Winner, Winnie Davis Neely Award in Fiction, 2025

(ORIGINAL VERSION; NOT COPY EDITED) The only family in Bustletown with invisible children was the Andersons. There were three of them, these invisible children, each one more polite than the last. So it came as a surprise when Macy Tippman claimed that they had dug a dozen holes in her front yard and tracked mud all over her driveway.

It must have happened sometime while Mrs. Tippman was cleaning teeth at the dentist’s office. If you happened to be sitting on your porch nearby when she arrived home from work with a carload of groceries for the week, you would have heard the click-clack of her heels hitting the driveway, followed by a muttered “What is this mud?” Then you would have heard a screech, brown paper bags tearing, and the clatter of cans hitting the concrete. Her front lawn looked as if a well-meaning gardener had tried to plant an orchard and forgot to fill in the holes with saplings

Macy Tippman forgot her groceries and ran next door as fast as her pink pencil skirt would allow her, stomping up the Andersons’ front steps. She knocked rapidly and sat back on her heels, clicking her tongue in disdain as she surveyed the view of her front lawn. She could imagine little trowels pecking at her pristine grass, dancing up and down until it became a mudpit. She could imagine those trowels being handled by the invisible Andersons.

Whitney Anderson answered the door. She was a short woman, round in the jaw, with cinnamon brown eyes and a pleasant resting face. “Hello Macy,” she said.

“Whitney, hi, how are you?” Macy Tippman’s smile nearly overpowered her words. “I just got home and I found a ton of little holes dug in my yard! You didn’t see anyone poking around did you?”

“Oh, I did not.” Whitney peeked out the door frame to look at the lawn in question. “Oh my gosh, that is a lot of mud. I didn’t notice that this morning.”

“Your children weren’t muddy this afternoon were they?” Mrs. Tippman butt in, still smiling. Her eyes flitted to somewhere behind Mrs. Anderson, as if she could spot the children. “My lawn was not like this in the morning because someone dug it all up.” A southern drawl was starting to sneak into her words.

“Oh... dear,” Mrs. Anderson paused and fiddled with a fleck of loose paint on the door jamb. “Not that I know of, I’ll ask them though.” Her cheeks began to splotch red. “I wouldn’t have been able to tell, you know. If something’s touching them for more than ten minutes or so it starts to lose its color and fade away.”

“I understand! I just thought that everyone else would have been in school,” Mrs. Tippman said, drawing out the final syllable in ‘school.’ “But you please tell me if they know anything.” Mrs. Tippman turned around sharply and shuffled down the Andersons’ front steps. The wood squeaked with each step she took.

This accusation must have been just as shocking for Mrs. Anderson as it was for Mrs. Tippman. If you ran into the Anderson family on the street and asked them how their day was, a disembodied voice might respond, “Quite well, we’re on our way home to weed the herb garden!” Or they might say “It’s a wonderful day! Our mom bought us Bomb-Pops!”

“Their mother’s a smart woman to raise them so agreeable,” the citizens of Bustletown would tell one another when they chit-chatted at the post-office.

You would never need to worry about being surprised by one of the Anderson children, since they would always announce their presence with a cheerful “Hello! How are you?” fromsomewhere beside you on the sidewalk. Although, it was almost impossible to distinguish between the Anderson brothers, Bruno and Matty. They both had a young tinny voice, only one year apart. But Elaina’s voice was much higher. Her recognizability, along with her charming lisp, probably contributed to being doted on by the neighbors.

It was an odd sight to walk past the Anderson home, fashioned exactly like the rest of the houses on the cul-de-sac. Boxy green bushes; dark flat roof; flower boxes that puffed with carnations and mums. On any given day, you might see a tricycle animated by Bruno Anderson, rattling up and down the driveway. There might be a garden hose, caught up in the air like a snake dancing for a charmer. And always, Whitney Anderson sat outside on a lawn chair whenever her children were on the front lawn. You would never see them without her. Well, you never saw them–but she was always nearby.

Bustletown liked it this way. They never needed to worry that an invisible child might shoplift from their stores or peer through their windows at night. The Andersons’ neighbors liked how they built a privacy fence around their backyard. Conventionally, their cul-de-sac would not have allowed a homeowner to put up such a tall fence. The Bustltetown HOA prided itself on how they had preserved neighborliness throughout the decades. It was named one of America’s top ten most friendly small towns by the Home & Garden magazine. But one day, a paper showed up on the Andersons’ front door, notifying them that a special provision had been made for them to put up a fence, if they wished.

“Oh, dear, it doesn’t disrupt the harmony of our neighborhood at all!” Macy Tippman told Whitney Anderson as it was being put up. “I can still see you weeding your herb garden through the little slats. I’m just glad your children will be safe. My nerves would be shot if Icould never tell where Johnny was, or what he was up to! They’ll be safe with the fence.” Macy Tippman smiled.

The elementary school teachers liked that Whitney chose to homeschool her children. Some say that Principal Danvers shredded Bruno Anderson’s application when his parents tried to enroll him in Kindergarten. People familiar with the matter say that Mr. Anderson, when he was still alive, once disrupted a school board meeting by starting a shouting match with Principal Danvers. Rumor says Mr. Anderson pulled the Principal out into the parking lot to talk privately. When they came back, the Principal’s nose was broken but Mr. Andersons had given up on trying to enroll Bruno in school.

After Whitney Anderson allowed several hours for her neighbor to calm down, she attempted to keep the peace by offering a tray of cookies and free labor from her children to patch up the holes in the Tippmans’ yard.

“They were inside almost all day,” Mrs. Anderson said in an apologetic tone, “And they all said they didn’t step foot on your lawn. I’m sorry, they really don’t know how it happened. Are you sure that there aren’t gophers burrowing somewhere nearby?” Her smile was weak, as if she was ashamed that her children were innocent.

Mrs. Tippman waved off the offer for help but accepted the cookie platter.

“The only time I didn’t have my eye on them was when I napped, but that was for thirty minutes. I’ll tell them to watch your yard for you!” And she smiled, so innocently. Whitney Anderson once won the county pageant off of that smile. It reminded the judges of all the love they had ever received from their grandmothers and mothers. Her smile looked like apple pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

“Maybe you can find a babysitter for when you need to nap,” Mrs. Tippman said, folding her arms. But she regretted saying it immediately. In truth, she shared the town’s pity for Whitney Anderson–once a beloved FFA judge and county queen, now a secluded widow. Mrs. Tippman worried that her neighbor might not have the extra budget to hire a babysitter. Speculations circled through the busybodies of Bustletown on how Mrs. Anderson continued to support herself. Her husband died in a car crash involving a drunk Amazon delivery driver. Everyone expected that the ensuing wrongful death lawsuit would net her millions of dollars; enough to retire off of. Instead, she settled out of court.

The reporters were already sniffing around the neighborhood, driving slowly past her house in a variety of ratty cars. Rumors of invisible children were about to explode onto the front page of whatever newspaper would believe it to be true. Instead, it appeared that Mrs. Anderson was willing to take a lower number (never disclosed) to keep her family out of the spotlight.

Mrs. Tippman spent the next several hours filling up the holes in her lawn and huffing unnecessarily loud. With each hole that disappeared her demeanor grew calmer. After all, it wasn’t Whitney’s fault that she gave birth to invisible kids. She ran off to college in the Big City and dragged Warren Anderson back home with her. He looked as much of a citizen of Bustletown as a Doberman looked a Bluejay. Everyone suspected it was a mutation in his genes that caused the transparency.

When Thomas Tippman, Macy’s son, arrived home from school, he hurried off the bus with his backpack bouncing side-to-side.

“I’ve got a book I need to give to Matty!” he shouted as he ran up the driveway. He explained to his mother that Matty’s family only visited the library once a week, because the librarian kept giving them dirty looks (or suspiciously glancing where she suspected the children might be.) So Matty asked Thomas to pick up the next book in a series for him.

Mrs. Tippman squatted down to put her hand on her son’s arm. “Thomas, you don’t need to do that. The Andersons are...”

“But he’s my friend!” Thomas said, loudly

Mrs. Tippman frowned and let Thomas run back inside. All was quiet on the street, besides the background sounds of the neighborhood: the buzz of street lights flickering on, a basketball lazily smacking the pavement, a car sputtering into its garage. She could hear the Andersons faint laughter from their backyard.

Several days later, near sundown, Pastor Radley from the First Christian Church pulled up to the Anderson home in his red Volkswagen. He unfolded himself from the driver’s seat in a way that looked painful. He had a thin, friendly face, with piercing German cheekbones.

Pastor Radley entered their home, waving away Whitney’s apology for missing last Sunday's service. One could only guess that this house visit was related to the fears of the Giffords. On Sunday, they asked for prayer for their home; they said it was demonized. Saturday night they saw condensation blooming on their dining room window–as if someone’s breath were fogging the glass. The only issue: no one was outside. It was easy to imagine the poor Giffords’ family dinner being spoiled by their fears. But it was hard to imagine Pastor Radley lecturing the Anderson children. He often used them as an illustration in his sermons, when they were present, and even when they weren’t.

“Jesus welcomed the little children,” he would say, in a whisper-tone tinged with a German accent. “I’m sure that he did not choose one to love more than another.” He would adjust his wire-frame glasses which slipped to the tip of his nose. “I believe that Jesus Christ would have hugged your children. He would have hugged the foreigner’s children. And he would have hugged the invisible children.”

Pastor Radley’s car rumbled away from the Anderson home several hours past dinnertime. Whitney followed him out with a cardboard box full of zucchini and stashed them in his trunk. She waited on the sidewalk as he pulled away. The next Sunday, the Andersons tumbled into church, three minutes late per usual. Whitney Anderson power-walked towards the building in a flowery dress, and it was an odd sight to see when she arrived at the doors. They were not automatic, yet they opened seemingly of their own volition. She stopped to make sure that the doors closed behind her, resting her hand on some invisible presence in front of her, guiding it forward.

After service, Whitney could be heard telling Pastor Radley that “my children were in bed by eight, I don’t know how they could have snuck out. The Giffords live a mile away I don’t think that...” before he pulled her into his office to talk privately.

The following week Thomas Tippman ran across the line of mowed grass that divided his lawn from the Andersons’. There was a stark difference in the color of grass that surrounded the two houses. The Andersons’ lawn held a pale yellow undertone.

Thomas Tippman stopped short a couple paces onto his neighbor’s property.

“Matty?” he said, leaning forward.

“I’m over here!” Matty said, from underneath the porch.

Thomas ran over, dropped to his knees and crawled under the porch next to his friend. His fingers poked through the latticework that surrounded the front deck.

“Wow,” he whispered. “You can really spy on anyone from down here.”

“Yeah! Did your mom let you come over?” Matty asked, changing the subject.

“I asked my dad,” Thomas said.

“Hm, good.” When Matty’s voice went quiet, the only way to tell he was still there was by the dead leaves rustling under him. After the pause, Matty finally asked, “So, did you bring anything to experiment with?”

The sound of a plastic bag being unfurled could be heard, dampened by the confinement of the crawlspace. “I brought some food! I have a donut that my mom didn’t eat. And I have a can of tomato soup. And, um, I have an orange.”

“Perfect!” said Matty.

More rustling could be heard, then their voices became too quiet to hear, besides a couple short giggles. Then, Thomas’s voice. “The can is gone! I can see– what the heck! It’s like there’s an invisible bowl. I feel like I’m on a space station right now.”

Thomas was shushed.

That night, the street looked tranquil. Lamplights clouding with gnats was the only sign of life. Then the Tippman’s screen door slammed open. Before the peace realized that it had been shattered, Mrs. Tippman was already pounding on the Andersons’ front door and howling. Her hair whipped around her head like a tornado as she jerked forward to smack the window. Thomassat on the front steps crying, with his blond head in his hands. He jumbled up words speaking to himsefl and dragged ribbons of snot across his arm.

When Mrs. Anderson opened the door, all hell broke loose.

“If you think that I’m going to let your children contaminate this whole town then I don’t care where you’re from–you are not welcome here and you need to leave!” Her voice pitched up and echoed off every house in the cul-de-sac. “I’m not going to curse you out because Thomas is sitting right there–” she jabbed a finger at her son, “--and he’s afraid for his life! He didn’t know what he was getting himself into and Matty needs to come here and–no actually–I don’t want to see him, or hear him, or whatever! Keep him in his room until the police arrive!”

Doors across the street were beginning to crack open and inquisitive eyes peered out.

Mrs. Anderson puffed up into a stance that blocked her doorway. Light still spilled out from around her short frame and blasted the porch with a bright warm haze. To the eyes of all her neighbors, she looked like an alien backlit by its mothership. She tried to close her door and step out onto the porch, but Mrs. Tippman blocked her.

You couldn’t hear what Mrs. Anderson said to her, but the reaction was immediate.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?!” Mrs. Tippman stomped her foot and called Thomas up next to her. He uncurled himself and began crawling up the porch, slowly. “I’m trying to put Thomas to bed,” she started, “and when he takes off his shirt there’s nothing there! He’s sobbing all over me and I’m trying to understand what’s happened to him! I don’t know if this counts as some form of terrorism or–”

Mrs. Anderson tried to scoot forward and close the door behind her again, but Mrs. Tippman shrieked and recoiled. “Do not touch me! I barely got Thomas to tell me that your Matty was experimenting with food and gave him whatever sickness your husband had!”

Mrs. Tippman then leaned over to coax her son into speaking.

“I ate an invisible orange and– and– my stomach–” Thomas tried to say between sobs. “I wanted to know what it was like to be invis– invisible.” When he finished, his chest began to heave with tears. Then Thomas lifted up his night-shirt. The whole neighborhood could see Mrs. Anderson straight through where his belly was supposed to be. Sirens could be heard in the distance.

Rumor says the Andersons moved north to stay with the late Mr. Anderson’s parents. But Bustletown gossip doesn’t feature the Andersons as heavily any longer. The only place you might hear their name spoken would be on a Sunday morning at First Christian Church, when Pastor Radley’s voice drops low, and he shares about loving thy neighbor.