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

look like a barn. Its wood-paneled sidewalls faded into elephant skin. The rolling door no longer rolled, its runners rusted in their tracks, so we entered through the side door. The air was heavy with mildew, waiting for release.

You can use it as a studio, she said. Your own workspace.

The garage was stacked with boxes four or five high, full of artifacts from her and Eli’s life before me. Out of sight, out of mind.

You’re just giving me the garage? No strings attached?

Why not? Not like anybody else is using it. My wedding gift to you.

All these boxes, just for me? Aw, honey…You shouldn’t have.

We could bring out a space heater when it gets colder. Maybe we could even winterize it. Some insulation and I bet…Tamara stopped when she realized I was staring at her. What?

I appreciate the push, but…

This was all a not-so-subtle way of suggesting I should get out of my head and back to doing something, anything, vaguely creative. Just the gentlest of nudges.

Am I pushing?

Not at all. But she was. A cattle prod to my ass. Sometimes I just have to stay stuck, you know? I’ll crawl out of my skull when I’m ready.

I want the house to feel like it’s yours, too. I thought having your own studio might help.

I love it, I said, hooking one arm around her neck and drawing her near, kissing her on the side of her head. It’s perfect. You’re the best. Thank you.

Now you’re just patronizing me.

No—I’m serious. Having a studio is just the kinda kick in the pants I need.

I’m just relieved you’re not demanding a man-cave…

That was an option? I take it back.

Not happening, sorry. Tamara peeled back the lid on one of the cardboard boxes and peered in. You can get back to your work whenever you feel up to it. No pressure.

No pressure, I echoed.

I can’t remember when I gave up on my art. It didn’t happen overnight. It was by degrees, over the course of years, with a series of the simplest sacrifices—do I stay in and sketch or do I go out to the bar—until eventually, there wasn’t any inclination to draw left.

My last exhibit—if you could even call it an exhibit—was some god-awful group show in Richmond. A friend was the manager at World Cup, and she wanted to fill their evenings with poetry readings and God knows whatever else, so she hatched the bright idea to have monthly art exhibits. I hung a couple self-portraits up in the back, just next to the bathroom. I was, what, twenty-eight at the time? Christ, twenty-nine? Was this what my art career had amounted to? A gallery in some tucked-away corner, the sound of flushing toilets providing some on-the-nose atmosphere? (Literally. You could smell emanations of Lysol.)

I didn’t consciously give up art. My ambition just faded away. How long had I been telling people I was an artist, even when I hadn’t picked up a stick of charcoal for months? It was how I had identified myself at dinner parties. It was what I told Tamara when we first met.

Now I had inherited her garage. Partially to make her happy, partially to try to rekindle that spark. First things first, though—I had to clean it out. Purging their past became my summer project. Which soon became my fall project. Which was increasingly inching toward becoming my winter project. Somebody had to empty all the boxes. The landfill of their family. Nobody had set foot amid the clutter of cardboard and cobwebs. I felt like Tamara had lived twice the number of lifetimes I’ve lived.

I spotted a TV/VCR combo in the far corner. I wondered if it still worked. Maybe there was a box of dusty workout VHS tapes out here, as well. My reflection stretched across its obsidian screen, almost as if I were dancing. I noticed, just above the television set, a paper wasp’s nest where the wall met the ceiling.

I chipped away at the garage on weekends. I would drag out one box at a time, open it, and assess the value of the belongings inside. After a few hours of cleaning, I was coated in a dusty layer of sweat and cobwebs. But I could finally spot the back wall of the garage. I couldn’t stop now.

What to toss? What to keep? All the Halloween decorations, the knots of Christmas lights. There were no instructions from Tamara on any of this. She probably would’ve been happy for me to throw it all away. That way, she wouldn’t have to know what I’d gotten rid of.

Skrch.

A box shifted on its own. In the rear. I swore I heard it.

Skrchskrch.

From the corner of my eye, I thought I spotted a box move. I stopped and turned, staring at the skyline of cardboard and waiting for whatever it was to move again.

I wasn’t going to play this game. I wasn’t going to let my imagination get the best of me.

Skrch.

I saw it shift this time. The bones in my body locked. All I could do was watch the box jostle on its haunches. Something was inside, scraping against the cardboard. I forced myself, willed myself, to hold out my hand. Reaching for the flap, I flipped the lid back and—

A pile of possums was nestled inside.

There had to be about a half dozen newborn possums huddled together, writhing about in the box. Pink, hairless bodies. They hadn’t opened their eyes yet, craning their necks toward the shift in light. Mewling at me with thin voices, as if I were their mother. Where’s Mom?

I left the box outside. Let nature take its course.

I uncovered an unmarked box buried deeper in the cobwebbed stacks. Peeling the flaps open, I was met with the musty smell of mildewed clothes. Men’s sweaters. I pulled one out and held it up. Motes of dust swirled out from its sleeves, spiraling in tight rings through the sunlight reaching into the garage. It had a home-stitched essence to it. Certainly not