When the Days Grow Short

Chapter 7
Picture Perfect

Chapter Description: Dan knows he does not suck his thumb. The photograph disagrees—and so do the people who have known him longest.

The far side of Honeycrisp Hollow was quieter than Harvest Row. 

A broad dirt lane curved between animal pens, game stalls and small wooden sheds decorated with dried corn. Beyond them, the pumpkin fields stretched toward the trees. The haunted barn stood at the farthest edge of the property, its black roof visible above everything else.   Dan could hear it even from here.   A scream rose somewhere inside, sharp enough to carry across the fields. It ended in laughter.   Nate looked toward the sound.   Hannah kept walking.   Her hand held Dan’s securely, setting a pace he struggled to match.   The warmth beneath his overalls was fading. As it cooled, the hidden garment seemed to thicken. What had felt soft and indistinct on the trailer now settled into a dense, clammy shape between his thighs, forcing his legs into a slightly wider gait.   Dan tried walking normally.   The padding dragged against him. He shortened one stride, lengthened the next and nearly clipped Hannah’s heel.   She glanced back.   “Slow down.”   “You’re pulling me.”   Hannah adjusted her pace without releasing his hand.   Dan looked down at their joined fingers. He wanted to take his hand back, but doing so would require admitting that he had allowed her to lead him this far.   The damp material shifted with every step. It had absorbed whatever had happened on the ride, yet nothing showed through the green cotton. Only its ordinary bulk seemed more noticeable now that Dan knew it was there, pressing against the overalls and making him conscious of the smiling apple hidden beneath his coat.   He reached down to adjust it.   Hannah caught his wrist.   “Leave it.”   “It’s sliding.”   “No, it isn’t.”   “How do you know?”   “I checked.”   The quiet certainty of her answer silenced him.   She redirected his hand into hers and continued walking.   Ahead, Nate and Sophie had stopped beside a painted sign shaped like a goat.   FEED OUR FRIENDS! ONE CUP — TWO DOLLARS   Several miniature goats pressed against the fence beneath it. Children stood along the rails holding paper cups of pellets while the animals stretched their necks through square gaps in the wire.   Sophie was already feeding coins into the dispenser.   Nate looked at Dan.   “You want one?”   Dan almost said no.   A small brown goat shoved its nose through the fence and bleated at him.   “Yes.”   Nate bought another cup. He placed it in Dan’s hands and waited until both had closed around it before letting go.   The gesture was subtle enough that Dan might have imagined its intention.   He carried the cup toward the fence.   The padding impeded his stride. He could not walk with his knees close together, and every attempt made the thick centre rub heavily against him. His feet turned outward to compensate.   A child darted across his path.   Dan stopped too suddenly. The pellets shifted to one side of the cup. His hands followed too late, and several spilled into the grass.   Three goats lunged toward the fence.   Dan stepped back.   “It’s okay,” Sophie said.   “I know.”   She came to stand beside him.   A white goat pushed its head through the wire. Dan extended the cup cautiously. The animal buried its muzzle inside, snorting and chewing.   Dan smiled despite himself.   Then the goat jerked the cup downward.   Dan cried out.   His hands released it.   The paper cup fell inside the pen. Goats converged at once, trampling it beneath their hooves.   Dan backed into Sophie.   Her hands closed around his upper arms.   “You’re all right.”   “I wasn’t scared.”   “No.”   “It surprised me.”   “I know.”   She did not laugh. Neither did Nate.   Dan looked at the goats fighting over the crushed cup.   His right hand had risen to his mouth.   The knuckle of his thumb rested between his lips.   He pulled it away.   Nobody seemed to have noticed.   Hannah approached with a napkin.   “There’s feed on your hands.”   Dan held them out. She brushed crushed pellets from his palms and cleaned the dirt from his fingers. When she finished, she folded the napkin over itself and wiped around his mouth.   “I didn’t get any there.”   “You had something.”   She tucked the napkin into her handbag.   Dan glanced at Sophie.   She was watching one of the goats climb onto a wooden spool as though nothing unusual had happened.   Nate rested a hand on Dan’s shoulder.   “Games?”   The nearest stall offered ring toss. Glass bottles had been arranged on three stepped shelves beneath rows of inexpensive prizes: plush pumpkins, stuffed crows, plastic whistles and smiling apples with felt leaves.   A chalkboard promised three rings for five dollars.   Nate paid before Dan could.   The attendant placed three wooden rings on the counter.   Dan took the first.   The bottles were not far away. He had played this kind of game at bars and fairs before. The trick was not throwing too hard.   He swung once and released.   The ring struck the front edge of the platform and bounced into the sawdust.   Nate leaned against the counter.   “Warm-up.”   Dan took the second.   His coat sleeve caught slightly at the elbow. The ring left his hand too late and sailed over the bottles.   A little boy waiting beside them laughed.   The boy’s father shushed him.   Dan stared at the final ring.   The padding between his legs had cooled into an unpleasant clamminess. He shifted his stance, searching for one that felt natural. Too narrow compressed it. Too wide made him feel ridiculous.   “Take your time,” Sophie said.   He wished she had said nothing.   Dan drew back his arm.   The attendant touched the counter and indicated a faded yellow line halfway between him and the bottles.   “You can use the helper line.”   Dan looked at her.   He had assumed it was for children.   “I’m fine here.”   He threw.   The ring clipped a bottle and spun away.   The child behind them laughed again.   Heat rushed into Dan’s face. He turned from the counter.   Nate collected another set of rings from the attendant.   “Come here.”   “I’m done.”   Nate placed a hand between Dan’s shoulder blades and guided him to the yellow line.   “Right there.”   The bottles looked insultingly close.   Nate put one ring in Dan’s hand and adjusted his fingers around it.   “Easy throw.”   Dan pulled his arm away.   “I know how to throw.”   “Show me.”   The old tone returned for a moment—competitive, familiar, almost normal.   Dan aimed.   His hand moved forward.   The ring left his fingers, turned once and dropped neatly around the neck of a green bottle.   A bell rang behind the counter.   Dan stared.   “There he is,” Nate said.   Sophie applauded. Hannah squeezed Dan’s shoulder.   The attendant reached toward the lower row of prizes.   “You can choose one from here.”   Dan looked at the plush toys.   “I don’t need a prize.”   “You won it,” Hannah said.   The attendant held up a smiling pumpkin and a black crow.   Dan hesitated.   The crow was small enough to fit inside a coat pocket. Its wings were made of soft black corduroy, and its stitched expression looked mildly offended.   “That one.”   The attendant handed it to him.   Dan took it with both hands.   “Good choice,” she said.   He disliked the approving note in her voice.   Nate ruffled his hair.   Dan ducked away. “Stop.”   But he tucked the crow beneath one arm instead of giving it back.   They moved farther along the lane.   The games grew louder. Bells rang. Wooden mallets struck painted targets. A row of miniature pumpkins sat on pedestals for a beanbag knockdown game.   Dan’s attention caught on each stall and released slowly. The signs were bright. The rules were simple. Crowds gathered and dispersed around them.   He no longer knew what they were doing next.   That realization bothered him less than it should have.   Hannah and Sophie were discussing caramel apples. Nate wanted to try the strength tester. Dan followed between them, the little black crow compressed beneath his arm.   The strength tester stood beneath a red canopy. A painted tower rose above a rubber striking pad, numbered from SEEDLING at the bottom to MIGHTY OAK at the top.   Nate paid and accepted the mallet.   His first strike drove the marker almost to the bell.   Sophie cheered. Nate bowed.   Hannah tried next. Her marker reached SAPLING, and she laughed until Nate kissed her forehead and declared the machine rigged.   Dan held out his hand for the mallet.   Hannah looked at him.   “What?”   “Do you want to try?”   “That’s why I’m holding my hand out.”   Nate passed it over.   The mallet was heavier than Dan expected. Its weight dragged his arms downward. He adjusted his grip, but the plush crow remained trapped beneath one elbow.   “Give me that,” Sophie said.   She took the crow from him.   Dan lifted the mallet.   The padding shifted with the movement. Raising his arms tightened the overalls across his middle, compressing the damp garment beneath them. His balance tipped backward.   Nate’s hand steadied his waist.   “I’ve got you.”   Dan shook him off.   He raised the mallet over his head and swung.   The rubber head struck the edge of the pad.   The force twisted the handle from his hands.   It landed in the sawdust with a heavy thump.   Dan stumbled forward, caught one foot against the other and dropped to his knees.   The impact drove the cold padding upward around him.   For one awful second, he could not rise.   His coat had ridden up. He knew the smiling apple was fully visible. The padding rounded the seat beneath the cotton, making the print stand out more clearly than it had before.   Nate reached him first.   “All right, up we go.”   He hooked both hands beneath Dan’s arms and lifted him.   Dan’s feet found the ground after the rest of him. He stood unsteadily against Nate’s chest while Sophie retrieved the mallet.   “I slipped,” Dan said.   “Sure.”   “My shoe caught.”   Hannah crouched.   Dan looked down.   His right lace was loose again.   She retied it without comment.   The attendant picked sawdust from the front of Dan’s overalls.   “No harm done.”   Dan’s thumb had returned to his mouth.   He did not realize until Hannah stood and removed it gently.   “No dirty hands.”   She held his wrist while wiping his fingers.   Dan watched her clean them.   Around them, the game continued. Someone struck the bell. People applauded. The little marker rose and fell along the tower.   The world had not paused for his fall.   Sophie returned the plush crow. Dan pressed it against his chest.   The soft fabric felt good beneath his fingers.   “Maybe something quieter,” she suggested.   Nobody asked Dan.   They moved toward a long covered table where visitors could decorate caramel apples. Bowls of toppings sat beneath clear lids: sprinkles, chopped nuts, crushed biscuits and miniature chocolate pieces.   Hannah purchased four apples.   Dan stood at the table between her and Sophie. Nate remained behind them, carrying the coats they had removed and the paper bag of Dan’s wet clothes.   A farm worker inserted wooden sticks into the apples and dipped each one in hot caramel.   Dan watched the amber coating run in slow ribbons.   “Wait until it stops dripping,” the worker instructed.   Dan nodded.   He immediately tilted his apple toward the toppings.   Caramel slid over the edge of the paper tray and onto his fingers.   Hannah caught his wrist before he dropped it.   “Careful.”   “It’s hot.”   “I know. Hold it straight.”   She adjusted his fingers around the stick and kept her hand beneath his until the dripping slowed.   Sophie opened the container of crushed biscuits.   “Which ones?”   Dan looked at the choices.   There were too many.   The coloured sprinkles looked childish. The chopped nuts would be difficult to eat. The chocolate pieces were melting near the heat lamps. He tried to decide and felt his thoughts stall.   “Dan?”   He pointed vaguely toward the biscuits.   Sophie poured them into his tray.   “Roll it.”   Dan lowered the apple. The caramel caught against the crumbs. He rolled too hard, tipping it onto its side.   Hannah righted it and placed her hand over his.   “Slowly.”   Together, they turned the apple through the topping.   When it was finished, crushed biscuits coated one side thickly while the other remained almost bare.   Dan stared at it.   “It looks good,” Sophie said.   Her tone was encouraging again.   Hannah set the apple upright in a cardboard holder to cool. Then she wiped caramel from Dan’s fingers.   He watched Nate decorate his own apple at the end of the table. Nate had chosen nuts and dark chocolate. Sophie leaned against his shoulder, stealing pieces of topping from his tray.   They looked like a couple on an autumn date.   Dan looked at Hannah.   She was rubbing between his fingers with a damp wipe.   He leaned closer.   Hannah glanced up.   For one hopeful moment, he believed she understood.   Then she smiled, touched the tip of his nose and returned to cleaning his hand.   “Nearly done.”   Dan’s thumb moved toward his mouth.   Hannah intercepted it.   “Still sticky.”   She placed the plush crow into his cleaned hand instead.   Dan held it.   The apples needed ten minutes to set. They carried the cardboard stands toward a nearby seating area made from hay bales around an unlit firepit.   Dan attempted to sit.   The cold shape beneath his overalls met the compacted hay. The padding spread awkwardly, forcing his hips forward. He nearly slid from the edge.   Nate caught him by the shoulders and moved him farther back.   “Right there.”   Dan was seated before he understood that Nate had repositioned him.   Sophie placed the crow in his lap. Hannah set his caramel apple beside it.   Then the three of them began discussing what they had left to do.   Dan listened.   Pumpkin patch. Farm shop. Haunted barn. A photo area somewhere near the sunflowers.   Their voices moved around him.   The damp padding felt colder now that he was still. Its weight pressed downward while the close overalls held it in place. Dan shifted once.   Hannah, still talking to Sophie, rested a hand on his knee.   He stopped.   The pressure between his thighs remained. So did the strange calm that followed every time somebody decided where his hands, feet or body belonged.   Dan looked down at the crow.   His thumb slipped into his mouth.   This time, nobody removed it.   The soft pad rested securely against his tongue. He drew on it once, then again. His breathing slowed.   Nate’s voice became easier to follow.   “Photo first,” he was saying. “Before we lose the light.”   Sophie agreed.   Hannah stroked Dan’s knee absently.   He sat among the hay bales with the plush crow in his lap, his caramel apple cooling beside him and his thumb held warm between his lips.   Across the field, someone screamed inside the haunted barn.   Dan flinched.   His mouth closed more tightly around his thumb.   Nate looked toward the sound.   A grin slowly appeared on his face.   But he said nothing yet.   *   The photograph area stood beside a field of late sunflowers.   Someone had constructed an autumn scene against the side of a red barn: stacked hay bales, wooden crates, baskets of apples and pumpkins arranged with improbable precision. A painted sign hung above it.   CAPTURE YOUR HONEYCRISP MEMORY   A photographer in a rust-coloured cardigan stood beside a tripod. A small printer hummed on the table behind her, pushing glossy photographs into a wire tray.   Nate approached first.   “Four people?”   The photographer looked over the group.   “Perfect. Come on in.”   Sophie handed the caramel apples to Nate. Hannah took the plush crow from Dan’s lap and guided him up from the hay bale.   The cooling padding resisted when he stood. It had settled densely between his thighs, holding his legs apart even after he found his balance. He took one awkward step and felt its centre drag against him.   His hand moved down.   Hannah intercepted it.   “Not now.”   “I’m just fixing—”   “You’re fine.”   She placed the crow back into his hands.   Dan followed them toward the backdrop.   Nate and Sophie climbed onto the highest hay bale. Hannah started to join them, then paused when the photographer pointed toward a smaller bale positioned at the front.   “Let’s put him here.”   Dan looked behind himself.   There was nobody else.   Hannah touched his shoulders and turned him toward the bale.   “I can stand.”   “It’ll balance the picture,” the photographer said.   The little bale was low enough that Dan had to lower himself carefully. The padding compressed beneath him and pushed against the backs of his thighs. Before he could decide whether to stand again, Hannah moved his feet closer together and placed the plush crow in his lap.   “Hold him up where we can see him.”   Dan looked at the toy.   “It’s not alive.”   The photographer laughed as though he had made a joke.   Hannah stepped onto the bale behind him. One hand settled on his shoulder. Nate and Sophie stood beside her, their bodies close together.   Dan sat alone at the front.   The photographer peered through the camera.   “Lovely. Everybody squeeze in.”   The three behind him leaned toward one another. Hannah’s hand remained on Dan’s shoulder, anchoring him below them.   “Dan,” she said quietly. “Look up.”   He had been studying the dark green fabric stretched across his lap.   He raised his head.   The photographer lowered the camera.   “Could we lose the coat? Just for one?”   Dan’s hand tightened around the crow.   “No.”   “The overalls are perfect with the set.”   Hannah was already unzipping his coat.   “It’s cold.”   “It’ll take five seconds.”   She pulled the coat from his shoulders. Nate accepted it and folded it over one arm.   Without it, nothing concealed the unfamiliar shape of Dan’s overalls. The padding beneath them widened his waist and prevented the cotton from settling naturally around his hips. The bib sat high against his chest. The smiling apple across his backside was hidden only because he was sitting directly on it.   Hannah smoothed his sweater beneath the straps.   The photographer adjusted her lens.   “Much better.”   Dan looked at the camera.   A gust moved across the sunflower field. Without his coat, cold reached his face and arms. Beneath the overalls, however, the padded garment retained its stale warmth. The contrast made his skin prickle.   His thumb touched his lower lip.   The photographer lifted one hand.   “Everyone look here.”   Dan’s thumb slipped into the corner of his mouth.   Warmth closed around it.   The camera flashed.   He blinked.   “Beautiful,” the photographer said. “One more.”   Hannah’s hand squeezed his shoulder.   Nate said something behind him that made Sophie laugh. Dan could not follow it. His attention had narrowed to the steady pressure of his thumb against his tongue and the faint suction created whenever his mouth moved.   The sensation softened the noise around him.   He drew once.   The camera flashed again.   “Got it.”   Everyone moved at once.   Hannah retrieved Dan’s coat. Nate helped Sophie down from the hay bale. The photographer returned to the printer.   Dan remained seated.   His thumb stayed in his mouth.   A thin thread of saliva had escaped at the corner and cooled against his chin. He felt it but did not immediately understand what it was.   Hannah crouched in front of him.   “Up.”   Dan looked at her.   She took the crow from his lap, then caught both his hands. His thumb left his mouth with a soft, wet sound.   Cold air touched it.   Hannah wiped his chin with her sleeve.   Dan’s face warmed.   “What—”   “Come on.”   She pulled him upright.   The padding released from the hay bale with a crinkle. Its weight settled between his legs, making him sway forward. Hannah steadied him at the waist and put his coat back on him one arm at a time.   By the time the zipper reached his chest, the printer had finished.   The photographer placed two glossy photographs into a cardboard sleeve. On the front, Captain Honeycrisp held a camera beneath the words:   OUR PERFECT AUTUMN DAY   Nate paid for the pictures.   “One for each couple,” he said.   The photographer hesitated.   Her gaze moved from Nate and Sophie to Hannah, then down to Dan.   “Of course.”   Dan saw the hesitation.   The four of them moved away from the backdrop before opening the sleeve.   Nate removed the first photograph.   Sophie leaned against him to look. Hannah took the second.   Dan stood beside her.   For several seconds, the image did not make sense.   Nate and Sophie stood together at the back, smiling like the married couple they were. Sophie’s hand rested lightly on the curve beneath her coat. Hannah stood beside them with one hand on the shoulder of the person seated in front.   Dan knew that person was himself.   Knowing did not make the figure familiar.   He looked smaller in the photograph. Not physically smaller, perhaps, but reduced by the arrangement. The low hay bale placed his head below everyone else’s shoulders. The overalls broadened his waist and bunched around his knees. His legs were separated by the hidden padding beneath them.   The plush crow sat in his lap.   His thumb was planted securely in the corner of his mouth.   His cheeks had hollowed slightly around it.   A wet line ran from his lower lip to his chin, glinting in the flash.   Dan stared.   “No.”   Hannah glanced at him. “What?”   “I don’t do that.”   She looked at the photograph again.   “Do what?”   “That.”   He pointed at his own mouth.   His hand trembled slightly. Before he could stop it, his thumb returned to the crook of his lips.   The words came around it, softened and indistinct.   “I don’t shuck my thumb.”   Nate looked up from the other copy.   For one second, silence held.   Then he laughed.   Not cruelly. Almost with relief.   “Dan.”   “I don’t.”   His tongue moved unconsciously along the side of his thumb. A wet slurp interrupted the sentence.   Sophie covered a smile.   Dan pulled his hand away.   “Stop laughing.”   “You’ve always done that when you’re stressed,” Nate said.   Dan stared at him.   “No, I haven’t.”   “Mate, you absolutely have.”   “In college?” Sophie asked.   “All the time during exams.”   Dan searched Nate’s face.   That was impossible.   They had shared a dorm room for two years. Dan remembered late-night study sessions, instant noodles, energy drinks and collapsing fully dressed onto his bed. He remembered Nate pacing while memorizing case studies. He remembered himself—   The image would not complete.   He tried to picture his hand holding a pen.   Instead, he saw the thumb resting against his lips.   “You’re making that up.”   Nate’s smile faded.   “I’m not.”   “Hannah?”   Dan turned to her.   She was still looking at the photograph. Her thumb brushed absently over the image of his face.   “You do it at home sometimes,” she said.   “When?”   “When you’re tired. Watching television. If you fall asleep on the sofa.”   “No.”   The denial emerged too quickly, blurred by the return of his thumb.   Hannah looked directly at it.   Dan had not felt his hand rise.   He jerked it away.   Sophie touched his arm.   “It’s not a big deal.”   “It’s weird.”   “Only because you’re making it weird.”   The words were mild. Reasonable.   They landed like a trap closing.   Dan looked at the photograph again.   He tried to summon a counter-image: himself on Monday morning, clean-shaven and dressed for work. He had worn the pale blue shirt. There was still a faint coffee mark inside the left cuff; he had noticed it while fastening the button and decided nobody would see.   White collar. Dark trousers. ID card clipped at his waist. Coffee in one hand, laptop bag over the opposite shoulder.   For an instant, he saw it.   Then the picture altered.   The waist of his trousers thickened. The belt disappeared beneath a soft, padded swell. The fabric drooped at the seat. His laptop bag slipped from fingers occupied by the plush crow. His thumb entered his mouth, drawing his cheek inward. A line of saliva shone against the crisp blue collar.   Dan forced the image away.   What did he normally wear to the office?   He knew the answer.   He could list every item.   He simply could not make himself appear inside them.   Hannah slid the photograph into its cardboard sleeve.   “We’ll put this one on the fridge.”   “No.”   She tucked it into her handbag.   The picture disappeared alongside the wipes, powder and impossible folded supplies.   Dan looked at the bag.   His thumb touched his mouth once more.   Hannah took his hand before it entered.   “Let’s go somewhere warm.”