Halloween

by Paula Guran

  One of them—the darker one, maybe, in a sort of Roman costume—that must be cousin Neva, from the letter Angela had gotten. Maybe she was one of his half-sister Doreen’s kids. She looked vaguely familiar. Sort of.

  I’m a voodoo child, voodoo child . . .

  And that other one must be Neva’s friend, Juno. The two of them were supposed to teach the family a new Halloween game.

  Well. What the hell. It would be good to do something different, this year.

  BY THE BOOK

  Nancy Holder

  It’s the Debs of the world who make the mundane type of Halloween magic. They cut out invitations; sew costumes; stick sequins on masks and devise clever makeup designs; buy the treats, make caramel apples, and bake the cupcakes; organize the parties; fetch bales of hay, pumpkins, and dried cornstalks in the minivan for seasonal decor; know how to provide spooky special effects with a green light bulb, dry ice, and a Crock-Pot . . . and are generally underappreciated, overworked, and often desperate for a bit of help. Nancy Holder’s harried mom, Deb, gets some help—and not just with the holiday season—from an entirely unexpected source.

  “What you need,” Ellen told Deb, “is a little something for yourself. And I’ve got just the thing.”

  Picture-perfect, Ellen reached into her embroidered tote bag, which was decorated with Halloween pumpkins and candy corn. Deb, slouchy and unprepared for visitors, had her arms filled with a tower of black construction paper topped with a black cat invitation template, and she desperately kept Ellen blockaded in the entryway of the house. The place was a disaster; Kevin had stayed home from work with the flu and there were piles of tissues everywhere. Andy’s pajamas were wadded up in the middle of floor, and the kitchen was covered with ants because Sarah hadn’t put away her Sugar Pops before informing Deb that Deb just didn’t understand, that Sarah hated her, and she might as well be dead.

  Ellen had just given Deb the paper and the pattern to transform the paper into invitations for the Boy Scouts Halloween party. Both their sons were Cubs. It was going to be a big ’do, and suddenly Deb had sixty–three black cats to cut out. Today. And speaking of cats, the cat box reeked. Deb hadn’t noticed it before, but now as she stalled Ellen, who clearly thought coffee and something fragrant and homemade should come forth during the handoff, her eyes were almost watering. Cleaning the cat box Sarah’s job. So were last night’s dishes, but Deb just wouldn’t understand why they’d gone undone.

  “Okay, well, thank you,” Deb said, as Ellen topped the tower with a thick paperback book. Deb stared down cross-eyed at it. It was a romance novel. Silver embossed letters read No Time for Love. Below the title, a woman with waist-length curly blond hair, dressed in a silver gown with a plunging neckline, clung to a man with a sharp profile wearing a pirate shirt exposing bulging pecs. He had miles of dark curly brown hair. Their lips were open, their eyes were closed . . .

  . . . and Deb couldn’t even remember the last time she’d thought about romance, much less had any. Her ponytail was held back with a rubber band; she wasn’t wearing any makeup; and she had on a ratty old sweater, a pair of too-tight jeans, and one blue sock and one green sock.

  “It saved my life,” Ellen said, tapping the book with one of her perfectly manicured fingernails, and there was something in her voice, an odd sort of catch, that made Deb blink. “You really should read it.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Deb replied. “I’ll get the invitations done by tomorrow.”

  Ellen sneezed. Maybe it was the cat box. Mortified, Deb closed her eyes and willed her to leave.

  “Be good to yourself.” Ellen’s charm bracelet—witches, pumpkins, and black cats—jingled as patted the book. Then she reached back into her tote and pulled out a key ring. The heart shape said World’s #1 Mom. She had five kids. Deb had two.

  At last she was gone, and Deb shut the door—and her cell went off. Balancing the tower of paper and the book, she fished in her jeans for the phone. Everything tumbled to the floor, the paper flapping like bats. And it was then—and only then—that she discovered that the cat had left a gift on the floor, perhaps in retaliation for the filthy litter box: a round little—

  She closed her eyes in shame as the purring motor of Ellen’s car hummed down the street. The phone trilled again and she managed to connect.

  “Mom, I don’t have my gym shoes!” Sarah shrieked. “I thought I put them in my locker but they’re not here! I’ll get a nonsuit! No field trip!”

  “Oh, no,” Deb said. Sarah’s PE class was going to a performing arts center tomorrow. Sarah was a dancer and an actress; she hardly ever wore her gym uniform, hence no need for shoes.

  “Mom!” Sarah wailed.

  “I’ll find them. I’ll bring them,” Deb promised.

  They were underneath Kevin’s briefcase in the hall. And on the way to Sarah’s school, she ran out of gas.

  “You should have made sure you had your shoes,” Kevin said to Sarah that evening, as he blew his nose again and dropped the tissue onto another stack beside the couch. Sixty pounds overweight, in need of a shave, wearing his favorite sweats and a ragged bathrobe, he was draped with a fuzzy dark blue throw covered with cat hair, and he had been there all day, watching TV. Deb had told Andy to pick up his LEGOs, but the TV had him hypnotized.

  “I did make sure,” Sarah huffed. She rolled her heavily made-up eyes. She was thin and wiry, a dancer. Her black hair was long and dramatic, a drama student. “Andy must have hidden them.”

  “Why—?” Kevin began, but something on the TV caught his eye. He picked up the remote.

  “God!” Sarah bellowed. Then she stormed out of the room. Deb heard her door slam. Andy didn’t move. He hadn’t heard a word.

  Kevin blew his nose and put the tissue on the coffee table. “Sorry again about the gas,” he said. “I thought you had gassed up.”

  “I want a baby brother,” Andy announced.

  “I think something’s burning in the oven.” Kevin picked up the remote and continued to surf.

  It was after one in the morning. Kevin was asleep on the couch, so Deb would have the bedroom to herself. Which was nice, because Kevin snored. The doctor said if Kevin lost a few pounds, the snoring might go away.

  From the chuckles and clacking emanating from Sarah’s room, Deb guessed she was on her laptop, chatting with her friends. Sarah’s punishment for not doing the dishes last night was to do tonight’s as well, but she hadn’t emerged from her room all evening, not even to eat. Sarah also still hadn’t cleaned the cat box. Better to leave her alone and let her get over her sulk, Deb decided. So Deb did her chores, loading the dishwasher with great care so as not to wake Kevin.

  Then she picked up the construction paper and the black cat pattern from the breakfast bar, where she’d left them, and absently grabbed Ellen’s romance novel as well. Wearily, she shuffled into the master bedroom, flicked on the lights, and shut the door.

  Scissors, she thought, as she laid everything on the bed. Sighing, she turned to go back into the kitchen. The silver letters of the book cover gleamed, catching her eye. No Time for Love. That guy was so handsome, in an outrageous sort of way. Huge chest, arm muscles bulging all over the place . . .

  It saved my life.

  As she rummaged through the kitchen drawers for the scissors, Kevin snuffled from the couch and she tried to look more quietly. They weren’t anywhere; she was about to knock on Sarah’s door when she noticed that the sliver of light beneath it was gone. Sarah had gone to bed. She tiptoed into Andy’s room, her stockinged foot coming down hard on a LEGO block. She winced and bit her lip as she spied the prize on top of a pile of paper, markers, and glue sticks: some bright blue kiddie scissors about three inches long.

  She plucked them up and limped back out of the room, down the hall, and into the master bedroom again. She picked up the black cat template and three piece of black paper, and looked down at her scissors. This was ridiculous; she had good scissors. If whoever had taken them would have just put t
hem back . . .

  No Time for Love.

  She sat down on the bed and moved the scissors around the tail of the cat pattern, then along the arched back toward the head. It was hard to cut through three layers with the funky scissors. Her thumb was already hurting. Then she accidentally ripped the tail.

  Frustrated, she unthreaded her fingers and flexed them, cricking her neck left and right. This was crazy. She could do it tomorrow. After the carpool and paying the bills and seeing what she could do about the ants.

  She put the whole mess on the nightstand. The book was left behind on her mattress. Feeling a little sheepish—she’d never read a romance novel in her life—she opened it to page one.

  He stood on the beach, his rough muslin shirt dangling open, the cold air washing his broad chest, his muscular thighs girded with chain mail.

  She blinked. Did the man on the cover have on chain mail? She checked. No, no chain mail. Leather trousers. Snug, too. Wow. very snug.

  Aidan’s long, brown, curly hair waved in the wind as he thought of his woman in the arms of the sheikh . . .

  “His woman gets a pirate and a sheikh?” she murmured.

  He balled his fists and swore that nothing would come between them, not even his honor . . . or hers . . .

  “Wow.” Flushing, she felt a little thrill at the base of her spine. This was pretty hot stuff. She kept reading.

  She was his, and his world would end if he could not have her . . . .

  Then she thought she heard something, some kind of rushing noise. Was it the TV in the living room? They kept the heater down low for a reason, and that reason was called money.

  She looked up from the book, dropped it, and would have screamed if the man looming over her hadn’t covered her mouth with his large hand and gazed into her eyes with fiery passion. It was Aidan, from the cover, with his pirate shirt and his broad, masculine chest and his legs girded in chain mail.

  “Mmmwh,” she managed behind his hand. She had to be asleep. She was having a dream.

  Gently he pushed her back against the pillows, moving one clanking leg onto the bed. Her eyes widened. The sound she was hearing was the ocean, and she smelled salt and . . . whoa . . . him . . .

  “Nothing shall come between us. Nothing,” he whispered in a deep, masculine voice. With his other hand, he caressed her cheek. His fingertips were calloused. His eyes burned with lust.

  I am definitely asleep, she thought, as her heart pounded and she tingled all over. But I sure don’t feel like it.

  “I, Aidan, am here,” he declared, with a smoldering look as he trailed his fingertips over her mouth. “And all I want . . . is you.”

  In the morning, Deb jerked awake to the blaring alarm as the black construction paper cascaded, once again, to the floor. She rolled over the other way, and found Ellen’s book under her hip. She smiled. Nice dream. Then she laughed. Who was she kidding? It had been a great dream. The best dream of her life, in fact.

  But the morning was here way too early and she had carpool. She slung her legs over the bed.

  “Mom, there are ants everywhere!” Andy shouted.

  “You little freak!” Sarah screamed. “You freak, you freak! Mom!”

  “Thank you so much for doing this,” Ellen said, taking the invitations as Deb blocked her view of the house once more. Ellen was wearing another Halloween-themed ensemble—a black sweater with silver moons over matching black trousers, and silver moons dangling from her ears. She even had a crescent-moon watch with a black leather band. “I hope you didn’t go to a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh, no, it was fine,” Deb lied. Her fingers were killing her. She had never found the good scissors. Andy had dribbled ketchup all over Sarah’s costume for her dance performance and Deb had spent the majority of the day first trying to clean it, then figuring out how to replace the ruined sections. Andy swore it was an accident. He’d been trying to kill the ants that had also invaded the bathroom. With ketchup. Kevin had done nothing but snuffle and cough on the couch.

  “Did you start the book?” Ellen asked. Her smile was sly.

  “Um, yes, it’s great,” Deb replied vaguely, trying to translate that smile, blazing with embarrassment over her hot, hot dream. As she looked down, she discovered a spot of ketchup on her black sweatshirt. Then she nearly choked as she noticed the time on Ellen’s half-moon watch. “Our cat has a vet appointment,” she announced.

  “Oh. My husband takes care of our dog.” Ellen smiled very sweetly. “If I could trouble you to make some cupcakes for the party?” Inwardly, Deb groaned. But she smiled and said, “Of course.”

  “Thank you so much. Well, I’ll get out of your hair.” She glanced at Deb’s hair, and Deb blanched. She’d been meaning to get a cut . . . .

  “You are perfect just the way you are,” Aidan murmured into her frizzy shag six hours later. Kevin was still on the couch, thank goodness. “I adore you.”

  “You’re really here,” Deb whispered, touching his broad chest with her fingertips. She’d been on page seventeen, third paragraph down, when suddenly, he’d appeared, as he had the night before. Except tonight . . .

  . . . no chain mail.

  “Mom!” Sarah bellowed. “Mom, I need a towel!”

  She sighed. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “I am really here. And all I want is . . . you. Kiss me, my beauty.”

  “Mom!” Sarah cried. “There is cat hair all over the floor and my wet feet will get all gross! Mom!”

  “Shut up!” Andy shouted. Pounding rattled the hallway wall. “Me and Dad are watching the game!”

  “Stay here, with me,” Aidan begged her, grabbing her hand. “Stay here.”

  “Sarah needs a towel,” she told him.

  “But I need you.” He eased her back against her pillow. “I need you as no other needs you.”

  “Here!” Andy yelled. “Catch!”

  “Ouch! Mom!”

  “Stay.” He kissed her.

  And she stayed.

  “Thanks,” Deb said absently to Kevin, whom she had convinced to stay on the couch by claiming that she had caught his cold. He’d been there for four nights now. He seemed perfectly content, eating potato chips, drinking beer, channel surfing. As thunder rumbled overhead and rain poured down the sliding-glass door, she glided way, the hem of her light blue chenille bathrobe catching on one of the heaps of tissues, sending a cascade to the floor. In the hall, she stepped on a LEGO, and then on a wet washcloth.

  “We’re out of Sugar Pops,” Sarah informed her from the doorway of her room. “We’re out of everything. And I don’t have any more clean jeans.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she said, gliding on.

  “What is wrong with you?” Sarah demanded, then huffed and slammed her door as Deb glided past. “I don’t know,” Sarah muttered behind the closed door. “I swear my mom has gone psycho.”

  Deb went into her bedroom . . . or rather, where he bedroom used to be. Now it was their secret tropical cove of passion. Aidan’s pirate ship, The Treasure, bobbed in the distance, and Aidan himself lay bare-chested in the filigree bed he had carried from his quarters aboard ship and settled firmly in the fine, warm sand. A canopy of shimmering Indian silk was strung from one gently curving palm tree to the other, and he was lying on his side, his broad chest glistening with a sheen of manly perspiration, his long brown hair hanging low. A parchment map was spread on the bed; he was drinking from a sterling silver goblet. At his tanned elbow, an empty silver platter studded with jewels gleamed in the sun.

  “My love,” he said, eyes drinking in the sight of her. “I’ve been waiting for an eternity for you.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she murmured. “My family . . . ” She shrugged and held out her hands.

  “I am your family now,” he said, reaching for her wrists and drawing her toward him. “Come to me, my beauty.”

  Her stomach growled. She had made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner, burned the las
t of the bread—her own sandwich—while reading chapter seventeen. Thirty-six pages of love scene.

  She could hardly wait.

  She sat down beside him on the bed. His eyes blazed with pleasure. Her stomach growled again and she said, “What were you eating? Is there more?”

  “Iced shrimp and papaya,” he told her. “Of course there’s more.”

  He leaned over the side of the bed and brought up another platter laden with delicate pink shrimp and golden slivers of papaya. And chocolates.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” she murmured, as he began to feed her.

  “Yes, I really do still have a cold,” she told Kevin, blowing her nose as if to make a point. It had been a week. She looked down at the pile of tissues beside the couch and wondered why on earth he didn’t throw them away himself. He was back at work, which got the daytime TV off, thank God.

  The hallway was littered with dirty clothes and there was a paper towel roll outside the bathroom. The kids had been making do since the toilet paper ran out. Kevin kept apologizing for forgetting to get some at the store on his way home from the strip of fast food restaurants he had begun to frequent. Sarah wasn’t talking to Deb; she had forgotten to do the carpool and everyone had been late for school. Twice. She felt a twinge. Slight, but present.

  She heard someone crying in Sarah’s room.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Andy,” Sarah said. “Maybe she’s got a fever and she’s delirious.”

  “But I have to bring the cupcakes to the Scout party. It’s my responsibility!” Andy ground out.

  “Maybe Dad can buy you some,” Sarah ventured.

  Deb stepped around the hallway clutter and went into the bedroom. And there he was, lying in bed, sipping rum and eating a banana. Sun-streaked highlights gleamed in his hair. When he saw her, he beamed with joy and held out the cup to her.

  “Where have you been, my beauty?” he demanded hotly. “The hours have dragged like years.”