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1
A whisper of cool morning air rippled the curtains of six-year-old Thomas Cavanaugh’s bedroom window, bringing with it the sweet breath of the lilacs planted outside. The hint of cow manure lingered even after the breeze died, but the boy barely noticed; he was used to it. He sat up in bed, his mom’s soft singing drifting into the room from the garden outside. Thomas liked it when his mom sang, the voice somehow as sweet as the flowers’ scent. He dressed, pulling on a “He-Man and the Masters of the Universe” T-shirt and black shorts before he bounded down the stairs and outside to a long rectangle of a vegetable garden his dad had cut in the yard with his tractor and field plow.
Sweet corn rose in straight green stalks in that garden, as did peas, cabbages, onions, and other vegetables he pushed around his plate until his mom got tired of waiting for him to eat and took them away. Strawberries were Thomas’s favorite, but his mom had yet to work her way to the berry patch at the end of the garden. She knelt in the rows of green beans that grew closest to the house, her floppy straw hat hiding her short blonde hair, some song from the radio on her lips as she pulled weeds with hands covered with big leather gloves.
Thomas knelt in the garden, just like his mom, but he didn’t pull weeds. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the good plants from the bad plants, Tommy,” his dad had explained when Thomas asked to help. Yesterday, the day before, last week? Thomas didn’t remember. He liked to help, and if his mom had to pull those awful weeds (they must be awful if she wanted them gone), Thomas wanted to do that too. Today, though, Thomas simply waited quietly for his mom to work her way from the green beans through the sweet corn and to the strawberries.
Sunlight shone through drops of dew hanging from the corn leaves—tiny, fragile diamonds. Thomas held his face close enough to the drops he could see their light split into colors. To him, they were magic.
“I call you on the phone, but you’re not there . . .” His mom’s singing came softly through the sweet corn. She was closer now. “I sit at home alone and wonder where.” A smile slid across Thomas’s face. She always sang in the garden. If she sang, she was happy, and if she was happy, she might let him eat a few strawberries without even washing them.
“Can’t eat or sleep, I miss your touch . . .”
Clouds gathered over the garden from seemingly nowhere, swelling like an enormous bag of burnt microwave popcorn. The cool morning breeze was stifled, and a burst of hot air pushed against Thomas’s cheek as if someone blew across his face.
The air popped, pushing against his eardrums.
“Huh?” Thomas grunted, his voice too soft for his mother to hear over her Leesa Loman song.
She didn’t react to the pop, or the clouds, or the hot burst of furnace air.
“Mom?” he whispered, the word muffled as if he’d said it through a pillow.
A corn leaf to his right shook and he turned toward it; the long, blade-like leaf dipped; the sudden movement broke the dewdrop’s hold on the plant, and the dew fell to the ground. Thomas froze and stared at the cornstalk, twice as tall as his six-year-old body but still too young to grow corn. His mom’s song dropped into the hum she used whenever she forgot the words, but Thomas couldn’t hear her anymore, not really; the world became quiet and out of focus—everything except the cornstalk.
A tiny foot stepped from behind the stalk about halfway up the plant, and settled on a leaf. The foot had no shoes; the lithe leg attached to it had no pants. His throat grew tight as a woman, a tiny woman, slowly stepped from behind the stalk, stood on the leaf, and smiled, her face radiating joy. Her smile was the only thing that kept Thomas from running.
“You’ve brought me pain . . .” His mom sang, but the words sounded as if she were underwater. “Why do you mean so much?”
The tiny woman, only as tall as the He-Man toys in his room—wore a shiny white dress, her hair red as a crayon. He leaned closer to look at her like he had at the dewdrop, but she stepped back to hide behind the cornstalk. He stopped and squinted. Her face was delicate and pretty. Pretty, like his mom’s.
“Who are you?” Thomas whispered.
The little person pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head.
Thomas gasped. “You’re a fairy.”
Gloved hands pushed through the stalks about six feet away, and his mom stepped through. Her song stopped and something popped next to Thomas; for a brief moment pressure pushed against his ears.
“Oh, Thomas,” his mom said, a grin pulling at her lips as she squatted at his eye level. “When did you sneak out here? Are you ready for some strawberries?”
His gaze shot from his mom to the stalk of corn, but the little woman was no longer there.
“She’s gone,” he whispered.
“Who’s gone, Bubby?”
He reached for the corn. Maybe she’s still there. Maybe the corn is enchanted. Thomas liked that word, enchanted. He knew it meant magic, but it sounded even more mysterious. He touched the leaf. It was a deep green blade, streaked with parallel veins, surprisingly firm, but nonetheless just a leaf.
“Never mind,” Thomas said, his voice trailing off. “Yes, I’d like some strawberries, please.”
When he looked up at the sky, the clouds were gone.
2
The smell of hot fried chicken drifted across the table as Thomas’s mom placed a platter shrouded in grease-stained paper towels in front of her husband. Mashed potatoes heaped in a Pyrex bowl decorated with orange and brown flowers sat in the middle of the table; a smaller bowl of lima beans was closer to Thomas.
“Honey, this looks wonderful,” his dad said. He always said that because he was always right, and Thomas knew it. His mom’s food was the best.
His dad lifted a paper towel and stuck a piece of chicken with his fork. “And I’m guessing Tommy wants a . . .”
“Thigh,” Thomas said.
His dad grinned and dropped a steaming thigh on Thomas’s plate. “When I was a kid, I always went for the leg, Tommy.”
“There’s more meat on a thigh,” Thomas said, spooning lima beans onto his plate. “And it doesn’t have that pointy bone thingy.”
His dad laughed. Thomas loved hearing him laugh; it made the whole house sound as happy as his mom’s garden singing.
His mom scooped a spoonful of mashed potatoes next to Thomas’s beans, then put some on her own plate and handed the bowl to his dad. “Tommy helped me in the garden this morning,” she said, then smiled. “So, we don’t have any strawberries for dessert.”
His dad leaned across the table toward Thomas, his elbows on either side of his plate.
“Well, it’s a good thing your mother made fried chicken. I won’t be hungry for dessert.”
Thomas forced a smile as he stabbed beans with a fork. He’d seen something today, something that didn’t exist, and his dad was talking about dessert. The little woman didn’t have wings, but Thomas thought of everything she could be, and he knew what she was. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it. But he couldn’t tell his mom or dad, could he? The little woman didn’t want him to.
A knot began to form in his stomach. No, Thomas Cavanaugh, he scolded himself. No tummy aches today. Not with fried chicken. He looked up from his plate at his mom and dad sitting at the short ends of the rectangular kitchen table. His dad bit a piece off a chicken breast; the golden, flaky crust pulled off most of the skin, revealing the white meat beneath. His mom took a drink of water and set her glass down.
Thomas breathed in deeply and said, “I saw a fairy in the garden today.”
The clanking of forks on china died, the kitchen grew quiet. Thomas suddenly felt warm. His mom and dad’s eyes were on him. He could feel them staring.
“You saw a what?” his dad asked.
Thomas’s throat felt tight, and he had to pee.
“A fairy,” he whispered. “In the garden.”
His mom’s hand gently patted Thomas’s right forearm. “A fairy, honey?” she said, her voice calm, soothing. “In the garden? What did it look like?”
He looked at his mom; she was smiling. Thomas’s throat relaxed, the ball in his stomach grew smaller. “Like a woman. A little woman.”
“Was it a girl?” his dad asked, the chicken still in his hands. “Maybe she was lost.”
Thomas shook his heads. “No. It wasn’t a girl,” he said, his voice stronger. “She looked like a grown-up woman. She was just little, like a doll.”
“Tommy, that’s just—” his dad started, then stopped. Thomas looked at his mom. Just like the fairy, he knew she’d just told his dad to be quiet.
She turned back toward Thomas. “What did she do, honey?”
Thomas’s tummy felt better now. His mom believed him, maybe. It didn’t matter that his dad didn’t. Mom did, and she was the boss.
“She stood on a cornstalk. She made the dew drop.”
His dad snorted. His mom flashed his dad a hard glance, then turned back to Thomas. “Did she say anything?”
Thomas shrugged. “No. She didn’t say anything, but she told me to be quiet, like this.” He put a finger over his mouth and shook his head.
His mom leaned her elbows on the table. “Why did she want you to be quiet, honey?”
It was because of his mom, but why didn’t she like his mom? “She didn’t want you to know she was there.”
His dad opened his mouth to talk, then paused and took a bite of chicken instead.
His mom’s face tensed. “Why didn’t she want me to know about her?”
Thomas shrugged again. “Maybe because she thinks you’re scary, I guess.”
A “ha” shot from his dad’s mouth; his mom turned toward him.
“You’re not helping, Kyle.” When she looked back at Thomas, he was eating potatoes. “Then what happened, honey?”
Thomas swallowed, took another forkful of potatoes, mashing it into his lima beans.
“She was just gone. I looked at you, then when I looked back, the fairy wasn’t there anymore.” He pushed the food into his mouth, put his fork down, and grabbed the chicken thigh with both small hands.
“Have you ever seen the fairy before?”
Thomas shook his head and bit into the thigh; the crust crunched as his teeth sank in. His mom glanced at his dad and smiled.
“Well, a fairy,” she said. “You don’t see one of those every day, do you?”
She turned to Thomas, the smile never leaving her face.
3
His mom clicked the switch next to the door from the hallway and Thomas’s bedroom became dark as charcoal. The clock on the nightstand, its digital numbers red, showed 9:00. The golden hour of early summer had gone; the sun was just dropping past the horizon out one window as the white half-moon rose in the other. Soon the stars would shine like pinpricks on black velvet. The milking barn stood in the east window. Once bright red with a black roof, the sun-faded paint had turned pink and begun to peel, the bleached barn wood beneath exposed.
An owl hooted nearby; coyotes yipped far away.
“Can you close the window?” Thomas asked, a pull of fear coming somewhere deep inside. He didn’t know why it was there; the open window had never bothered him before.
His mom brushed his bangs across his forehead and smiled down at Thomas. “Don’t be silly, honey. It’ll get hot in here. Just leave it open, the night air will help you sleep.”
“But—”
His mom bent to kiss his forehead. “Good night, baby,” she whispered.
Thomas wrapped his arms around her neck and held fast. “Do you believe me?” he asked.
She smiled and brushed her hair from her eyes. “About what, baby?”
She had to believe him. Moms always believe, dads don’t. “About the fairy,” he said, his voice soft.
Her smile faded slightly, but she forced it to remain. Then she touched Thomas’s face, her hands gentle on his skin. “I believe you believe you saw it,” she said. “And that’s good enough for me.” She paused, studying her son’s face in the faint light. “Did it frighten you?”
Thomas shook his head. “No. She looked nice. She was pretty, like you.”
His mom laughed, then kissed him again. “I’m glad she wasn’t scary, but remember, not every pretty face is nice.”
He thought about that before answering. “I know. Carly in my class is pretty, but she wipes boogers on my desk when Mrs. Beltram isn’t looking.”
His mom slowly stood. “I think Carly just likes you, but we’re not talking about that yet. Good night, Tommy.”
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, champ,” his dad said from the bedroom door, leaning on the door frame with his large, calloused hands shoved into his jeans pockets. His dad still had to milk the two Guernseys in the barn. Thomas liked the barn; he liked to search the loft for rusty treasures hidden under the old, dusty straw.
Thomas knew his dad didn’t believe in fairies. He believed in work, sweat, and cow poop that smelled like money. His dad crossed the room to stand next to his mom, slipping his arm around her waist.
“I’m with your mother on this one,” he said. “I believe you believe. Now get some sleep, you’re going with me to John Deere in the morning.”
Thomas’s eyes opened wide. “Do I get to sit on your lap and drive?”
His dad glanced nervously at his mom and stood up straight.
“Only down our driveway,” he said. “I think you’ve gotten me into enough trouble for one night. Now get to sleep. Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too,” Thomas said, his voice trailing as sleep began to crawl over him. His parents left the room and shut off the hall light.
Thomas’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and shapes formed; some as the light had left them, others shifting in the moonlight.
Come on, Thomas thought. It’s just the dark, and Mom said darkness can’t hurt me.
A cloud quickly passed over the moon and a figure, tall and thin, loomed over him beside his bed.
It’s the lamp, it’s only the lamp, tapped through his thoughts. But the lamp looked like a man. A night bird called, and a yelp was caught in Thomas’s throat. A fox yipped in the distance. Thomas kicked his feet until his blanket and sheet were balled up at the foot of his bed, his eyes on the figure that must be a lamp. It must be. The curtains hung motionless. The screech of the old barn’s tall, heavy, sliding door came through Thomas’s open window. His dad was heading inside to milk the cows, but the moos Thomas expected never came. The cows always mooed. His dad said it felt good for them to get rid of all that milk. To them, milking was—
A light, no brighter than a toy’s, shone outside his second-floor window. His neck muscles strained as he tried to look toward that light, but a feeling, like huge fingers wrapped around his head, wouldn’t let him move it. He tried to pull his legs up toward him, but they wouldn’t listen either. Outside, the night animals had all stopped talking.
“Hello, Thomas,” a voice said, the words soft and melodic, almost as if they weren’t spoken aloud. The dim room grew darker; the bright, friendly moon no longer hung in his window. The light was gone; an empty feeling dropped into his chest.
Thomas’s pajamas grew wet.
I peed. No. I’m not a baby. I didn’t pee in my bed. Only babies pee in their bed.
A fleeting image of his dad frowning flew through his head.
“Aren’t you going to say hello back?”
“H-hello?” The word came out almost too soft to hear.
“Shh,” the voice hushed. “Don’t talk so loud. I can hear you. I can always hear you.”
The air closed in around Thomas, squeezing. His breath came in bursts, his heart thumped with the beat of a drum. A stranger was in his room.
“Who—who are you?” A scream waited inside.
Silence commanded the night.
“You saw me today, in the garden,” the voice finally said.
“I want my mom. I want my dad.” A tear leaked from one eye and mingled with the sweat that crawled down his face.
A giggle echoed around the room, coming from nowhere and everywhere. The fairy. The fairy was in his room. The strange grip on his muscles relaxed and he sat up in bed, scanning his dresser, his shelves, his Superman poster, looking for the fairy. The knot in his stomach was back.
“Go away,” he wanted to say, but the words never made it past his thoughts.
“You’re special, Thomas,” the fairy said, the giggle tainting each word. “So special I want to show you to everyone. Will you come with me? There’s something you need to help me find.”
The air weighed on his chest, compacting the scream waiting deep inside into nothing more than a squeak.
“Go away.”
“You don’t want me to go away, Thomas,” she said. “You want to follow me.”
He’d wanted to go with her today in the garden. To grab the enchanted cornstalk and follow her to Fairyland, but that was in the light of morning, with his mom singing a Leesa Loman song, not in the dark when Thomas was alone and soaked with pee.
He shook his head. “No.”
The fairy laughed this time, the sound harsh. Despite the heat, Thomas’s body shivered.
“I need you, Thomas.”
“I’m just a kid,” Thomas whispered, his eyes searching the room for the fairy that belonged to the voice.
“I’m by the window,” the voice said. “When you leave a window open, you never know what may come in.”
Then he saw her. The tiny woman stood on Thomas’s toy shelf, next to Skeletor’s Snake Mountain hideout. She didn’t look bad, but his mom was right—not every pretty face was nice. At the fairy’s feet, a pastry layered like a cake sat atop one of his mom’s good plates. Something curled at the top of the pastry; Thomas thought it might be chocolate.
His stomach rumbled.
“Yes, it is chocolate, Thomas.” She paused, though her voice sounded urgent, like when his mom tried to hurry his dad for church. When she spoke again, the softness had returned, the weight of the air lifted. “I know you like chocolate. Just take a bite. One bite, then you will understand everything.”
No. No. No. Something inside told Thomas this was wrong.
“No thank you,” Thomas said, his words louder, trying hard to gain control. He breathed deeply and then exhaled slowly, like his mom did when she was frustrated. His mouth was dry, so dry. The little woman stood next to the plastic mountain, hands on hips. Thomas knew what that look meant, but he was not going to eat the chocolate.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll come back to see you someday, Thomas, and we’ll talk about this again.”
The fairy’s hands moved in circles and a wave of purple light poured from the little person to Thomas. A yawn grabbed him.
“I have to go to sleep now,” he said.
Thomas curled into a ball around his pillow, pulled his covers up high, and fell asleep.
4
The scent of flowers again drifted in from the open window. The moon was long gone, the morning sun already poking above the line of trees that separated their farm from the county highway. The heat that had drenched his body in sweat was replaced by the cool air of spring. But there was something else in the air. Thomas sniffed.
He slid a hand beneath the covers; the sheets and his pajama pants were wet.
I peed the bed?
“When you leave a window open, you never know what may come in,” repeated in his mind.
The fairy.
He sat up. The little woman was gone, but the plate with the blue flowers still sat on the toy shelf. Thomas pulled himself out of his wet sheets to stand on the hardwood floor.
He stepped forward slowly; he scrunched his nose as an unpleasant smell invaded his nostrils. Something was on the plate, but it wasn’t cake.
A fat, fresh turd sat on his mom’s good plate.
He grabbed the lip of the plate and shook the turd out the window. It fell into the flower bed below.
“She tried to get me to eat poop,” came out in a whisper.
The blue-and-white plate clanked as he set it on the floor, a brown streak down its middle; he pushed it under the bed with his foot before walking to each window in his room and pulling it shut.
1
Thomas pulled his arm back and threw as hard as he could, shifting his weight forward like his dad had shown him. His throwing arm snapped forward directly over his right shoulder. “None of that sidearm stuff, Tommy,” his dad said after Thomas caught a high fly ball and tossed it back with a flick. “You don’t have as much control over the ball that way.” So, Thomas threw overhand, and he threw straight—mostly.
His dad pulled off his Pioneer Seed cap and wiped the late-July sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his once-white T-shirt. “Take five. I’m beat, Tommy,” he said as he walked over and sat hard on a metal lawn chair. “I gotta get back to work. If your mom comes home and finds me playing baseball, she’s going to think that’s all I do all summer when she’s in the salt mines.” He smiled at his son. “Go get yourself a soda, Tommy, and bring me a beer, will you?”
Thomas nodded, tucked his glove and the ball under his left arm, and jogged toward the steps of the wide, wraparound porch. It was two in the afternoon, and his dad wanted a beer. When Danny McGinty’s dad started drinking beer in the morning, things went bad. His dad didn’t do that, not yet, but he didn’t used to drink beer in the afternoon.
Thomas approached the porch steps and stopped. Muddy footprints formed a line moving up the steps and across the chipped white paint, one after the other.
Somebody’s in our house.
The knot, that familiar knot of panic in his stomach, tightened like a fist.
Dad. I should get Dad, he thought. But he didn’t get his dad. I’m ten years old. I can do it myself.
Thomas’s hand shook as he grabbed the handle and slowly opened the wooden screen door to the kitchen, the rusting spring creaking in the quiet air. He slipped inside and shut the door softly behind him. The kitchen of the old farmhouse was huge, designed when homes had tall ceilings and big windows, when people cooked and baked all day. He stood in the familiar room, his heart pounding in his ears because right then, the kitchen seemed like an alien place populated by monsters.
The kitchen was empty and quiet; the only sound was the ticking of Great-grandma Donally’s antique clock in the corner. The door leading to the downstairs office was shut and the wide archway into the living room revealed nothing. His mom’s painting of the farm hung on the wall behind the dinner table: the house, the barn, the machine shed, and Bessie and Doofus standing in the lot, all as if she’d taken a photo of them.
The footprints walked beneath the painting. Goose bumps rose on Thomas’s forearms. Did the intruder stop? Did they pause to look at his mom’s artwork?
The ticking followed as he padded on worn tennis shoes through the kitchen, careful not to smudge any of the still-wet prints. Then the clock’s ticking became muffled, and the kitchen turned hazy and distorted, as if he were looking through an empty soda bottle.
Thomas stepped toward the archway into the living room.
Brrrring.
He jumped.
Brrrring.
It’s the phone. It’s just the phone.
Brrrring.
Maybe it’s Mom. I should get it.
Brrrring.
But fear wouldn’t let his feet move him closer to the telephone.
Brrrring.
It rang again, and the answering machine clicked to life.
“Hello. This is Kyle,” his dad’s voice said.
“Deborah,” said his mother.
“And Tommy,” said his own.
“We’re not home right now,” they all said.
“If you’ll leave a message after the beep . . .” Kyle continued.
“We’ll get back to you soon,” Deborah said.
Thomas giggled on the tape as the answering machine beeped. Now he stood, nerves taut.
“Hello, Thomas,” a familiar voice said on the answering machine. It wasn’t his mom. It was—
“The fairy,” he whispered.
His stomach wasn’t just a knot anymore. ...
