No, I didn't mean to be sharp with you, Mother. Yes, I forgot to get the bread and the milk as you asked, but that's only because I'm so excited. You did say I could go—but you did! Last week, when Mr. Fields was here—
Damn you! Damn you!
I'm sure she heard me, but all she did was slam the door harder. Damn her. I'll run away to Columbus, to Father. He would let me go to parties. A banker, written on his bank stationery. I wonder what she does with the money. Assistant manager. I wonder what Columbus is like.
The trees look like skeletons, shorn of acorns. The squirrels have squirreled them away. Apt, Mrs. Greene would say. I'll run away, be a writer, in my room with a typewriter in Father's house. It would be a big house. A banker. I'll be like Emily Dickinson. Is Columbus like Amherst?
Tree skeletons, flecks of red and gold skin shed around them. A broken carpet of flesh. Creepy. So is Jerry Martin, of course, but—
Damn her! Everyone will be at that party, and they'll know I'm the wallflower they think I am. Eileen the Meek. When all I am is a tragic princess, trapped in a movie. Cary Grant will stroll in, smiling, and save me. "Darling, how simply dreadful for you to be in this condition." Dancing, dinner, banter, a kiss under moonlight—
Halloween moon. I bet they're all getting their costumes on now. I wonder if Mother even lit the candle in our pumpkin, the one I bought, damn—
Mother? I didn't hear you come in. Yes, I'm sorry I used that word. Yes, I asked His forgiveness. I'm sorry, God, heartily sorry—
I can go? Oh, Mother, thank you! Yes, I'll get dressed now. Thank you! Thank you!
Of course I hear Mr. Fields cough out in the parlor and that's why she wants me out of here. But who cares! Thank you, Mr. Fields! with your bad breath and dry, nervous hands. He looks like a bird on a perch. I throw on my costume and walk out past the parlor. He looks at me with those tiny eyes of his behind his steel-rimmed glasses as I go by. He gives me the willies, but I almost laugh, I have to put my hand to my mouth because I'm dressed like a black cat and he looks so much like a bird. I hear him cough again as the storm door closes behind me, and then I do laugh out loud.
Then, I'm running down the steps, into the night—I can't believe I'm going to this party!
And such a beautiful night! How to describe this night? Mrs. Greene would like this: stars white as cold milk against raven-black sky, trees like skeletons (that's still the best!), leafless oak and birch branches rattling like bones in the wind. Leaves, fallen, the colors of a red rainbow, fighting each other, twirling, crackling down the gutters, snapping at the roots of trees they've left, as if trying to decide whether or not to jump back on.
Too flowery, of course. But Mrs. Greene would love it. And I love this night! Pumpkin flames snapping in the breeze, children flying from door to door like wind-borne wraiths.
Suddenly I'm running, wind-borne, too, a black cat with wings! Pumpkin eyes wink as I fly past.
I can't wait to get to this party!
And—there it is!
The party house!
A strange house. How to describe it for Mrs. Greene?
Too grim for metaphor: what's a metaphor for darkness? No pumpkin, no light on the porch. Too dark even to be haunted. It looks like an inside-out house, wearing its soul on its gutters and shingles. Metaphor, after all: the porch running the length of the house a mouth with missing railing posts for gap-teeth, the door in its center a gullet; slate-blank windows for eyes; at either end of the top floor, jutting above the roof, peaked gables are horns.
Wary of going in, I hide behind a hedge. I watch as someone dressed like a witch (Marsha Denby? How appropriate!) runs up the tongue of the walk, skips up the steps onto the porch-mouth, jumps into the esophagus.
I can almost hear the house belch as Marsha disappears into darkness.
I don't want to be swallowed by this house.
I don't want to go into that darkness.
But then here comes another one, in a miniature baseball uniform, number 3 on the back, fat like Babe Ruth, too. It must be Jackie Farmer, followed by a white-sheet ghost, twin spacemen (Bobby and Billy Seavers), a bat with flapping black wings. All are gulped down by the house. It belches muffled cheers and laughter discreetly through the front door.
Still I don't want to go in.
And then Mary Wayne appears and disappears into the house, and I have to go in.
Mary is dressed like a princess, of course: pink taffeta, jeweled crown, sparkling wand. I decide to call out from my hiding hedge, but she's up the steps and through the front entry before I can open my cat's mouth.
And then I'm running from my hedge, and over the lawn (the grass looks black, feels dead), up the porch steps (creaking like old bones, the wood rotted in spots). The door leans off its hinges—
I'm in.
I feel the house burp over my digestion.
Apt, Mrs. Greene?
It's so dark. Isn't there any light? Yes, ahead, an orange glow down the hallway. The floor creaks like the porch steps. The dry smell of dust. No furniture, until—there, a table covered with a sheet. I lift the sheet; under it—a milk carton.
Ahead, orange light strengthens. I hear laughter, still muffled.
A turn at the end of the hallway—and there's the jack-o'-lantern belonging on the front porch, set on another milk crate beside the cellar door. A very bad carving job, the eyes different sizes, barely triangular, large on the rind, chiseled down to tiny openings on the pulpy inside. The nose barely a slit, the mouth crooked, filled with peaked fangs.
A stifled cheer from the cellar. Someone says, "Of course, Mary . . ."
I take a step down the stairs, hesitate. Behind me, at the front of the house, two laughing voices. I know them. Danny Sullivan and Barry Meyer. I feel like a cornered feline. My heart is going too fast, thinking about Danny, what Mary and I have written in our diaries.
They're getting closer. Barry is making mock frightened noises. Danny tells him to be quiet. I step to the far side of the cellar door, backing away from pumpkin light. I watch them appear—Danny in football jersey and helmet, tall, Barry trailing bands of gauze bandage, a defective mummy.
"Wait," Barry says, holding Danny back from entering the cellar. I think for a moment I've been discovered; but Barry angles a small flask out from between two strips of white cloth enwrapping his jacket, opens it, tilts it into his mouth.
He hands it to Danny, who sips, making a face.
Barry snorts, “Come on, big shot, you told me you know how to drink. From what I've heard about this party, you'll need it."
"What the hell are we doing here, then?" Danny asks sullenly, pushing the flask away. "Jerry Martin gives me the heebie-jeebies."
"We're here," Barry says, "because we told everybody we'd be here, and if we don't show up, it means we're chicken."
"The hell with 'em."
Barry puts the flask back up to his mouth, drinks. "What's wrong? Not man enough to face Jeepers Jerry?"
Danny gives Barry a sarcastic smile. "It was you who told me the guy was strange to begin with, after you tripped him up in the hall and he just stood there smiling at you."
I swear that Barry shivers. "Figment of your imagination, buddy."
"Then why are you drinking so much?"
"I like the taste of it," Barry says, slapping Danny on the back. "Don't worry, when you're a man like me, you'll get to like it, too."
They tramp down the stairs, Barry making Tarzan noises. I hear a grunt, the hingey creaking open of a heavy door. The noise level increases dramatically. Barry gives out a whoop and then the noise is suddenly cut as the door below is shut.
I step out of my hiding spot. I'm alone. I stare at the deformed visage of the ill-carved pumpkin and am seized by an urge to run like a real black cat, with real, not lipstick, whiskers, back into play-Halloween night, away from this real Halloween. I want to race until my cat legs tire, leap through the front door (no gullet) of my house, past startled, myopic Mr. Fields, past my m
other, into my room, and crouching and shivering, hide under my bed.
I want to do that. I don't care what they think of me (chicken! not cat), I'm turning to go. And then I hear someone banging through the front door.
I turn into the cellar doorway and step down.
Even dim pumpkin light deserts me. I put my hand-paw on the banister. It's covered with a sooty layer of dust. The wall is sheathed in dampness, like wet rock. The boards of the stairs shift as my foot touches them. I look back up at the top of the landing; a shadow fills the doorway, staring down at me—
Hurry.
The steps shift, I patter down.
At the bottom is a closed door. Light seeps from under it. I search for the knob. The wood on the door is clammy-cold. I find the knob and it turns, but the door won't give. I push against it with my body and it resists, then opens with a wet sound.
Sound.
Orange light.
I close the door as quietly as possible behind me. But someone has already spotted me. "Class treasurer!" Barry Meyer shouts from the back of the cellar. He grins at me. Danny stands next to him. I look away shyly but Danny isn't looking at me anyway. Mary Wayne has him by the arm. Danny has a green bottle of Coke in one hand but he's not drinking it. He has taken off his football helmet and is smiling at Mary.
Now that I've been announced, I'm invisible. No one has come through the cellar door after me. I remember that shadow staring down at me and shiver, moving deeper into the room.
Observe! Mrs. Greene would say.
It's almost as dark in here as upstairs. A flickering pumpkin in each corner set on a milk crate. The faces are no better on these than on the one upstairs.
A table is set against one wall, covered with a white tablecloth trimmed in orange and black crepe paper. On top of the table are Halloween paper plates, illustrated in broomed witches, scarecrows under harvest moons half-hidden in clouds. On the plates are iced cupcakes. White icing, an orange pumpkin centered in each. The pumpkins are ill decorated. Crooked mouth, small eyes. But the icing job is precise.
Barry's voice booms nearby. I turn to see him standing, back to me, laughing at a joke Ted Michaels, the class president, costumed like Gene Autry, is telling him. Barry's costume has unraveled even further; a nest of bandages trails behind him, threatening to tangle his shoes.
Suddenly Barry turns around and grins at me.
I begin to turn away as he says, his alcoholic breath now catching up to him, "Hi."
I nod, backing away, but he reaches out and gently takes my arm and says, "Can I talk with you?"
He is serious. Blushing. This is the same Barry I've seen stand in the middle of math class and drop his pants as Mr. Whitcover was busy at the blackboard with an equation; who stood up to the vice principal, daring to fight him after he'd been accused of stealing one of the small stone lions that guard the entrance to the school (he didn't; Peter Barnet did it, but Barry never told); who rigs water balloons in his locker, then pretends he's having trouble opening it so someone will help him, with predictably aqueous results. (I observe, Mrs. Greene!)
I look up at him; remarkably, his blush deepens. "Yes?" I manage to get out, still not trusting him. This could be one of his jokes, and considering his alcohol consumption, it could be a nasty one.
It is no joke.
A horrible thought strikes me. Perhaps when Barry's been with Danny, and seen the mooning looks I've tossed Danny's way, he has thought they were meant for him! (I can't help thinking of Scarlett O'Hara— "Why Ashley, you silly thing . . .")
"I, well, umm," he says, and then he's suddenly speechless.
So am I. My less-than-outgoing ways haven't loaded me with experience in dealing with boys. I have Mary Wayne's stories, which are mostly products of her fancy, and I have the movies ("Why, Ashley . . .”), but—what am I going to do?
"Are you all right, Barry?" I manage to croak out.
"Umm, sure," he says, and then abruptly he vanishes, turning tail, fleeing to the other end of the cellar. I blink my eyes. Now he's laughing and joking with Danny again, slipping his flask from his pocket and bringing it to his mouth.
I think perhaps I've imagined the whole episode, but he glances my way, flask to lips, and quickly looks away.
The door leading into the cellar makes a horrible creaking noise. I had forgotten the shaded figure at the top of the stairs. I shiver. I turn to see the door open.
It grinds ponderously to a halt, standing open. No figure has appeared. A cold chill has entered the cellar.
Bobby Seavers, who stands next to the open door, reaches to push it closed with his space-suited hand.
He shrinks back.
There is someone there. A black shape detaches itself from the surrounding darkness and enters the room.
But for the snapping of pumpkin candles, there is silence. The tall, wavering shadows of costumed guests thrown against the walls make the scene look like a fever dream.
The specter reaches a black-gloved hand to its shrouded head and freezes.
Everyone watches, mesmerized. Palpable fear grips the room.
The shrouded one screeches, a sound that penetrates to the high corners of the cellar. Billy Seavers jumps nearly a foot off the ground. I levitate at least eight inches. The specter rips its coal-black shroud from its head, revealing Frankie Bargeti.
Billy Seavers reaches him first. I think he will beat Frankie's grinning face to unconsciousness, but others pull him away. Billy manages one punch, but that doesn't stop Frankie's laugh. His laughter continues even after he has been dragged to a corner and dumped on the cold floor. "Got 'em good," he squeals, holding his black-leotard-clad knees. His face, which resembles Charlie McCarthy's, spreads in a grin that threatens to split his cheeks.
The cliquish hum of the party gradually returns, punctuated by the high, annoying cackle of Frankie's self-congratulation. I may be the only one to see Jerry Martin, our host, enter the cellar.
He closes the door quietly and solidly behind him. He is dressed in the same kind of nondescript clothes he wears to school, dark green sweater, tan slacks, loafers. There is nothing about him save his difference to indicate that this is his party. That in itself I find unsettling.
He catches me observing him. Though there is absolutely nothing unusual about his noncommittal glance, I go cold inside. It is as if he had turned some chill, invisible ray on me. He makes his way unobtrusively to the back of the cellar and is lost to view.
"Well?"
Mary Wayne addresses me. She stands radiant, beautiful, a princess out of a fairy tale. I hate her. She makes me feel like Cinderella, with no ball to attend. This party is certainly no ball. My slippers are more patent leather than glass crystal.
"Hello, Mary."
"Wonderful party, don't you think?" she says airily. "Danny certainly thinks so."
I want to wipe the smug smile from her face, but restrain myself. I comfort myself with the sudden, comical realization that she has patterned herself on Scarlett O'Hara. Oh, Ashley!
"He's so handsome," she continues. "I'll be going to the prom with him."
"He asked you?" I blurt out, comic realization forgotten, my own unrealistic dreams instantly dashed.
"You really do like him, don't you?" she replies cattily. "Ever since I told you the secrets of my heart, I've noticed you watching him."
I begin to tell her that it was I who first wrote of Danny in my own diary, long before she gave me her unwanted confidences, but she doesn't give me the chance.
"I feared something like this, Eileen Connel. Marsha Denby told me you couldn't be trusted. Well, let me tell you, he hasn't asked me to the prom yet, but he will, and I warn you to stay out of my way."
She turns and stalks away, a perfect Scarlett O'Hara in miniature. I don't know whether to laugh or cry because she is heading for Danny again, who stands watching a loud game of apple bobbing that has broken out in the middle of the room.
Everyone is drawn to this contest. As I join th
e circle of spectators, I discover why. Barry Meyer, of course, is involved, with Frank Bargeti. A big iron washtub is filled with water and round, red apples. Barry's and Frank's hands have been tied behind them with neckties, and they kneel over the tub, trying to snare apples with their teeth. There are six tooth-marked apples next to Barry already. There are none by Frankie, who has been picking up apples in his mouth, taking bites out of them and letting them drop back into the water, splashing Barry and everyone standing nearby. I overhear someone say that five dollars has been bet on the outcome; they will bob until the tub is empty. Five dollars is apparently a small price for Frankie to pay to be the center of attention, which he manages until Barry picks up an apple with his teeth to discover that Frankie has already taken a huge bite out of it.
Barry makes a stifled, disgusted sound. With the fruit still clamped in his teeth, he raises himself on his knees and releases the apple onto Frankie's head.
Frankie cries, "Owww!" and retaliates in kind.
Before long, amid laughter, the floor is soaked with water and broken apples.
"That's not the way the game is played," comes a cool voice through the laughter.
As if a switch had been thrown, silence descends.
Puffing, soaking wet, Frankie and Barry lift their heads from the tub and, resting back on their knees, regard Jerry Martin, who stands before them.
"Just a little fun," Barry says, laughing, still trying to catch his breath.
"Sure." Frankie laughs shortly.
"But it's my party," Jerry says. He speaks quietly, reasonably, but his words depart his mouth covered with frost.
"Yeah, well, listen," Barry says, grunting from his knees to a standing position. His voice is defiant, with the beginnings of anger, but then he catches my eye and the blush returns to his large, huffing face, silencing him.
Once again, the sound of snapping candles dominates the cellar.
"To heck with all this scaredy-cat stuff." Frankie shouts abruptly. He has loosened his bonds and stands up, a full head shorter than Barry. He picks up an apple. "Join the party!" He giggles and darts forward, shoving the apple into Jerry Martin's mouth.
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