by Paula Guran
So she stared at patch on the quilt, remembering . . .
High school was a breeze for Marian. Girl’s Glee and Drama Club her sophomore year; Cheerleading Squad, Concert Choir, and Acting Ensemble her junior year, Pep Squad Captain, president of Dram Club, Swing Choir, and both the Homecoming Court and Prom Queen her senior year. If anyone’s high school years could be called dream-perfect, they were Marian’s. In those three years her sense of balance and security remained; every time she looked into the faces of her parents and brother, that expression of pride was there. A few times it bothered her that there seemed so little she could do to help her family, but those feelings quickly vanished when she told herself that she was doing everything she could to make them proud of her and that should be enough. She was only human.
A few weeks before graduation she was ecstatic to find she’d been granted a scholarship at one of the best Liberal Arts schools in the country, and—after a summer stint as a bank teller—she went on to study Theatre, the biggest love of her life. Mid-way through her second year she auditioned on a whim for a traveling company production of ’night, Mother and nearly fainted when the call came to her dorm room informing her that she’d been cast in the role of Jesse. It paid three hundred and twenty-five dollars a week, including the producers picking up all traveling and motel expenses.
It was a young actress’s dream come true.
Through those first two years at college she rarely saw her family, except at Christmas. She wrote home once a week, faithfully, and never once had to ask them for any money to help her get by; she’d snatched up a teller position at the town’s local bank and worked two days a week and on Saturday, which netted her enough money for groceries, books, and twice-monthly partying on the town; it was on one of these excursions that she read the notice for the traveling company’s auditions. Theatre was her major, so she decided to go for it; after all, why go on studying to become an actress when there was a chance she could actually be one?
Her parents were very pleased with her good fortune but did not hide their dismay that she wouldn’t be finishing college. Marian eased their fears by reminding them that she was a fine bank teller and could always find a job if things fell through. Mom and Dad had both smiled, but she sensed her confidence did little to ease their fears.
During the first leg of the tour she contented herself by having a brief affair with the stage manager and devouring her good reviews, which came as a relief to her. Marian had never been much for the Method school of acting but found herself, during the first weeks of rehearsal, wishing that she’d given Stanislavsky more credit and attention. The role of Jesse was a bitch to play, requiring her to show an emptiness and isolation she couldn’t even imagine. Having never really experienced that measure of desperation she didn’t know if she could pull it off.
Then her mother died of a stroke.
Marian was unable to cry at the funeral, though she very much wanted to. She was too busy studying her dad’s ragged and lonely face, telling herself that that look was exactly what she needed for Jesse.
After the funeral she tried to talk with Alan, who only sat at the picnic table in Aunt Boots’s back yard while the other guests snacked on after-burial munchies and offered polite sympathies. Eventually she wound up going off with Laura, then Alan’s wife. Laura, though always beautiful, looked frazzled around the edges to her.
“What’s wrong?” asked Marian.
“Your brother,” she said. “I understand that when someone dies you have a natural proclivity to talk about them, but since your mother died he keeps . . . I don’t know how to say it . . . going on about things.” They sat in two folding lawn chairs at the far end of Boots’s yard, picking at the two pieces of pound cake they’d taken from the snack table.
“He keeps talking about how bad he feels that your parents never had any time to do things they wanted to do.”
“Why? It’s not like that was his fault.”
“Try telling him that!” said Laura. “At first I thought it was just the natural guilt someone feels when a parent dies, you know? ‘I should have been around more.’ That sort of thing.”
“And now?”
“It’s turning into a real problem. He can’t stop thinking about it. He’s had two states for the last week: he’s either screaming at me like a lunatic or he’s damn near catatonic.”
Marian looked over at her brother, who was sitting very still, staring down into his drink, not looking up, not saying a word.
“Like now?” she asked Laura.
“Like now.”
After the cautious kisses and awkward embraces she bid goodbye to her Dad, promising to write and call every week, and returned to Connecticut to resume rehearsals.
Though she did write, somehow the time to call became nonexistent during the hectic first weeks after the show hit the road, but Marian didn’t worry over it; everyone had a copy of the schedule and knew where the show would be and when. If there was any problem Alan would call her. Or Laura would do it for him.
So she didn’t worry. She also never really mourned her mother, though she loved her very much; from what Laura had said, Alan was mourning enough for the whole family.
She worried over her brother, but not too much. It seemed self-defeating.
The tour completed its first seven-month run well in the black; both Marian and Anna—the woman playing Thelma opposite her, a well-known soap-opera actress whose name on the marquee was the box-office draw—renegotiated their contracts for a second tour to commence six months down the line. During the break Marian appeared in an Equity dinner theatre production of Peter Schafer’s Black Comedy in her first true ingénue role. The notices were excellent, and by the time the production closed Marian’s reputation as an Actress To Watch was established.
Ten days of rehearsal was all it took for her and Anna to get their chemistry going again, and by the time the play began its second, sold-out tour, they were performing better than either of them ever had before.
Then came the night in Boston that Anna buckled over backstage one night after the curtain call, complaining of chest pains. She was taken to the hospital where she was diagnosed with angina. With only one performance left at the current stop, the producers decided Anna’s understudy would go on the next night; after that, they wouldn’t say.
Two hours later, after Marian and an admirer from the audience—a sinewy, rugged man named Joseph Comstock—had brought each other home (rather noisily) in her hotel bed, the phone rang and she answered it, sweaty, sore, and out of breath.
As she brought the receiver up to her face, she caught a glimpse of the small digital clock/calendar on the bedside table and noted, for some reason, that it was the same date as her mother’s death nearly two years ago.
She listened as her aunt gave her the news.
Dad would now be keeping Mom company. Marian hung up and lay in Joseph’s arms, thinking: Father, my dear father. Where are you now?
Joseph stayed for the rest of the night, comforting her, listening to her, but becoming more and more pensive as morning approached. As he was dressing to leave Marian realized—with much surprise—that she felt much better.
She wanted very much to see him again after that evening’s performance, and he nodded his mute agreement. The funeral would be the day after tomorrow, so Marian planned to do one more performance then have her understudy take over for two nights while she went home. The fact that Joseph Comstock—this wonderful, understanding man—would come again tonight and see her through gave her some strength.
One of the most curious things about human behavior is how people will form a bond with those nearest them when bad news hits; the comforting words of an acquaintance suddenly become a declaration of love and caring never before imagined, the empathetic embrace of a friend becomes a life preserver thrown out before the third sinking, and the companionship of a stranger, a stranger who listens and who in their silence seem to give so much, this companionship often becomes the on
ly thing one can count on until the storm has passed. Marian suddenly felt as if she’d been with Joseph Comstock all her life, and on that morning she felt secure.
Something in his face and behind his eyes told her that he knew her, and that she was being looked after.
He didn’t show up for the performance that night, nor did he appear afterward. Marian returned to her hotel room alone. She watched television until nothing but snow stood before her gaze, and sometime around six a.m. fell into an uncomfortable sleep.
She was awakened a little after ten by her understudy knocking on the door. Marian rose, still groggy, threw on her bathrobe, and answered.
Her understudy told her how sorry she was about Marian’s dad. Marian thanked her for her sympathy, wondering why her understudy hadn’t simply called.
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?” she asked Marian.
“I don’t usually bother with local papers when we’re there less than two weeks.”
Saying nothing, her understudy handed Marian a copy of the morning edition, the lower half of the front page facing up. Marian took it, read the bold-faced words above the story, and felt her knees begin to buckle.
There was a picture of her sweet admirer next to an old photo of a house that had seen better days. A quick glance at the headline—MAN KILLS WIFE, CHILDREN, SELF—and the next thing she remembered was her understudy leading her back to the bed. Somewhere between dressing and talking to the police she threw up, but when she finally boarded the plane for home, Marian found that she didn’t feel quite so bad anymore. A little shaky, yes, but not bad.
Not bad at all.
Until she found herself in the living room of her family’s house, on her knees and staring at the quilt-patch that her mother had made from her graduation gown, depicting a lone shadow-figure standing on a stage beneath the brightly focused beam of a spotlight, staring at this patch so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the thing in her peripheral sight . . . .
4
Cut squares and nip off the corners, then chain pieces by picking up two squares at a time so they don’t shift out of alignment. Alternate the fabric that is on top (this pair light on top, that pair dark). The chain can be as long as you want.
Jack’s crescent mouth grew wider, a hideous phantasm of a smile. “Jack Pumpkinhead still works fine, honey,” he said with that voice, then strode into the front room and filled his hands with candy and seeds before opening the front door.
Before Marian could move, Alan was behind her, one arm around her waist, the other across her collarbone, his hand covering her mouth. “Don’t make a sound,” he said. “I don’t want to frighten the kids.” Then: “I sent a telegram to your hotel in Boston the day your company arrived there. That was five days before Dad died, almost a week before Aunt Boots called to give you the news. So don’t bother lying to me about how you didn’t know in time, okay?”
Outside, the children were going ooooh and aaaah at the sight of Jack as he distributed the treats.
“Well, lookee what we got here,” said Jack. “Is that a witch I see?”
Giggles and cackles.
“And what’s this? Old Count Dracula come to sink his fangs?”
More giggles, excited whispering, the sound of wrapped candy softly plopping into paper bags as Jack lowered his voice and spoke to the children like a co-conspirator. “Come to the shortcut in the cemetery tonight and I’ll have more surprises for you and your folks—make sure you bring ’em along. We’re gonna have a bonfire and tell ghost stories. Remember to bring your pumpkins and your magic seeds.” A soft, spattering sound—pumpkin seeds being sprinkled into each waiting bag.
The children all shrieked with joy, savoring the delight on this night when it was okay to be scared, then bustled off the porch toward more shivers and shakes.
“How did that man make such a neat costume, Daddy?” “I don’t know but it sure was spooky, wasn’t it?” “Can we go to the bonfire later? Can we, huh?”
Jack Pumpkinhead closed the door, then turned to face Alan and Marian. His eyes, nose, and mouth glowed a deep, deep red now. A trickle of blood spilled over the jagged bottom of his mouth and spattered over the collar of Dad’s shirt. He stood there, branch-arms crossed in front of him, long twig-fingers pressed against his shoulders; the sentinel.
. . . A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house . . .
Alan released Marian and she collapsed onto the couch, her heart hammering against her chest.
Alan adjusted his baseball cap once more, then knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “There are some Eastern religions that believe a person’s final thought before dying stays in the spot where that person dies, just sort of hanging in the air, waiting for someone to claim it. But the thing is, that final thought contains everything that ever went through that person’s mind while they were alive, so whoever”—he looked at Jack and smiled—“or whatever claims that final thought has the power to bring that person back to life in some form.”
Jack gave a nod of his head.
“For years I’ve been asking myself if I was my own man or just the sum of my family’s parts,” said Alan. “Now I know.” He pointed at Jack.
“People die, Alan,” said Marian. “Maybe some of them don’t die pleasantly but they do die and there’s nothing we can do about it except let them go.” God, was this real?
Alan glared at her. “You’re goddamned right some of them don’t die pleasantly. Would you like to know about Dad’s last night on this earth?”
“I don’t see what that would accom—”
“The thing that’s always pissed me off at you, Sis, is that you passionately avoid anything even remotely unpleasant—and I’m well aware of how you can let people go, thank you very much.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” He pulled away from her and began pacing the room. “Dad weighed ninety-one pounds when he bought it. He laid right there on the couch, in these pajamas, watching your tape over and over again, all the time hoping you’d show up to see him. He wanted to set things straight with you, wanted to let you know how much he loved you and how proud it made him that you were the first person in this family who didn’t have to wash the stink of blue collar labor off your hands at the end of the day. You were the one who was going to keep the family name alive long after the rest of us lived, died, and were buried in this fucking town!
“The man couldn’t even get up to pee he was so eaten alive. I had to help him. I took a cup and opened the fly of his pajamas and took . . . took him out down there and put him in the cup and . . . and it hurt him so much, I saw the pain in his face as he tried to force the piss out of his bladder, he tried so hard, and when it finally came out”—he looked down at the stained pajama crotch—“it was more blood than piss. Then he thanked me, for chrissakes! Told me what a good boy I’d been and asked me to tell Mom to buy a real good pumpkin so he could carve it up nice and scary for you. How the hell could I remind him that Mom’s been dead for four years?” He cast a pleading glance at Jack, who nodded, then gestured him Continue.
“So I went out and bought some pumpkins. He was bound and determined to build you a ‘real’ Jack Pumpkinhead for Hallowe’en. ‘This’ll show her how much I love her, how proud I am.’ Christ! You’d’ve thought he was finally getting to build his own Sagrada Familia, his own little masterpiece, like Mom’s unfinished quilt.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself down, then started banging a fist against the side of his leg.
“He dragged out that old Oz collection that Mom used to read to you just so he’d make sure to get Jack’s face exactly right. I lost count of how many times he cut himself while carving. He stopped worrying about it after a while and let himself bleed into the pumpkin, all over the seeds . . . ”
Marian thought about the third bowl of treats: Be sure to bring your magic seeds.
“ . . . but he couldn’t finish,” continued Alan, “the effort got to be to
o much. He made me promise I’d finish building Jack for you. Then he just . . . laid there. He was minutes away from dying and all he cared about was making you happy. He stared at the shadows and mumbled about Gaudi, coughed up a wad of something I don’t even want to think about, and died. No wailing, no wringing of the hands, no sackcloth and ashes. Just sickness and pain and sadness, memories of mopping up the vomit in the middle of the floor because he couldn’t get to the bathroom in time, or wiping his ass when he shit himself because he was too weak to get off the couch, or cleaning the blood from his face and nose after a violent coughing fit, all the time having to look in his eyes and see the regret and fear and loneliness in them—that’s how his existence culminated; in a series of sputtering little agonies to signal the end of a decent man’s life. And he never stopped hoping that you’d come see him.”
Marian felt the heat brewing in her eyes, reached up to wipe away the first of the tears, and swallowed back the rest as best she could. She would not give in, would not feel bad, would not show weakness. “I’m sorry it was so hard on you, but people die and there’s nothing—”
“—we can do about it except let go, yeah, yeah, yeah—you played that scene earlier, remember?”
The doorbell rang again: Trick or treat, smell my feet . . .
Jack opened the door. The children gasped in awe.
“Well, lookee here. Is that a mummy before me? And Spider-Man—I take it that the Green Goblin and Doc Oc are otherwise engaged?—how good of you to come!”
The giggles again, the whispers and aaaahs.
“So,” said Alan, “what do you think?”
She was surprised at how steady her voice was. “I think that Aunt Boots told me you haven’t been sleeping well, and you know what happens when a person doesn’t get enough sleep? They start having waking dreams.”
“That’s my Marian, always the rational one. Okay, fine—if I’m having waking dreams, then explain Mr. Pumpkinhead over here.”
“Come to the shortcut in the cemetery tonight,” called Jack as he began closing the door, “and be sure to bring your pumpkins and your magic seeds.”
