Blackwork

by Monica Ferris

  “Oh, but he does. Inside of six months, you’ll have that apartment for rent again, because he’ll have moved into yours. Mark my words—on affairs of the heart, I am never wrong.”

  Betsy shook her head at him and burst into laughter.

  Eighteen

  ALL Hallows Eve fell on a Saturday that year. The day was cold and blustery, though it didn’t rain. The wind would dash in from one direction, quiet briefly, then come dashing in from another direction.

  Excelsior was a small town. This Halloween celebration was one of its more ambitious efforts, but still nothing like Minneapolis’s big-city Holidazzle parade. On the other hand, virtually everyone in town had played a part in making it a success and they were determined to see it through. They bundled up and turned out for the big party. The littlest contestants wore their costumes over their winter coats, which made some of them hard to identify. The teens braved the cold, even the one dressed as a gladiator with blue knees. Sales of hot cider and coffee were brisk, and people tended to cluster around the barbecues rather than the croquet court. Few complained; after all, this was Minnesota, when within living memory there’d been a gargantuan blizzard one Halloween.

  As the short day ended and darkness fell, a quarter moon overhead seemed to be racing through the clouds hurrying by. Temperatures dropped into the lower forties with frost predicted before morning.

  Still, the parade units bravely gathered in the big parking lot of Maynard’s, a fine restaurant on the shore of Lake Minnetonka just four blocks from downtown.

  Their numbers were such that Betsy began to feel claustrophobic—especially when they were crowded around her, shouting questions. She finally resorted to the police whistle Lars had insisted she borrow from him.

  “All right, all right!” she shouted. “Listen up! I have here a three-by-five card for the leader of each unit, telling you your place! Any questions you have, ask your leader, and he or she can ask me! Leaders, come here! The rest of you gather with your units and give me some air!”

  She had to repeat that three times before she had the air she needed, and frosty as it was, it was a relief.

  “Now, where is the leader of the Sheriff’s Posse?”

  “Here!” said a burly man who was probably about six feet tall in his stocking feet but considerably taller in cowboy boots and a pale Stetson. A gold star gleamed and glittered on the breast of his tan uniform jacket.

  She handed him his card. “You are leading off. Do you have your flags?” The three leaders of the posse would be carrying an American flag, a state flag, and an MIA flag. There were eight riders in all.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Any questions?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  She checked that off on her clipboard.

  “Hopkins High School Band!” she called next, and a girl who seemed too young to be in high school, wearing a raspberries-and-cream uniform, came to report that a tuba player and a cornet player were absent but everyone else was in attendance.

  “I am sure you can play so well without them that no one will notice,” said Betsy hopefully, handing her the band’s card. “Next, where are my candy clowns?”

  Six people in clown makeup came forward. “We don’t have a leader,” said one.

  “We don’ need no steenkin’ leader,” growled another in what he thought was a Mexican accent. His costume was that of a Mexican peasant revolutionary with more than a hint of skull painted on his scowling face. Thank goodness his rifle was obviously a plastic toy.

  Betsy handed the card to the revolutionary. “Well, you have one now. Oh, and I think you, Pancho Villa, should be careful to steer clear of the really little kids, okay? That face is serious. And remember, the candy has to last the whole parade, so while I want all of your crew to arrive at the top of Water Street with empty pumpkins, I want you to make it last the whole trip.”

  “Gotcha,” said Pancho, but he handed the card to another clown in the more traditional costume of orange hair, bright red bulbous nose, and outsized, multicolored jumpsuit with a big neck ruffle. On second look, the nose had a stem like an apple and a gummy worm sticking out of it. The sextet walked off, separating as they went toward various units, raising their plastic jack-o’-lanterns in a final salute to one another.

  “Thank you! Okay, next, Joey Mitchell!”

  Joey stepped up, looking ghastly in whiteface, his torn and ragged yellow rubber fireman’s coat streaked with whitewash. He wore a toy fireman’s helmet with a flashing red light on top of it. “We’re ready to rock and roll,” he announced, waving over his shoulder at the shiny red fire truck parked a dozen yards away, its loud engine running a little raggedly. There were four other people already on board, and when they saw him wave, they waved back. They looked as ghostly as he did, except their helmets were real.

  “The fellows say we should run the siren the whole time,” he said. “Is that okay? It’s not very loud.”

  “Run it full out once a block, otherwise just growl it. And let it run down every so often,” Betsy decided. “And if you get complaints that people can’t hear the bands, run it only at intersections.”

  “You bet.”

  Next was the Indian war party, a group of seven real Dakota braves with their spotted ponies. They had opted for something a bit more sinister in war paint, using a solid black from the top of their foreheads down to the bottom of their noses and then a single stripe of color from the upper lip to the bottom of the chin. They were wearing breech clouts, vests, and moccasins—and goose bumps, as another vagrant breeze rushed across the parking lot and the temperature dropped a couple more degrees. Their ponies were skittish and they were riding bareback.

  “Are you all good enough riders to control your horses?” asked Betsy. “There’s going to be loud marching music.”

  “We’ve been rehearsing them with an old boom box, and they’re all solid with it,” said the leader, a strong-looking man in his forties. “The horses just look flashy; they’re not really hot.”

  “Okay,” said Betsy, allowing hope to overcome her doubts as she handed him his card.

  On the cards, in big, black letters, were three lines. The first was the name of the unit ahead, the second was their name, and the third was the name of the unit coming behind. (The candy clowns’ card just said SCATTER.) Betsy hoped the cards were enough to keep everyone in proper order.

  “Next, Hot Air Express!” called Betsy, and a very tall, thin man with dark hair and eyes, gray coveralls, and a yellow wool knit hat stepped forward to take his card.

  “Don’t light that thing off more than twice a block, all right?” ordered Betsy.

  “Yes, Ms. Devonshire.”

  “Next, Roosevelt High School Band!”

  The band director himself was there to claim his card. He and more than half the band were African-American; most of the other half was Somali or Hispanic. A lot of their parents were there for support; most of them were in costumes, ranging from Aretha Franklin to Raggedy Ann and Andy. The band had a huge percussion section, and judging by the joyous licks being played in warm-up, they were going to be the highlight of the parade.

  “Betsy?” came a woman’s voice.

  Betsy turned to see Billie, jiggling with cold and excitement, coming up to stand beside her. “Hi, Billie, what brings you over here?”

  “Everything else is about all shut down in anticipation of the parade. I wanted to make sure you’ve got it under control.”

  “I sure hope so.” She checked her Indiglo watch. “Oh, my God, we start in two minutes.”

  “Your watch is two minutes slow,” said Billie. “I’ll get the first unit sent off for you.” She hurried away.

  Betsy shouted, “Costume contest, over here!”

  An adult dressed as a wrong-colors Santa approached: he was wearing a green velvet coat and pants with black fur trim, white boots, and a big, black beard. “I told them just the winners, right?” he said to Betsy. He was wearing an enormous blue rib
bon on his chest.

  “Oh, no! I wanted all the entries!” She stood on tiptoe and looked out over the milling crowd. There were people in costume winding their way out. Two were already crossing the street.

  “Costume contest, come back, come back!” shouted Betsy, between blasts on her whistle. “Come back!” She said to the Santa, “Quick, go catch the fairy princess and the frog! Get all the entrants, as many as you can find. Line them up behind the band with all the drums!”

  “Right!” Santa hustled away. No, not Santa—what would you call him? She realized suddenly how clever his costume was. He had picked its colors from the opposite side of the color wheel, green being the opposite of red. So call him Atnas, maybe?

  “Now, where’s the float?” There was just one float in the parade, put together by the Chamber of Commerce. It featured a sailboat with three ghostly pirates riding in it. The Hopkins band started to play and drowned out Betsy’s voice. She blew her whistle, several sharp blasts, and Lars appeared.

  “Got a problem? The mayor’s here, in case you’re wondering.” It being a part-time job, Excelsior’s mayor had a tendency to forget even important events. He was scheduled to ride in Lars’s Stanley Steamer for the parade.

  “No, it’s the float,” Betsy said. “I need it to line up, and I don’t even see it.”

  Lars, who was dressed in early 1930s gentleman’s sporting costume—plus fours, white shirt with stand-up collar, broad suspenders, argyle socks, pinch brim hat worn backward—ran off and came back in short order with an elderly woman who looked near tears.

  “What’s the matter, Myrtle?” asked Betsy.

  “The tractor that was supposed to pull the float has a flat tire. And it’s one of the big tires, so there’s no spare available. The float is already attached to it with chains and some kind of electrical cord, and the man who attached it has gone somewhere, and no one else knows how to undo that. Plus, even if we could get it loose, and find a truck or another tractor, we couldn’t fasten it on properly.”

  “Oh, damn. I mean, darn. No, I mean damn. Then I guess we’ll have to make do without a float. Can the ghost pirates walk where the float should be? That’ll be where the costume contest people are. Would that be all right? Where’s Lars?”

  “Right here.” His calm voice was such a contrast to the panic Betsy could hear in her own voice, that it served to calm her, too.

  “I’ll see to it,” said Myrtle.

  “Thank you. Lars, I’d like you to pull in line behind the costume contest.”

  “Consider it done,” he said and went away.

  “Ms. Devonshire?” asked another quiet voice, and Betsy turned back to see a young man holding his shako hat under one arm. “We’re the Osseo High School Band. Where’s our place in the parade?”

  Betsy consulted her clipboard. “You’re behind the Stanley Steamer, which is right over there.” She handed him his card. “I know it says you’re behind the float and ahead of the Stanley, but the float has been scratched and so I’ve moved Lars and his steam car up into its place. You got that? You’re behind the old car and ahead of those men with the folding lawn chairs.”

  “I got it,” he said with a grin as he did a military about-face and marched off.

  That left just the Men’s Precision Folding Lawn Chair Marching Unit. Their leader wore chinos and a brown pull-over, which turned out to be the autumn uniform of the marchers. “Summers, it’s tank top, shorts, and sandals,” he said, smiling. “Winters it’s parka and Sorel boots. But it’s funny how few calls we get to perform once the snow flies.”

  There were thirteen men in the unit, counting the leader, each equipped with an old-fashioned aluminum and nylon-web folding lawn chair. Lining up four abreast, they did a practice maneuver, lifting the folded chairs overhead with one hand, twirling them once, whipping them down, snapping them open to sit down. Lift, twirl, down, open, sit, all in unison. They put their left foot on their right knee with military precision, then stood up, slam-closed the chairs, and began marking time, using the Osseo drummers for rhythm.

  Betsy laughed for the first time that evening.

  Diddle up, duddle up, doodle up, bam! Off went the Roosevelt band, the costume contest entrants drifting behind them like flotsam in a boat’s wake. Lars let loose his Stanley’s shrill whistle, and behind him went the Osseo band. The Men’s Precision Folding Lawn Chair Marching Unit brought up the rear, its leader calling maneuvers out by number. For better or worse, the parade was complete and moving. Her job was done.

  But nervous about it, she set off to follow the lawn chair unit as it paraded very smartly out of the lot and started up Lake Street toward Water Street. There were people on Lake Street, some in costume, waving balloons, jack-o’-lanterns, and those glow sticks that look so pretty in the near dark. There was a smell of taffy apples, popcorn, and hot dogs, and, suddenly, hot and fresh horse manure—and she hadn’t arranged for a street sweeper.

  The front end of the parade was making the turn onto Water Street, looking smart, when suddenly there was an enormous rushing sound and a burst of orange light. Betsy gasped as an orange flame shot more than two stories up in the air.

  It was Hot Air Express, lighting off the burner in its huge wicker basket. Without the balloon, the height and brightness of the flame was frightening.

  The crowd screamed—and so did a couple of horses. There was a clatter of hooves, and the sound of human throats whooping amid the shouts and screams.

  As suddenly as it had appeared, the flame vanished, leaving blue-green afterimages in Betsy’s eyes.

  Betsy dashed to the sidewalk and began running toward Water Street. She could see Indian ponies skidding around the corner, their steel-clad hooves sliding, seeking purchase on the street’s blacktop surface.

  Not hot ponies, were they? Betsy thought furiously.

  Just then, the fire truck’s rusty siren sounded, and she could see a spectacular black and white pony, about to become calm, shy violently and almost fall before recovering and dashing out of sight.

  With her chest aching, Betsy had to stop running. Something struck her in the face and fell to the sidewalk. She stooped to pick it up. It was a piece of paper-wrapped taffy. She looked out into the street and saw the green Santa wave and smile an apology at her. She nearly threw the candy angrily back at him, but caught herself. None of this was his fault. Instead she waved acceptance of his apology. He pulled some lollipops from his plastic pumpkin and sowed them into the crowd, whose members cheered, laughed, and grabbed, begging for more treats. Santa laughed, too, and disappeared around Lars’s big antique car.

  Betsy stopped under a streetlight and called Billie on her cell. “Did you see the runaways?” she asked when Billie answered. “Is everyone all right?”

  Nineteen

  WHAT a great idea!” Billie exclaimed. “But I wish you’d told me about it! Wow, they came running by like a war party on the attack! The kids were yelling and the adults just loved it! They circled the posse a couple of times, but now they’re riding back to their place in the parade. Wow, it was just terrific!”

  “Um, thank you,” said Betsy, deciding she had enough bad news to share already. “We have a little problem, though. I forgot to arrange for a street sweeper to clean up after the horses.”

  “Oh, cripes, didn’t Wee-Wee Willie call you?”

  “Who is Wee-Wee Willie?”

  “He’s a guy with a two-wheeled cart, a shovel, and a big push broom. He follows all the parades around here, even the ones without horses. I gave him your number, and I thought I gave you his.”

  “I don’t remember seeing it, and I know I never heard from him.”

  “I’ve got his number in my cell. I’ll call him now. He lives just outside of town, so if he hustles, he can get here in time.”

  “Thanks, Billie.”

  Betsy cut the connection and hurried up ahead to see if the Dakota warriors were back in their place with their ponies and if anyone had thrown a shoe, spra
ined an ankle, or worse.

  As she trotted from streetlight to streetlight, pressing a hand to the stitch forming in her side, she wondered if the burner going off again would cause another stampede. One rush up the street was exciting; two would be annoying; three would cause complaints from the rest of the participants.

  She heard the whistle on Lars’s Stanley go off behind her, and the pleased laughter it raised from the crowd. The Osseo High School Band was playing the “Funeral March of the Marionettes”—Betsy wondered how many people knew that was the actual name of the tune best known as the theme song for the old Alfred Hitchcock Hour. She wondered what kind of patterns the precision lawn chair marchers could make to that melody.

  She caught up to the Hot Air Express basket on its flat-bed truck as it made the corner. The crowd here was much bigger, and many turned to stare uncomprehendingly at the basket. Betsy was about to signal to the man in the basket not to light off the burner when he reached up and pulled down a gray semicircular lever.

  “Whoosh!” went the burner, and a huge gout of orange flame shot skyward. The crowd shouted surprise and approval, except for a small child sitting on his father’s shoulders, too close to the flame for comfort. He started to cry.

  The Indian ponies reared and one screamed, but the riders knew their stuff and held them in place. In mere seconds, order was restored in their ranks. The leader of the band looked back at the flat-bed truck, saw Betsy, and gave her an angry stare, which, combined with his war paint, made him seem truly terrifying. She signaled at him to approach. Betsy had been a rider many years ago, and she should have remembered how frightened horses were of fire.

  He wheeled his horse around and leaned down to ask Betsy, “Can we move back a couple of units?”

  Good, they weren’t going to go home. “Yes, I was going to suggest that. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it when setting this up. How far back do you need to go?”

  “There’s a band behind the old car. If we could move in behind them . . .”