Calloustown

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Although they lived in a giant hole, the Masseys didn’t hail from a tribe of cave-dwelling Vicksburg ancestors. They weren’t West Virginia coalminers relocated to Calloustown, South Carolina, who longed for happier times. None of the Masseys suffered from syndromes or diseases or allergies or phobias. They merely lived underground, as blithe and relentless as anyone else in Calloustown. My father didn’t like or trust them, probably because my father built brick walls and walkways, plus the occasional foundation, and the Masseys needed no barriers or welcoming entrances. I never went to art camp, so I can’t draw a picture of my best friend Lincoln Massey’s abode, but it’s like this: you walk about a half mile south from my parents’ house, take a right into the woods, and when you see a door on the ground with a knob sticking out, you’re at the Masseys’ place. The door might be covered in leaves and pine straw, just like the flat shingled roof, if it’s between October and March. To knock on the door, you plain stomp a foot. The whole reason I know Morse code and rudimentary tap dancing emanates from going over to Lincoln’s place most days, bored with a simple bang-bang-bang.

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