A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre: Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous (21 page)

Suddenly the bedroom door was knocked back, and Cinderella, having a big time of it, charged into the room with her arms held out in front of her yelling, “Woooo, woooo, goats.”

Widow Case let out a laugh. Cinderella ran around the room yelling, “Woooo, woooo, goats,” until she tripped over the coffee table and sent the sandwich makings and herself flying.

Preacher Judd, who’d followed her in after a second, went over and helped her up. The Widow Case, who had curled up on the couch in natural defense against the flying food and retarded girl, now uncurled when she saw something dangling on Preacher Judd’s arm. She knew what it was, but she asked anyway. “What’s that?”

“One of your piller cases. For a trick-or-treat sack.” “Oh,” Widow Case said stiffly, and she went to straightening up the coffee table and picking the ham and makings off the floor.

Preacher Judd saw that the sun was no longer visible. He walked over to a window and looked out. The tumble bug of night was even more blue-black now and the moon was out, big as a dinner plate, and looking like it had gravy stains on it.

“I think we’ve got to go now,” he said. “We’ll be back in a few hours, just long enough to run the houses around here.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Widow Case said. “Trick-or-treatin’ I can go for, but I can’t let my daughter go off with no strange man.”

“I ain’t strange. I’m a preacher.” “You strike me as an all right fella that wants to do things right, but I still can’t let you take my daughter off without me going. People would talk.”

Preacher Judd started to sweat. “I’ll pay you some money to let me take her on.”

Widow Case stared at him. She had moved up close now and he could smell root beer on her breath. Right then he knew what she’d done and he didn’t like it any. It wasn’t that he’d wanted it, but somehow it seemed dishonest to him that she swigged it without asking him. He thought she was going to pour it out. He started to say as much when she spoke up.

“I don’t like the sound of that none, you offering me money.”

“I just want her for the night,” he said, pulling Cinderella close to him. “She’d have fun.”

“I don’t like the sound of that no better. Maybe you ain’t as right thinking as I thought.”

Widow Case took a step back and reached the butcher knife off the table and pushed it at him. “I reckon you better just let go of her and run on out to that car of yours and take your ownself trick-or-treatin’. And without my piller case.”

“No ma’m, can’t do that. I’ve come for Cindy and that’s the thing God expects of me, and I’m going to do it. I got to do it. I didn’t do my sister right and she’s burning in hell. I’m doing Cindy right. She said some of a prayer and she’s baptized. Anything happened to her, wouldn’t be on my conscience.”

Widow Case trembled a bit. Cinderella lifted up her ghost-suit with her free hand to look at herself, and Widow Case saw that she was naked as a jay-bird underneath.

“You let go of her arm right now, you pervert. And drop that piller case… Toss it on the couch would be better. It’s clean.”

He didn’t do either.

Widow Case’s teeth went together like a bear trap and made about as much noise, and she slashed at him with the knife.

He stepped back out of the way and let go of Cinderella, who suddenly let out a screech, broke and ran, started around the room yelling, “Wooooo, wooooo, goats.”

Preacher Judd hadn’t moved quick enough, and the knife had cut through the pillow case, his coat and shirt sleeve, but hadn’t broke the skin.

When Widow Case saw her slashed pillow case fall to the floor, a fire went through her. The same fire that went through Preacher Judd when he realized his J.C. Penney’s suit coat which had cost him, with the pants, $39.95 on sale, was ruined.

They started circling one another, arms outstretched like wrestlers ready for the run together, and Widow Case had the advantage on account of having the knife.

But she fell for Preacher Judd holding up his left hand and wiggling two fingers like mule ears, and while she was looking at that, he hit her with a right cross and floored her. Her head hit the coffee table and the ham and fixings flew up again.

Preacher Judd jumped on top of her and held her knife hand down with one of his, while he picked up the ham with the other and hit her in the face with it, but the ham was so greasy it kept sliding off and he couldn’t get a good blow in.

Finally he tossed the ham down and started wrestling the knife away from her with both hands while she chewed on one of his forearms until he screamed.

Cinderella was still running about, going, “Wooooo, wooooo, goats,” and when she ran by the SYLVANIA, her arm hit the foil-wrapped rabbit ears and sent them flying.

Preacher Judd finally got the knife away from Widow Case, cutting his hand slightly in the process, and that made him mad. He stabbed her in the back as she rolled out from under him and tried to run off on all fours. He got on top of her again, knocking her flat, and he tried to pull the knife out. He pulled and tugged, but it wouldn’t come free. She was as strong as a cow and was crawling across the floor and pulling him along as he hung tight to the thick, wooden butcher knife handle. Blood was boiling all over the place.

Out of the corner of his eye, Preacher Judd saw that his retard was going wild, flapping around in her ghost-suit like a fat dove, bouncing off walls and tumbling over furniture. She wasn’t making the ghost sounds now. She knew something was up and she didn’t like it.

“Now, now,” he called to her as Widow Case dragged him across the floor, yelling all the while, “Bloody murder, I’m being kilt, bloody murder, bloody murder!”

“Shut up, goddamnit!” he yelled. Then, reflecting on his words, he turned his face heavenward. “Forgive me my language, God.” Then he said sweetly to Cinderella, who was in complete bouncing distress, “Take it easy, honey. Ain’t nothing wrong, not a thing.”

“Oh Lordy mercy, I’m being kilt!” Widow Case yelled. “Die, you stupid old cow.”

But she didn’t die. He couldn’t believe it, but she was starting to stand. The knife he was clinging to pulled him to his feet, and when she was up, she whipped an elbow around, whacked him in the ribs and sent him flying.

About that time, Cinderella broke through a window, tumbled onto the porch, over the edge and into the empty flowerbed.

Preacher Judd got up and ran at Widow Case, hitting her just above the knees and knocking her down, cracking her head a loud one on the SYLVANIA, but it still didn’t send her out. She was strong enough to grab him by the throat with both hands and throttle him.

As she did, he turned his head slightly away from her digging fingers, and through the broken window he could see his retarded ghost. She was doing a kind of two step, first to the left, then to the right, going, “Unhhh, unhhhh,” and it reminded Preacher Judd of one of them dances sinners do in them places with lots of blinking lights and girls up on pedestals doing lashes with their hips.

He made a fist and hit the widow a couple of times, and she let go of him and rolled away. She got up, staggered a second, then started running toward the kitchen, the knife still in her back, only deeper from having fallen on it.

He ran after her and she staggered into the wall, her hands hitting out and knocking one of the big iron frying pans off its peg and down on her head. It made a loud BONG, and Widow Case went down.

Preacher Judd let out a sigh. He was glad for that. He was tired. He grabbed up the pan and whammed her a few times, then, still carrying the pan, he found his hat in the living room and went out on the porch to look for Cinderella.

She wasn’t in sight.

He ran out in the front yard calling her, and saw her making the rear corner of the house, running wildly, hands close to the ground, her butt flashing in the moonlight every time the sheet popped up. She was heading for the woods out back.

He ran after her, but she made the woods well ahead of him. He followed in, but didn’t see her. “Cindy,” he called. “It’s me. Ole Preacher Judd. I come to read you some Bible verses. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Then he commenced to coo like he was talking to a baby, but still Cinderella did not appear.

He trucked around through the woods with his frying pan for half an hour, but didn’t see a sign of her. For a half-wit, she was a good hider.

Preacher Judd was covered in sweat and the night was growing slightly cool and the old Halloween moon was climbing to the stars. He felt like just giving up. He sat down on the ground and started to cry.

Nothing ever seemed to work out right. That night he’d taken his sister out hadn’t gone fully right. They’d gotten the candy and he’d brought her home, but later, when he tried to get her in bed with him for a little bit of the thing animals do without sin, she wouldn’t go for it, and she always had before. Now she was uppity over having a ghost-suit and going trick-or-treating. Worse yet, her wearing that sheet with nothing under it did something for him. He didn’t know what it was, but the idea of it made him kind of crazy.

But he couldn’t talk or bribe her into a thing. She ran out back and he ran after her and tackled her, and when he started doing to her what he wanted to do, out beneath the Halloween moon, underneath the apple tree, she started screaming. She could scream real loud, and he’d had to choke her some and beat her in the head with a rock. After that, he felt he should make like some kind of theft was at the bottom of it all, so he took all her Halloween candy.

He was sick thinking back on that night. Her dying without no God-training made him feel lousy. And he couldn’t get those TOOTSIE ROLLS out of his mind. There must have been three dozen of them. Later he got so sick from eating them all in one sitting that to this day he couldn’t stand the smell of chocolate.

He was thinking on these misfortunes, when he saw through the limbs and brush a white sheet go by.

Preacher Judd poked his head up and saw Cinderella running down a little path going, “Wooooo, wooooo, goats.”

She had already forgotten about him and had the ghost thing on her mind.

He got up and crept after her with his frying pan. Pretty soon she disappeared over a dip in the trail and he followed her down.

She was sitting at the bottom of the trail between two pines, and ahead of her was a clear lake with the moon shining its face in the water. Across the water the trees thinned, and he could see the glow of lights from a house. She was looking at those lights and the big moon in the water and was saying over and over, “Oh, priddy, priddy.”

He walked up behind her and said, “It sure is, sugar,” and he hit her in the head with the pan. It gave a real solid ring, kind of like the clap of a sweet church bell. He figured that one shot to the bean was sufficient, since it was a good overhand lick, but she was still sitting up and he didn’t want to be no slacker about things, so he hit her a couple more times, and by the second time, her head didn’t give a ring, just sort of a dull thump, like he was hitting a thick, rubber bag full of mud.

She fell over on what was left of her head and her butt cocked up in the air, exposed as the sheet fell down her back. He took a long look at it, but found he wasn’t interested in doing what animals do without sin anymore. All that hitting on the Widow Case and Cinderella had tuckered him out.

He pulled his arm way back, tossed the frying pan with all his might toward the lake. It went in with a soft splash. He turned back toward the house and his car, and when he got out to the road, he cranked up the Dodge and drove away noticing that the Halloween sky was looking blacker. It was because the moon had slipped behind some dark clouds. He thought it looked like a suffering face behind a veil, and as he drove away from the Case’s, he stuck his head out the window for a better look. By the time he made the hill that dipped down toward Highway 80, the clouds had passed along, and he’d come to see it more as a happy jack-o-lantern than a sad face, and he took that as a sign that he had done well.

FAMILY MAN

by John Bruni

A
stiff wind blows chills through my tightening skin, and the ground crunches beneath my feet. Laughter drifts through the streets, and the sweet scent of candy tickles the inside of my nose.

A small hand slips into my own, and I look down to see Dracula. Underneath the makeup and blood, my son smiles up at me, showing off his plastic fangs. His fingers are cold and sticky, which means he’s been sneaking into his trick-or-treat bag. I think I should say something, but the moment is too precious. Let his mother chide him later. Now is the time to enjoy the crisp autumn night.

My eyes meet with Suzette’s over Duane’s widow-peaked head. We rarely get to enjoy time together with our son these days because of work, and it’s good to see her eyes bubbling over with joy. Perhaps it’s the cool breeze that brings tears to her cheeks, but I doubt it.

We approach our house, and Duane stops to play with the skeleton in our front yard. The neighbors like our decorations. They believe we’re in the spirit of the season. We win local awards on a yearly basis.

Suzette pauses to keep an eye on our son, probably because she has noticed his shiny fingertips, and I clomp up the porch steps, fiddling in my pocket for the keys.

The first thing I notice is the candy dish. It has been overturned, and there are no treats on the deck. The sign, “Help yourself! Happy Halloween!” remains, and I can see a tiny sneaker-print on it.

Then I see the door, and my guts freeze as if the frigid air has managed to penetrate my skin.

There is a bloody handprint on the door, and it shows only four fingers. I know what has happened.

With a casual smile, I ease down the steps and approach Suzette. “Hey, baby.” I peck her on the cheek. “Why don’t you take Duane to Mrs. Starkey’s place for a while? You know how he likes her hot chocolate.”

She glances sidelong at me. “Are you all right, Sid?”

I try not to look behind me at the door. “Sure. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?” This time, she kisses me on the cheek. I barely register it as she leads Duane away; I am too focused on the open door, on the crimson handprint.