graffiti? The black candles and desecrated graves? Did he recognize me specifically?

  That’s when I notice a father staring at me.

  He’s four rows ahead of us. His head is completely turned around, looking straight at me. Glaring. He’s wearing a wool cashmere topcoat. Slate gray. The lights have been left up in the auditorium so there’s no hiding in the dark. I glance over my shoulder, just to make sure he’s not looking at someone behind me—but no, there’s no denying that he’s staring right at me.

  “The administration is more than happy to provide parents a voice for their concerns,” Condrey announces before giving the school’s official version of the events.

  Yes, the school immediately notified the authorities after this morning’s incident.

  Yes, of course, the matter was dealt with in the safest and most efficient manner possible.

  No minor laid eyes on the scene. Only the teacher whose classroom this unfortunate episode occurred in.

  Yes—it’s true that one of the school’s pets was found disemboweled on the soccer field a few days ago, but there is no evidence to suggest that these two incidents are related.

  Mrs. Condrey was calm and cool, like she’d been all day. She handled the whole fiasco rather efficiently when I showed up to her office, distraught and babbling. Come to think of it, she wasn’t shocked at all. Like she already knew…

  The other teachers were quick to clamor around the door to my classroom. Everybody wanted to sneak a peek. See the burning fingers for themselves. The gray boy’s hand.

  Don’t call him that, I admonish myself. It’s not him.

  “Let’s dispel any rumors here and now,” Condrey says. “The authorities have assured me that they will find who is responsible for this and bring him to justice.”

  Bring him to justice. Everyone demands justice, but what they’re really after is—

  Blood, I say into the microphone. Mr. Woodhouse made us drink blood.

  I’m sitting in a room and speaking into a microphone in front of other grown-ups.

  I’m telling the microphone about how Mr. Woodhouse would dig up graves of children and chop off their hands. A virgin’s hands, apparently, were very powerful tools of black magic. A satanic priest could curse anyone they wished with it. I knew this because a police officer told me all about it. I heard him talking about how he’d read about black masses and what kind of rituals they perform in cemeteries. This seemed like a reasonable thing to share. Like the right thing. Isn’t that why the officer told me in the first place? To share with the microphone?

  “You wanna go?” Tamara whispers. “We can sneak out if you want to…”

  “Can we?”

  Too late. Condrey opens the floor for questions.

  “What’s the administration doing?” one dad in a navy-blue cotton crewneck sweater asks. “Are you just going to let our kids come to school and hope it doesn’t happen again?”

  “We’ll open our doors as soon as the police department says it’s okay,” Condrey offers. “Hopefully tomorrow.”

  Hopefully sends a wave of ire rippling through the audience. School closings meant a mad dash for childcare, which meant missing work, which meant time and money.

  “What are the police doing?” a mother calls out from the rear, decked out in a glen plaid blazer. “Do they have any leads?”

  “That’s for the police to say,” Condrey replies. “I don’t have any more information.”

  “I’m sorry, but this all sounds like bullshit to me.”

  Condrey, our princiPAL, our friend till the end, leans into the microphone and takes a quieter tone. “Please. I’m just as stunned by all of this as you are…But let’s try to keep calm. There’s no need to resort to profanity.”

  My mind wanders back to the interview with Merrin.

  What did you see first?

  (The open door.)

  What was different about the classroom?

  (The flickering. The pulse from the candles.)

  Who else has keys to your room?

  (The custodian. The principal. Miss Kinderman.)

  When did you leave s
chool the night before?

  (After parent-teacher conferences.)

  Can anyone verify where you were last night?

  (Eli. Tamara. Mom. Kinderman.)

  At what time did you arrive at school this morning?

  (Early. One of the first, if not the very first.)

  Why do you think someone would do this?

  (They know who I am. What I’ve done.)

  Do you think it’s something personal?

  (Mom told me things must come full circle.)

  Are there any parents or teachers who you’ve had any disagreements with recently?

  (Others. There are others.)

  Why you, Mr. Bellamy?

  I couldn’t tell Detective Merrin who I was. Who I am. If he knew about Sean, then he would think that I was the one—

  That I had—

  “I don’t know about you,” another father says. He’s wearing a charcoal wool herringbone half-zip sweater. “But I’m not bringing my kid back until whoever did this is behind bars.”

  An echo of consent rises. Pull out yer pitchforks, parents. I thought we were better than this. We couldn’t fall for this type of hysteria now. But here it is. History repeating itself.

  Full circle.

  “People, please.” Condrey has to fight hard to keep things on track. Conversations break off. Separate pockets of upset parents speak among themselves, whispering around me. “Let me assure you, this school, our school, is a safe space. Your children are safe here at Danvers.”

  “How?” another parent asks. I couldn’t see who. All I have is their voice, brimming with indignation. “How could you let something like this happen?” More shouts of self-righteous consent sound off. The anger is rising. An anger that echoes through history.

  The circle completing itself.

  Circle time, the birthday card read, nestled within Professor Howdy’s open chest cavity. Written just for me—for Sean—on our birthday.

  Mr. Woodhouse was thirty-six when the trial started. When he killed himself.

  Happy birthday, Sean, I think, since nobody else will say it. Just like Woodhouse.

  After the interview with Merrin, I looked up Kinderman and found out she’s still alive—no surprise there—and has a listed number. She’s been waiting for me to find her. To give her a call. I programmed her number into my cell but I couldn’t muster the courage to dial. Not yet. What would she even say to me? Hello, Sean, I’ve been waiting for you…She followed me to Danvers. She entered my new life and now she’s exacting some sort of—I don’t know, some sort of twisted counternarrative that replicates my testimony from when I was a child? To what end?

  Another woman in the auditorium is staring at me. Who is she?

  Others. I hear Mom’s voice in the back of my head. What if…What if there really is a cult? What if I accidentally tapped into something as a boy? That’s what Mr. Cassavetes claimed on his TV special. What if my stories were true? What if there is a secret organization of devil worshippers? It sounds absurd. I should be laughing my ass off for even thinking it. But…

  What if…? What if they’re here? What if they’re sitting around me right now? What if they’re in this auditorium, hiding among all the mothers and fathers? What if they’re parents?

  The faculty. The admin. Jesus, even the police. Who knows how far this network goes?

  An image of my mother comes back to me. Her face. Her paranoia. Her delusions. That’s what they were. The people she passed on the street. The strangers she saw wandering outside our window. At the peak of her paranoia, Mom believed, actually believed. She never realized her own son, her angel, her own flesh and blood, had lied to her. To the press. To everyone.

  Miss Levin stands up from her seat. I can see she’s clearly working up the nerve to speak.

  “My daughter,” she starts, waiting for the room to quiet down. Nobody hears her.

  Nobody but me. I’m all ears. I am bearing witness.

  “My daughter was in that art class,” she calls out. She’s scanning the room, looking for a sympathetic face. “My daughter told me that he—”

  My entire body tenses.

  Miss Levin starts again, “My daughter told me that Mr. Bellamy—”

  I can’t breathe.

  “He…” Miss Levin continues, her voice filling the vast expanse of the auditorium. “He told their class how to play these games. To do these things to each other. While he watched.”

  I turn to Tamara. Even if she’s sitting right next to me, I can’t see her. The distance feels too far, as if the space between us is expanding. Her eyes widen, and I feel her slipping away.

  She looks frightened. Of me.

  I try to say something. I know I try. But the words aren’t there. The air isn’t there.

  Sandy stands next to her mother, like she’s being presented. With her mother’s encouragement, Sandy looks around and finds me in the audience. When she does, she lifts her arm and points at me. “Mr. Bellamy did it.”

  INTERVIEW: October 27, 2013

  MERRIN: The time is…nine thirty-four p.m. Interview with Richard Bellamy is now commencing. Detective Merrin and Detective Burstyn are present.

  BURSTYN: Thanks for coming in.

  MERRIN: For the record, you are here of your own volition. Is that correct?

  BELLAMY: Yes.

  MERRIN: To be clear, you are not under arrest. No charges have been filed. You can stop this interview at any time. Is that understood?

  BELLAMY: I understand.

  MERRIN: Anything you say can be used later. It’s not a confession, but it is still admissible in court. Is that understood?

  BELLAMY: Yes.

  BURSTYN: You sure you don’t want a lawyer present?

  BELLAMY: No. Do I—do I need one?

  BURSTYN: Not if you’ve got nothing to hide…

  BELLAMY: Then yes—I mean, no, I do not want a lawyer present.

  BURSTYN: You mind if we get down to brass tacks? Why come in?

  BELLAMY: Because it’s not true.

  BURSTYN: What’s not true?

  BELLAMY: What Sandy’s mom—what—what Miss Levin said. It’s not true.

  BURSTYN: Why do you think she’d say something like that?

  BELLAMY: I—I have no fucking clue. I don’t know her. I’ve only seen her twice. At school functions. She’s always struck me as, I don’t know…a little intense.

  BURSTYN: Intense?

  BELLAMY: High-strung.

  BURSTYN: I’ve known a few high-strung ladies in my day.

  BELLAMY: It’s not like that. Don’t—please don’t bend my words.

  BURSTYN: Sorry. I take it back. She’s not high-strung. She’s…“intense.”

  BELLAMY: All these parents are anxious. The only time they ever come to talk to me is when they want to get their kids into an expensive school and they want proof that their son or daughter is the next Picasso or something.

  MERRIN: My kid’s enrolled in this school. Fucking tuition kills me. Every month, I wanna shoot myself. One year’s enough to send me to the poorhouse.

  BURSTYN: It’s public school for my boys all the way. Worked just fine for me.

  MERRIN: Miss Levin wanted to enroll her daughter into another school?

  BELLAMY: No. The other night when we had parent-teacher conferences—

  MERRIN: Which night?

  BELLAMY: Thursday. Miss Levin came in. To speak to me about Sandy.

  MERRIN: She came to you?

  BELLAMY: Yes.

  MERRIN: To talk about how her daughter was doing in your class?

  BELLAMY: Correct.

  BURSTYN: How’s she doing?

  BELLAMY: Excuse me?

  BURSTYN: Sandy. How’s she doing in your class?

>   BELLAMY: Great. She’s one of my best students.

  MERRIN: Good for her.

  BELLAMY: I mean, it’s finger painting and macaroni art. I’m not teaching them rocket science. I’m trying to get them to tap into their creativity.

  BURSTYN: Tap in?

  BELLAMY: How do you want me to put it?

  BURSTYN: These are your words, not mine. I’m just repeating them.

  BELLAMY: No, you’re taking my words and—you’re taking my words and making them sound different. Sound wrong.

  MERRIN: Did Miss Levin strike you as being intense or high-strung that night? The night of parent-teacher conferences? Was she acting differently?

  BELLAMY: High-strung isn’t the right word. I—I want to take that back. Can I?

  BURSTYN: You can do whatever you want, man. It’s your time.

  BELLAMY: She just seemed like, she looked like she was under duress. Stressed.

  MERRIN: How so?

  BELLAMY: Miss Levin suggested someone—a student was—was hurting Sandy.

  MERRIN: Which student?

  BELLAMY: (…)

  MERRIN: Mr. Bellamy? Richard?

  BURSTYN: You think she was making it up?

  BELLAMY: No. I—I don’t know. Maybe Sandy was afraid? She could’ve been hiding the truth. Whoever the real student was. So she wouldn’t get hurt again.

  MERRIN: What was the name of the student?

  BELLAMY: I already told you.

  BURSTYN: No, you didn’t.

  MERRIN: You don’t remember the student’s name?

  BELLAMY: No.

  MERRIN: Mr. Bellamy, if you’re protecting one of your students—or if you believe not telling us this student’s name will help in some way, I just want you to know, for your own personal sake, that we’ll be able to find out who it is. We can ask other people. We can ask Sandy. Or her mom. Or even other people in the—

  BELLAMY: Sean.

  BURSTYN: Sean what?

  BELLAMY: She didn’t give a last name.

  BURSTYN: You don’t know your own student’s last name?