A story set in 1950s America, inspired by a Gregory Crewdson photograph. [Flash fiction] Originally published in the Pure Slush anthology Growing Up, in the Life Cycle series in 2021.
Gregory Crewdson, Untitled, from hover series, 1996
There’s a man laying sod on the road outside the Hendersons’ place while a cop stands watch. What on earth? You stare out the window, wondering if grass can grow on asphalt. You imagine little roots pressing down into flat unyielding blackness, searching for cracks.
The Henderson kid wanders out onto the front lawn to watch. His name’s John, but everyone calls him Peewee, on account of his size. You’re a head taller than him, although he’s in the grade above. He’s a skinny, goofy kid with freckles, too-big teeth, and an imagination his father knows nothing about. Y’all get on okay, although your families don’t have much to do with each other. You shove on a cap and scurry out to join him.
“Hey, Peewee.”
“Hey, George.”
You stand in silence for a moment, watching the man work. He’s a big guy, muscled and tattooed. Not the sort of person you often see in a neighborhood like this.
“Dad found out who bought the house across the street,” Peewee says eventually, glancing back towards his house. Mr Henderson stands in the window, wearing a shirt and tie even though it’s the weekend. He stares unblinking at the man working in the road, like John Wayne facing down a black-hat. “He says they’re—” Peewee looks around conspiratorially and whispers “—communists.” The word fizzes in the air between you.
Communists.
You’ve never seen a communist before. You wonder what they look like, if you can tell just by looking and, if not, how Mr Henderson knew. Although it made sense that he would. You’ve divided the fathers into two categories: ‘slipper men’ and ‘belt men’. Your dad is a slipper man but, even then, his heart isn’t in it. Mr Henderson prides himself on being an unsparing belt man. So if there was anyone who’s going to be alert to the signs of communism, it’s him.
“Communists?” you repeat, wanting to see how it feels to say it. It feels dangerous.
“Yes.” Peewee looks delighted with himself for being able to share this scandalous piece of information. “It’s the women from the weird little bookshop in town—“
“Pages?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Wow!” You’ve always liked Elsie and Gloria, the women who run Pages. You go there after school all the time when the other kids all go to the mall or the park and you’re embarrassed to admit to your folks you’ve got nowhere to go. It probably doesn’t help, because your bookishness is one of the reasons you don’t get invited, but you love it there – all those worlds to escape to, lined up on the shelves. Elsie and Gloria always greet you warmly and let you hang out and read books without buying them, as long as you promise not to bend the spines. Sometimes they keep some aside they think you’ll like. You decided not to tell Peewee you know them.
“Yeah. Dad also found out this isn’t a public road. He owns to the middle outside his property. Your dad probably owns the bit outside your house too. It’s on the deeds.”
“So he’s turfing over it?”
Peewee nods. “He’s going to put a fence around it. A white picket one. Says he’s going to show ’em what a real American neighborhood looks like.”
Up the road the cop’s stopped a car and is talking with the driver. You can’t hear, but neither of them look happy. They’re both waving their arms about. You wonder what Elsie and Gloria are gonna think when they drive up to their new house and realise what Mr Henderson’s done. Should you warn them? What’s the punishment for consorting with communists? Mr Henderson’s belt’s notoriously not restricted to Peewee, if other kids cross him.
“How did he find out?” you ask.
“About the road? I think his lawyer—“
“No, about the communists.”
“Oh, that. I have a theory he’s a spy, working for the CIA. It’s why he’s so tough on us kids, ’cause he’s tired from his double life battling the Red Menace.” Peewee’s wide eyes catch yours before looking back at the man in the road, who’s now setting up a sprinkler to water the turf.
“Yeah, maybe. That’d be cool.” You smile at Peewee and he grins back, his face alight at the thought of his dad as a hero. You know a real spy wouldn’t be so petty as to turf over half the road to prove a point to a couple of old ladies, but you don’t have the heart to say that to Peewee. Mr Henderson’s just a bully, you decide. And you know about those. Your mom told you once, “If someone picks on you, it’s always about them; it’s never about you, and it usually means they’re scared.” At the time you’d been too busy trying to deny you’d been beaten up—which of course you had—to listen. And even as her words echoed in your head later, although you’d started to realise she was right, it hadn’t seemed very useful advice, ’cause it turns out knowing someone wants to beat you up ’cause they’re scared you’ll outsmart them doesn’t make them any less likely to hit you.
You glance back at Mr Henderson. His face is still set in the same grim expression, although a small, satisfied smile is tugging at the edges of his mouth. You look away before he can notice you staring.
You resolve to go to Pages after school on Monday and speak to Elsie and Gloria about Mr Henderson. You’ll tell them what he’s done and that you’re still their friend, although you might not be able to speak to them in the neighborhood too much, on account of the belt. You’re sure they’ll understand. You can be kind of like spies, secretly resisting the tyranny of Mr Henderson.
You wonder if you’re a communist now, too. Goose bumps creep up your neck at the thought.