There was nothing on TV that night, so Jessy sat in the kitchen, listening to the big radio. It had a brown wooden frame and a fuzzy paneled front; she had no idea what kind of material it was. The window shade next to her was pulled down, and she felt warm and homey in the darkish room, in a small pool of light, still admiring her work with the cupboards, which were covered with pumpkins and angry black cats.
Suddenly she heard a sound on the other side of the window. A rushing, a whishing, then spattering. The wind had come up, and it was starting to rain outside.
Then a crack of thunder, abrupt and close to the house. Jessy opened the shade slightly, peeking out to peer into the darkness. The glass was blurred with water, and she saw a snap of lightning pop the backyard into bright, and then black again, leaving her blinking.
Her mom came rushing into the room, switched the radio off, then unplugged it.
“Mom,” Jessy started to complain.
“You go upstairs, and unplug your sister’s stereo. And all the lamps.”
She was already going over to yank the cords of the toaster and the coffee maker out of the wall. When Jessy went through the living room, the TV set was already dark, and the coffee table light was dark too. Only the double-bulbed light on the wall, controlled by the switch, was still on. Everything else was already unplugged.
Jessy and Twyla didn't know anyone else whose parents made them unplug the appliances during a thunderstorm, but they always did. If they left something plugged in, they were just asking to be hit by lightning, although it wasn't such a sure thing as, say, taking a bath, or talking on the telephone would be.
Twyla wasn't home -- she couldn't get out of her youth group just by being grounded. So Jessy rushed upstairs, with her license to trespass.
When she went into Twyla's room and turned on the light, the overhead bulb flickered slightly, and she saw a big flare of lightning in the window, like it was just inches on the other side of the glass.
Maybe they'd get really lucky, and the power would go out. They had some old-time kerosene lamps, with glass tubes and glass bulbs, full of ruby-red liquid. Her dad had picked them up at auction sales over the years, and cleaned them up. Even when the power did go out, their parents usually wouldn’t light them, but sometimes they did, and that was a big event.
Twyla’s room was mainly a big pile of clothes in two corners, and a bed in the third, everything seemingly centered around the shrine of stereo against the far wall. All her records were in cardboard boxes, neat and in order: a big box for albums, a smaller box for 45s, and a couple of shoeboxes for cassette tapes. Plus all the usual stuff, like old stuffed animals, black light posters, an incense burner.
Come to think of it, Twyla turned on the black light about as often as her parents burned the kerosene lamps. At least when Jessy was around.
Jessy loved poking around in Twyla’s room, looking for paperback books that she’d hidden, finding beers tucked away in the closet, sometimes dangerously borrowing her records and playing them on the smaller record player in her own room. Once, Twyla had come home before Jessy had a chance to put a record back, and she was jittery and nervous all the rest of the day. But luckily, she didn’t notice, and Jessy was able to sneak it back into place.
She quickly unplugged everything from the stereo, with its tangle of connections in back, and tiny wires sticking out, twisted around other wires. She’d seen Twyla skimming the rubbery coating off the cords, exposing the wires and braiding them together, but she had no idea what Twyla was doing. Sometimes the sound would fuzz, and Twyla reached in back, sometimes wiggling and wobbling the wires, sometimes just a touch, and there’d be a crackle from the speaker, and it would all go back to normal.
Once she knew all the outlets were okay, she left hastily, turning out the light and shutting the door. Then she went into her own room and unplugged the little record player, and went down the hall to her parents’ room, to unplug the couple of old-fashioned lamps with big glass shades that sat on their dressers.
The lights flickered again in the hallway, and the house felt like it was trembling, almost imperceptible, from the shake of the thunder.
When she got downstairs, her Mom had lit a candle in the living room and one in the kitchen. The light-switch light was still on; for some reason, their parents didn't think those were a magnet for lightning.
“Everything’s unplugged,” Jessy said.
“Good.” Her mom settled back in her chair. “Thank goodness your father got the storm windows in.” In the summer, this whole process involved closing all the windows, too, even when it didn't seem like rain was coming in.
They listened to the rain slam against the windows, the wind in a howl, a moan, a communication from somewhere unknown and unhuman. Her mom went back to her book, and Jessy started flipping through one of her mom's magazines. It wasn't as interesting as Redbook, but it was an October issue, so she hoped there'd be some Halloween crafts.
All they had, though, were the usual recipes, trying to make food spooky. Those always struck her as kind of corny. Food wasn’t really a spooky thing, unless it was something you couldn’t eat, like a cobweb-covered dinner plate on a dusty table in a spooky old mansion.
“Hey, Mom,” she said, suddenly inspired. “Can we make cookies tomorrow?”
“Fine.”
Eventually the rain let up, and settled into a gentle thrumming on the window. The thunder and lightning died down to a very distant rumble, the sky clearing its throat.
“Can I turn the radio back on?” she finally asked.
“I guess,” her mom sighed, like she didn’t really want to say yes. ‘It seems to have moved on.”
Jessy escaped back to the kitchen and turned on the radio. Somehow, having the music again made the room seem darker, like it was suddenly much later at night. Night in far-away Chicago, where it wasn't raining. She thought of all the strangers listening to this same music right now, while they lived their mysterious lives. What was it going to be like when she was Twyla’s age, and then when she moved away and went to college, got her own apartment? She tried to put together some picture of adult life, based on magazines and songs and all the hours of TV she’d ever watched. All she knew was that life seemed to be very full of drama, and she couldn’t really imagine any of it having to do with her.
****
The Jack-o-Lantern Box Page 17
