Halloween Carnival Volume 1

by Brian James Freeman (ed)

  Those were his last words.

  But at the time, I felt okay. There wasn’t any traffic, and my unease had receded. I thought it was a big opportunity, y’know? For him and me. So much so, on a whim, I dug into my pocket and pulled out my iPhone, tapped the camera app, and told Evan, “Smile big. Mom’ll be proud.”

  He stopped and smiled over his shoulder.

  I snapped the picture.

  And without another word, he continued across Main Street.

  And here’s another mistake. I should’ve watched him the whole way and back. But he was doing it, y’know? I was proud of him and wanted to share. So, as he was crossing the street, because there were no cars, I texted the picture of him to Linda, with the caption: “Our boy’s growing up!”

  She responded instantly.

  —

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  I cringed at her tone. I was hoping she would see this as a good sign, but I guess deep down I’d known she’d be upset. Here’s the thing: Though I’d mostly accepted Evan’s autism, I wanted him to grow. Be more independent, try new things. Hell, I didn’t care he never went to college. He could live with us for as long as he needed. I wasn’t in a hurry for him to get out. I just wanted him to live.

  Linda did, too. But mothers always want to protect their babies, don’t they? And Evan was her baby. She wanted to protect him. Maybe too much. I’m not going to lie. We fought about that, occasionally.

  Well, maybe more than occasionally. And loudly, too.

  The worst part?

  Sometimes, in my lowest moments…I wonder if I sent that picture to agitate her.

  Well, I said, Evan asked to cross the street by himself. He had a good day at school, so I thought, “Why not?” We’ve been talking about giving him more freedom, so…

  So you’re letting him cross Main Street by himself? Are you crazy?

  I tried to force my anger down. I heard “Are you crazy?” a lot. Too much.

  C’mon, Linda. Evan had reached the median. He stopped, looked both ways, and continued. He’s halfway across. There aren’t any cars. Hardly ever are in this part of town.

  You should’ve called me. You can’t make snap decisions like this. It’s not safe! You can’t treat Evan normally!

  My control slipped. Right. Evan reached the other side and entered the library. Because it’s better to treat him like a freak.

  You know that’s not what I mean. We have to be careful. You’re too reckless!

  He’ll be fine. I know we have to be careful, but we can’t keep him locked away from the world…

  You’re such an ass. Of course I don’t want that. But I wouldn’t let him cross a street by himself on a whim, without running it by you first! I’ll bet you didn’t even remind him not to wear his earbuds!

  It hit me, hard.

  She was right.

  See, Evan had an iPod loaded with his favorite music. Music calmed him. He took his iPod everywhere.

  I was going to reply—can’t remember with what, now—something spiteful and petty, I’m sure. It was hard on our marriage. After Evan was diagnosed, his autism dominated our lives. Did you know two-thirds of married couples with special-needs children divorce? I know why. All your energy is focused on dealing with the rages; the screaming, kicking, throwing things. Maintaining his irrational routines. He hardly slept at all because his mind never stops. Ever. We were walking zombies half the time, stumbling through life on three to four hours of sleep a night.

  Tough situations bring out the best or the worst in people. I’m afraid it brought out the worst in us. Linda and I had been worn down to the nubs, with nothing left for each other.

  I took a deep breath and saw Evan standing on the opposite sidewalk, having apparently returned his books and gotten new ones. When the green walking figure flashed, he started across the street toward me.

  He’s fine. He’s already on his way back. You’re right, maybe I should’ve called you first, and I will next time…

  A snort. Sure.

  I ignored her and continued. But he’s fine, so stop worrying…

  There’s an intersection past Bassler Library, where Acer Street cuts across Main. I don’t know how I didn’t see the battered green truck idling there at the stoplight, or hear it, and I don’t know how long it sat there before turning right onto Main Street. All I know is I didn’t notice it until the driver got impatient waiting for the light to change.

  —

  With a coughing grumble, the green truck turned right onto Main. Fear lanced through my heart, freezing it, but I saw Evan had cleared the truck’s lane. If he kept going, the truck would miss him. He’d be safe and it’d be an insane close-call story I could tell Linda and she’d rip me a new one, but he’d be safe…

  It happened, in flickers. The truck, accelerating. Evan, a step and a half out of its path. He dropped something. It hit the street and bounced away. And as he turned, bending to retrieve it (and I knew, somehow, it was the cardinal), he couldn’t hear me screaming or hear the truck because I saw the slender white wires of his earbuds trailing from his ears to his iPod in his right coat pocket, because as Linda had accused me, I’d forgotten to tell Evan not to listen to his music when crossing the street.

  Evan turned, reaching for the cardinal, bending over into the truck’s path. I screamed, the truck growled, but if his iPod was turned up as high as usual…

  His hand closed on the cardinal.

  And the truck hit him.

  I can’t give you a play-by-play. I don’t have this tragic filmstrip burned into my brain. It’s all a jumbled blur. I didn’t hear a sickening crunch, or a wet thump. The truck hit my son’s head, flipping him away, onto his back. I didn’t hear the back of his head strike asphalt, only my ragged breath thundering in my ears as I ran toward him.

  Lying on his back.

  Head surrounded by a widening pool of blood.

  Staring sightlessly at the sky, library books scattered around him, his cardinal clutched in a fist.

  The truck sped away.

  Didn’t slow.

  Not even a little.

  I raised my iPhone—from which my wife was screaming—and took a picture.

  ALL SAINTS

  Grief clenched Father Ward’s heart. He’d seen some terrible things as an Army chaplain in Afghanistan. But to see this happen to someone you love, before your eyes…

  “Did they find the truck?”

  An emotion-choked pause. “Yes. With my picture of the license, it was easy. Judd Kirsch is a forty-two-year-old bachelor who works days at the lumber mill. He lives in the Commons Trailer Park. Lot Thirty-four. He struggled with a mild drinking problem he readily admitted to, but the day he took my son away had been an especially hard one at the mill. He downed a few more beers than usual over dinner at The Stumble Inn. Was on his way home to sleep it off when he turned right onto Main Street and swerved slightly when he reached down to grab what he says was a can of Pepsi from the cooler in the passenger seat, to get some caffeine in his system to ‘even out.’ When his truck clipped my son in the head, he swore it was a pothole, and if he’d known he’d hit someone, he would’ve stopped.

  “He couldn’t stop crying at the pretrial hearing. Was put on suicide watch in jail. Guess he tried to hang himself with his belt, which put the trial off, because he was remanded to Riverdale Psychiatric for evaluation.

  “But that doesn’t matter. He took my son away. Evan’s gone and he’s never coming back. And what did they finally decide to do? Take his driver’s license away for three years, slap him with civil fines, make him take AA. Sure, my lawyer says me leaving during the trial screwed things up, because it left things in Linda’s hands, and she got spineless and didn’t push for a harsher sentence.

  “But I’m back now. Because Evan won’t stop. He never stops. He wants me to do something about it. Make it right, finally.

  “Make Kirsch pay.”

  —

  But before I came here I
walked around and ended up at Handy’s, like I said. It was the same as the last time I’d been there, decorated for the season. Strings of yellow and orange lights ran along the shelves. A whole wall had been given over to Halloween-themed trinkets: plastic jack-o’-lanterns and skeletons, pumpkin flashlights, trick-or-treat buckets, wax vampire teeth, face paint, rows of Halloween costumes on hangers, and masks.

  “May I help you?”

  I faced the shopkeeper. His eyes widened slightly. “Mr. Tomas. I would say it’s good to see you, but I know the memories this place must hold. It’s been some time since we last spoke.”

  I nodded. “Yes. About a year.”

  “I can’t express how sorry I am. Any condolences I could offer would feel meaningless, I’m sure. What happened was a tragedy, for everyone involved, but of course for Evan…for someone so vibrant and alive…”

  I never understood the shopkeeper’s odd, awestruck reverence of Evan. Linda and I had endured too many of his meltdowns and obsessive, draining quirks to feel the same, but I appreciated the gesture, anyway.

  “Thank you. You were always kind to Evan. It meant a lot. I wanted to say thank you, and…” I shrugged and tried to leave, realizing I’d done what I’d come to do. “Anyway. Thank you. Evan loved this store. Coming here meant a lot, and…?

  “I know why you’re here.”

  The words startled me, halting me mid-step. They also sparked an unreasoning anger in me, of all things, along with guilt.

  I know why you’re here.

  “I understand how you feel,” the shopkeeper said gently, “but the past can’t be changed. Nothing you do tonight will restore Evan.”

  I turned to the shopkeeper and something flipped inside me. I don’t know how else to describe it. I went from feeling aggravated at him—all right, pissed off—to feeling empty.

  I shook my head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The shopkeeper stepped forward and gripped my elbow firmly. “Don’t do what you came to do.”

  He drew me closer, and something in his eyes drilled me to my core. “You need to let go, Peter.”

  His words touched me. I almost gave in, right then and there. Almost let go of the pain and anger.

  But I couldn’t forget Evan’s sightless gaze.

  The shopkeeper, maybe feeling the tension in my arm, said again, “You don’t have to do this.”

  I pulled myself from him and walked away, heading to the door. “Happy Halloween,” I said quietly. “Maybe I’ll stop by again next year.”

  The bell rang as I pushed through the front door. Something held me up, though. I paused in the doorway, suddenly wishing to feel the shopkeeper’s firm hand clasp my shoulder, along with his voice softly rasping, “This is your last chance.”

  But there was nothing.

  When I looked over my shoulder, the shopkeeper was gone. Slipped quietly away, into the back room, maybe. I waited for a minute, half expecting the storekeeper to magically reappear next to me, gently pushing the door closed, not letting me leave.

  Nothing.

  I turned away and left.

  ALL SAINTS

  “So here I am. That’s what brought me here; what the shopkeeper said. How can I let go of what happened to Evan?”

  Father Ward sat forward, hands clasped before him. He couldn’t quiet an odd feeling about this man’s story. More worrisome, however, was the man—Peter’s—increasingly agitated state, and his assertion he was here to do something for his son, to make this Judd Kirsch pay.

  “Sir—Peter, if I may—please understand, I don’t want to trivialize your experience. I can see how you feel as if your son is with you. The memories of our lost loved ones are never gone. They’re always with us. But we also can’t underestimate the role guilt plays in the grieving process. I’m not trying to diminish your pain, but…”

  “No!”

  Father Ward jerked back from the confessional grate, not only because of the anger in Peter’s tone but also because of an icy menace he felt seeping into his booth.

  “It’s my son. Yes, I feel guilt, for letting him cross the street alone, and for running away during the trial, for not being around to make that shit who took my son get punished right. That shit who, so I hear, is now ‘sober‘ and attending AA once a week and feels terrible about what he did, but really he’s probably sitting in his shit-ass trailer right now, Lot Thirty-four, sucking down a cold one and laughing his ass off at how he skipped out of jail.”

  A wrenching sob.

  The confessional door slammed open, and the man—Peter—stumbled down the aisle, crying “Evan! Oh, God, Evan!” over and over.

  Father Ward sat, frozen, mouth hanging open.

  All Saints’ front doors opened and slammed shut.

  Shivering, gripped by a sudden cold that chilled him to the bone, Father Ward slowly stood and pushed open the door of his booth. The church appeared as it always had. A simple Adirondack Catholic church, not baroque and Gothic, sanctuary paneled with earth-toned wood, with polished and gleaming oak pews, the Stations of the Cross in stained-glass windows all around. The lights had been dimmed, and the flickering votive candles near the exit cast an air of peaceful reverence.

  The church was empty.

  He sagged against the confessional, gripped by conflict. He knew it was impossible to help everyone. But every time he couldn’t help, when someone’s pain burned too greatly for comfort…

  Lot Thirty-four.

  He’s there right now.

  Laughing.

  Make it right.

  Evan wants me to make it right.

  …he was reminded of his own failures, how he’d let others down, especially overseas in his tour.

  He closed his eyes and prayed. Please, God. This man—Peter—he can’t be serious, can’t be planning to do…what?

  Acid churned in his stomach. He couldn’t call the police. He’d be violating the Sacrament of Confession. And for what? It wasn’t a crime to express anger or the desire for revenge. He had no proof this man was going to do anything…

  Lot Thirty-four.

  He’s there right now.

  He gripped the confessional door frame, resolution flooding through him, strengthening his legs. He couldn’t call the police based on a confession. He had no real evidence, and he’d be breaking a sacrament. But he didn’t have to sit here. He hadn’t been a soldier and had never held a gun in combat, but he’d served in Afghanistan. He’d seen good men die, seen innocent bystanders suffer, and he’d seen other things rational thought couldn’t explain. He wasn’t going to sit and wait.

  He just wasn’t the type.

  —

  Despite a mounting urgency, Father Ward drove the speed limit through town. At only quarter to nine, the sidewalks still teemed with hordes of goblins, princesses, ghosts, superheroes, monsters, and their parents and big brothers and sisters. A lover of Halloween since childhood, he was usually warmed by the sight. Tonight, however, he could only think of:

  Lot Thirty-four.

  Evan wants…

  Wants me to…

  Within ten minutes he turned onto Bassler Road, leaving town. Five minutes later, he turned right into the Commons Trailer Park. A wave of nostalgia crested inside, surprising in its strength. He remembered playing basketball on the Commons asphalt court with his friends, buying trinkets at the Commons Community yard sales. He hadn’t been here in more than ten years, but it looked mostly the same. He drove slowly, even though every nerve in his body screamed HURRY! as he scoured the lot numbers for…

  Thirty-four.

  He braked and put his car into park. Slowly, he opened the door, got out, stood, and stared, gripped by worry.

  The trailer on Lot Thirty-four sat dark and silent. The screen door hung open, swinging in the slight breeze, banging against the siding. No other cars—certainly not a green pickup truck—sat in the short gravel drive. The trailer appeared empty.

  Even so, the urgent feeling he must do so
mething strengthened, along with the looming sense of the awful, the tragic, the unavoidable, and even worse: the inevitable.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “No, God…no! I never meant to…!”

  A sharp crack, almost simultaneously with a flash of light inside the trailer.

  “No!” He stumbled forward, but before he could make the front steps, he thought he heard, floating on the breeze, “Evan…I’m sorry.”

  Another crack, a flash of light, and a body falling.

  He cried out again, all his emotions narrowed to a concentrated point. He lurched forward, reached out to grab the small porch’s railing to haul himself up the steps and into the trailer, knowing what he was about to see would be worse than anything he’d seen overseas…

  His hand closed on air.

  Right foot descending through empty space. He stumbled, fell to one knee, barely avoiding falling flat on his face. He rested there for a moment, mind blank, and sucked several deep breaths before standing on shaking legs, to find himself in an empty rectangular patch of knee-high grass.

  Questions instantly assaulted him.

  He shoved them aside.

  Stumble-walked back to his car. Turned and regarded the now leaning, rotted lot sign in the car’s headlights, on which he could barely make out a faded 34.

  He stared at the sign.

  Pushing away his questions.

  He shook his head, got into his car, and pulled away.

  —

  A bell jingled when Father Ward opened and closed Handy’s door. He’d driven straight from the Commons, mind still blank. On some level he was surprised Handy’s was open after eight on Halloween night, but on a deeper level, he wasn’t surprised at all.

  He glanced around as he walked down the middle aisle. Everything was as Peter had described, decorated for Halloween. Even in his confusion, Father Ward felt vaguely pleased at how Handy’s looked the same as it had when he and his friends frequented its cluttered shelves, buying odds and ends with their lawn-mowing money. He even fancied he recognized a few items: an old Magic 8-Ball, and a Louisville Slugger.