Clay McLeod Chapman writes books, comic books, children's books, and for film/TV. His most recent novels include What Kind of Mother and Acquired Taste.

Stay On the Line by Clay McLeod Chapman

After a small coastal town is devastated by a hurricane, the survivors gravitate toward a long out-of-service payphone in hopes of talking out their grief and saying goodbye to loved ones, only for it to begin ringing on its own. As more townspeople answer the call, friends and family believed to have been lost to the storm begin searching for a way back home.

This novelette features several new illustrations by Trevor Henderson.

 

REVIEWS

  • "This book is a literary punch to the heart."

    – New York Times
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

Seems cruel that Aubrey took everything but the phone booth. Of all the things Brandywine had to offer that goddamn hurricane, you'd think a disconnected payphone was ripe for the picking. Ma Bell had cut service ages ago, rendering it dead, but nobody from AT&T ever got around to removing the booth. They just left it there in the parking lot, a freestanding shack of cracked glass overlooking the marina, not doing anybody a lick of good. The rusted insides were covered in all kinds of graffiti, a kudzu of scribbles and dicks that only grew thicker throughout the years. Kids never even had a clue what a payphone was, what it was once used for, well before their hormones kicked in and turned it into an impromptu kissing booth. I was always catching young couples making out inside it nearly every night, looking like yet another pair of Japanese fighting fish crammed into an aquarium. Never had the heart to kick them out.

Let 'em peck, I thought. At least the booth was still good for something.

You kissed me in there plenty of times. How many tipsy nights ended with the two of us slipping into the booth, sealing ourselves in, pressing our backs against the glass and diving in?

It should've been the booth that got swept away.

Not you.

Shelby always thought it was the tiniest lighthouse. Still does. I remember one night listening to you spin this yarn as you tucked her into bed, talking about the booth as if it was a long-extinct beast. Just another one of your handmade fairy tales, this one about some mythical unicorn of telecommunication. "Once upon a time," you started in like you always started, "a long, long while ago, long before there were cell phones or Wi-Fi, your mommy and daddy had to chat using these big ol' phones rooted to the ground. We all called them landlines."

"What's a landline?" Shelby asked.

"Well. . . they were like trees growing out from the earth, connected together by miles of wires. Everybody had one in their house. Some still do. But a phone booth didn't belong to anybody. It was for everyone. You'd step into that glass cubby and close the door, sealing yourself in, pick the phone up and bring it to your ear, drop a quarter in, then dial. You couldn't move around. Couldn't wander away. You had to stay put. All you could do was just. . . talk."

Shelby still didn't believe you, all four years of herself. "Nuh-huh, you're lying. . ."

"Hand to God, that's what they were used for."

"You mean I can call anybody I want?"

"Well. . . Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it doesn't work now, sugar. The phone's been turned off. Wires have been cut."

"Then why's it still out there?"

"To remind us how things used to be, I reckon. How far we've come."