Whisper Down the Lane Clay Chapman (i read a book txt) 📖

A group of civic-minded parents were motivated to incorporate Danvers and improve its services. A layer of local government made way for better education. Rather than drive their kids twenty miles to the nearest “good” school, they could start one right here in town.

The Danvers School was a remnant of the old school building that closed back in 1979 due to redistricting. It had high ceilings. Massive windows. Sturdy masonry. There just hadn’t been enough students to fill it. Not only did it need infrastructure upgrades, it needed children.

And an art teacher.

By the time I moved here, the Disneyfication of this town was well underway. I didn’t ride that initial wave of gentrification into Danvers. The coffee shops were already here. The artisanal delicatessens. The farmers market. This place had the veneer of Small Town, USA—but even I knew it was a mask, more a replica of a bygone era than the actual artifact. Families could have the feel of the good ol’ days, but with all the modern accoutrements at our disposal. The greasy spoon with Wi-Fi. The gluten-free soda fountain.

Danvers was now home. My home. I just had to find my place within it. Put down roots.

I have very lofty goals for tonight’s dinner. Vegetable stir-fry with peanut sauce. Tamara never imposes her vegetarianism on me—which I appreciate, thank Christ—but I have to fend for myself if I ever want to eat meat. She won’t cook it, won’t touch it, not one single fork tine, not for me and certainly not for Eli. Maybe there will be a fillet o’ fish on the rarest of occasions, but that boy is growing up in a meat-free household…and now so am I.

Tamara texted to say she and Eli were running late. No explanation, which is perfect.

Time to shine…

The recipe suggests it will only take twenty minutes, but I’m thirty-three minutes in and nowhere near done. I should have followed the instructions and used precut vegetables—but nope, no sir, I chalked that up to cheating. I want this to be homemade all the way. Every slice and dice has to come from these hands, not some preprocessed package. Just the way Tamara likes it. Little did I know most of the cooking time is for cutting.

Full confession: I am not a cook. Or, more to the point—pre-Tamara, I rarely cooked for myself. I remember when Tamara first realized this. It was early in our relationship. Maybe the first or second time I spent the night at her place. Their place. One morning, after we all woke up, Tamara suggested we take a stroll to the farmers market—Eli included—and pick up some fresh veggies to make omelets. I was all for it. Why not? But we could also, you know, just go to the local diner. The greasy spoon makes perfectly fine omelets. Less hassle, fewer dishes.

Do you even like food? she had asked, point-blank, almost offended. The Culinary Inquisition had begun.

Who doesn’t like food? I had shot back, already on the defensive.

But if you had a choice between eating an actual, home-cooked meal you made yourself or—I don’t know—popping a pill, you’d be just as happy swallowing the pill, wouldn’t you?

I wasn’t about to cede any ground and admit that yeah, sure, I’d probably be just as happy popping the pill.

Didn’t your mother cook for you as a kid?

Of course, I said, on reflex. Then I started thinking about it, sifting through my memory for my favorite meal. Pasta. I vaguely remembered loving Mom’s spaghetti, I think…

Now I have something to prove. I’ve had a year to crash-course my taste buds, expanding my flavor palate. I have to learn how to cook. Not only cook, but cook vegetarian.

Afresh start, I think. Some very distant memory tickles at the stem of my brain.

Weegee hops onto the counter, startling me. “Jesus—”

Fucking cat.

If there’s one thing I wish I’d pushed back against, it’s Tamara’s goddamn tabby. The cat has somehow outlived every conceivable catastrophe that could befall him. Kitty cancer. Heartworms. Diabetes. He just won’t die.

Weegee squats on the counter, his flaming mane of unkempt fur ready to shed and contaminate my meal. “Shoo.” I raise the spatula. I’ve never been a fan of Weegee, nor has he ever been a fan of me. He was here first and he always goes out of his way to make a point of it.

Weegee just stares back, indifferent to my threats.

“Hellooooo,” Tamara calls from the front hall. I hear the door shut, the keys tossed into the dish on the console table. “Uh…What’s that smell?”

“I’m burning the house down,” I holler back.

“Should I call the fire department?” Tamara halts in the doorway, struck by the green sprawl before her. Her expression suggests she has come upon a stranger in her home. Who is this man making a mess of her kitchen? She mugs for my sake, pleasantly impressed—if not a bit bewildered. “Wow. What’s going on here?”

“Surprise,” I say, grabbing the knife. “Hope you two like stir-fry.”

“Is that what we’re calling it? Interesting…”

Elijah races into the kitchen, slipping past me and reaching for the cabinet.

“Mister Man!” I say. “How was school?”

“Okay,” he says in a way that makes it sound clearly not okay. He opens the cabinet and pulls out a bag of Sun Chips.

“No snacks,” Tamara says sternly. “Straight to your room.”

“But…”

“No buts. Now.”

Eli looks to me to help bail him out. I’m about to toss the kid a lifeline, which is clearly not the right call as far as Tamara is concerned. She drops the hammer. “Upstairs until dinner.”

“Fine.” He huffs, storming out of the kitchen.

“I’m grilling steak,” I call after him. “How ’bout some juicy red meat tonight, Eli?”

“Okay!”

“Hear that?” I ask Tamara. “I’m making a convert out of him.”

“Nice try.” She stands behind me, flossing her arms through mine to steal a carrot. She chomps it just next to my ear. It sounds like the thinnest femur fracturing.

“So what’s up with the big guy?” I ask.