All Hallows

by W. Sheridan Bradford

  The gazebo at the heart of the little park was her favorite place on earth, but it was badly built, was weathering faster than fiberglass, and, even when new, had left its seated visitors to the mercy of the elements.

  City planning at its finest.

  Abby counted the cheese-wedge divisions of the flimsy tin roof, momentarily certain she’d traced a pentagram among the latticed, spot-welded sheets of metal. She counted the triangles again, puffing her cheeks.

  Six divisions. Not five. Not a pentagram. Hexagram? Hexagon? Whatever. Pieces of rusting metal pie. Amazing what you could see when you were tired. She was sure now, but when she’d first looked…

  Her confidence shaken, Abby’s manners faltered, and she did not greet the old woman, who must think her out of her mind.

  You are, Abigail. You’ve cracked.

  Abby shook her head softly, disregarding a voice that had come with Kenna’s teething. The voice of sleep. The voice of madness, more like—but if Abby could log a good night, she was certain it would depart.

  At least for a while.

  She counted the panels again. Definitely six. Which was worse? Pentagrams were bad. They were for cults and Satanists and… hard rock bands?

  Then again, a hexagon sounded bad, too.

  Abby’s grandmother had claimed hexes were given and received on the regular, back in her day. Then again, Gramma had been three sheets to the wind most of her life—no rum needed.

  Gramma had talked about hexes and evil eyes clear through her final, awful hours in a papery gown, mumbling about cursed auras; unable to escape, her teeth in a glass. Gramma had seen evil—and she’d called it out—long after her mind was blank to the faces and names of her family.

  She saw it right. Your grandmother saw the evil swirling around you like a moll’s black skirt. She knew.

  Gramma was sick, Abby replied, lack of sleep breaking her resolve not to answer. She didn’t know. Didn’t know who we were.

  She recognized you, Abigail. She prayed and pretended, but she knew. She was glad to die. Glad she didn’t have to see your nightmare come to pass. It didn’t—not in her lifetime.

  Abby bounced the base of her skull softly against the bench, partly to stay awake, partly to silence the voice.

  Decades before her passing, Gramma had been healthy as a horse, if a bit eccentric—she had divorced in her twenties, had not remarried, had supported her children, had supported Geraldine Ferraro, liked to wear button-fly jeans, and puffed at foul-smelling cheroots she dipped in brandy, drying her smokes overnight on a folded paper towel she left by the sink.

  In her good years, Gramma had liked evil eyes the best of anything strange, and she liked many a strange thing: a strawberry-shaped magnet held a photograph of Betty Friedan to her refrigerator door.

  Gramma liked them, she said, because an evil eye was so easy to send after your enemies. Abby had never fully grasped what an evil eye was, or did, but the idea had stayed with her. Her younger self had pictured an evil eye as entirely disembodied, the size of a birthday balloon, and capable of thoughtless, slasher-style violence.

  Some forgotten matinee on Gramma’s television was likely to blame for Abby’s imaginings. Gramma thought it a fine thing to watch old movies, and she claimed that McCarthyism guaranteed anything not in Technicolor was inherently child-safe, because it had to be—just like cigarettes with filters.

  It had been a closely-guarded secret between Abby and her grandmother that Gramma’s television itself was black-and-white, which allowed a wholesome bypass to the morality clause—not that anything too seedy made it onto the rabbit-ear networks unedited.

  Whatever the original source, Abby knew that an evil eye should float, much like a helium balloon, the oblong, latex kind from princess-party birthdays twenty years ago, not these new metal-skinned balloons her girlfriends bought at the supermarket, uninspired and perfect, kissing cousins to bakery-aisle cakes armored in frosting too sweet to taste.

  The balloon-sized eye would hover in expectant silence, or perhaps it would bounce airily, squishing like those boundary-watchers in episodes of that old serial show with Patrick McGoohan. The name of the show escaped her, as did the names of those white balloons, but it came to her that the balloons were essentially bouncers.

  Abigail giggled into her fist at the thought, dipping her head under Kenna’s sunshade to hide her blush from the catatonic old woman; Abby giggled harder at having tickled herself, only to be ashamed of her laughter.

  As well you should be. You shirk your responsibility. Time is wiping him away…

  Abby’s levity flipped with a sickening physicality, as though the humming electromagnet in her father’s salvage yard had passed over her at some impossible setting, ionizing life until all that was positive turned negative.

  She resisted the flip, tickling Kenna: armpits and belly; the backs of her legs, the soles of her feet. Her child made a wet sound of mirth, hands unpredictable and clutching, punching-up at the mobile and the azure sky.

  Abby zoomed in and out: peek-a-boo minus the disappearing act. Kenna grinned and punched with spastic energy.

  A miscalculation sent an uppercut into Abby’s lower lip and her crooked tooth; a tooth John had once compared to a half-closed door. Tasting blood, her tongue found the bump instantly.

  Hey—it’s cheaper than collagen, she thought, and smiled again. She kissed her daughter’s cheeks until blood was overwhelmed by baby oil, sour talcum, and wet fingers poking for her eyes.

  Kenna’s face tightened suddenly; her stumpy legs straightened as if she’d been electrocuted. Grunting like she was trying to roll onto her stomach, Kenna put on her poop face. Abby sighed and pulled her head from the carrier, leaving her daughter to whatever privacy an infant could have.

  The Vista Patzer park was fenced by a boundary of bone-white concrete, most of which was not visible from the gazebo, which had been built in a depression. Abby considered the isolation of the park’s central feature.

  Could the park be an island, surrounded by balloons and evil eyes on silent patrol? It was a comfortable thought—not half as creepy as she’d prepared for it to be.

  Sure, you would be controlled. Then again, wasn’t she controlled already? Wasn’t everyone?

  Guardians bouncing along the edges of a determined experience wouldn’t be so bad. In real life, nothing so neatly let you know where you could go. Where you could not. Sure, there were road signs, laws, systems of faith—but those could be violated without any immediate, cosmic punishment.

  Violated by her. By anyone.

  Abby rolled her neck, joints slipping, a pop sending a bolt of light across her brain. For a moment, she saw his face. Felt his grasping fingers.

  No. Not today.

  But if he… what if he’d escaped? He might be wandering rural roads, looking into each passing vehicle’s windows, searching for her face. He might be hurt, waiting to be found. Scarred, scared, waiting to step forth—torn, bruised, but alive.

  Ready to come home.

  The sun was warm, the wind was down, and it was a bad idea to dwell on the past, the ghosts of…

  What had she been thinking of, before that?

  Ah, yes. Evil eyes.

  The problem had ended at an impasse.

  A malicious orb was all well and good… but how could it do anything? She could go with an easy out—voodoo and mummy curses and other malarkey she hadn’t believed as a child and could not believe now—but then, how?

  Evil eyes were real. Real to Gramma. And if an evil eye were real, it wouldn’t rely on hypnotizing weak-minded slaves to perform its infernal bidding. No, the eye would be a threat as capable and frightening as the roaring lion’s head announcing an MGM program.

  But how?

  Gramma didn’t discipline children, yet Abby had always been of the impression that, should she ask for details, she’d show a terrible ignorance—and in so doing, she would disappoint her grandmother.

  This notion had, unfortunately
, shrouded the evil eye in even greater mystery, especially now, with Gramma gone.

  There it was again, the flip.

  It wanted Abby to wax nostalgic. It wanted her to be sad when she should be thankful; wanted her down when she should remember Sunday mornings with her grandmother, their noses practically touching the tube.

  She fought the flip, because evil eyes were real. Abby’s young mind had explored the possibilities, found them wanting, and left alone what was, at the time, unanswerable. She had wanted to believe, and so she had.

  The child Abby had been was content to think the evil eye might wear a contact lens: a clear rhinoceros horn, for example. Or it could have acid for tears.

  Abby tried her best to believe again—to stop seeking an explanation—but she was too tired to believe in much of anything. Faith demanded innocence and fortitude. She had neither.

  How did I fall down such a silly rabbit hole?

  You were avoiding him. It’s what you do. Johnny-boy does it. Your family. His.

  John is… We went to a couples session. That helped with the—

  —How long can it last, this sham marriage of yours?

  John said… we both said we won’t quit on each other. Ever. We promised.

  Oh. Pardon me, then. Promises! Heaven knows a promise cannot be broken.

  We… we have Kenna now.

  A frolicking new puppy to replace the missing mutt?

  That’s not… Kenna needs me.

  Why, Abby? She already knows how to be helpless. She already knows how to cry.

  That’s not fair. She needs me for… I have to stay strong. If I just sit and—

  —Don’t sit, Abby! Stand guard. Patrol. Protect. Embrace the lie that gets you out of bed. You’ll fail her anyway. You know it. Johnny-boy knows it, too.

  John said he’s with me all the way. I believe him.

  Where is Johnny-boy stationed again? It’s a twelve-hour offset. That’s halfway around the world. He fled as far from you as he could get. Who wouldn’t? Even your shallow new friends know what—

  —No, I never… they don’t. It happened before… before them.

  They don’t ask you to sit for their precious babies, do they?

  My girlfriends have sitters and… they don’t have to deal with—

  —Kenna needs you, but you won’t be there, Abigail.

  Yes I will. I will be. I have been. Nothing can change that.

  What if John gets himself killed? What if you die? Change will find you. Hurt you. That’s what change does. It finds a way. You won’t save her. Can’t. Just look at last time. Look at…

  Flicking away a tear, she exhaled and squeezed Kenna’s leg. Abby had grown accustomed to the bench against her neck. Her vertebrae had softened with the pregnancy—if not her actual spine, then the ligaments. Her articulations had loosened from hormones. The obstetrician had said not to crack her neck.

  The bench dug into her with a pleasurable discomfort. If Abby lifted her head, she would look like a feeding swan, her neck bent like under-sink plumbing. So be it. Disfigurement was worth relieving her back from the strain of holding her head aloft.

  The sun fell on her hair. Her curls had loosened, and a sharp line of gray sliced across her roots—if she could still call them roots; she was two months overdue on a dye and perm.

  Abby twisted her much-washed peplum top until the straps lay flat. The shirt was deliberately paisley—it was the color of curdled milk; of wet burps; of rash ointment. Her exposed shoulders had lost their tan; the hints of summer that remained were a smattering of freckles, two of which had gone a concerning red.

  Ten more minutes in the beguiling October glare. Ten, or she would burn.

  She wondered what had possessed the park’s planners to place the bench on the south side of the gazebo. Kenna was shaded by a moveable accordion on the carrier, but three stripes of sunlight raked through the slats of the bench, slashing a grubby fist and chunky leg.

  Abby pulled a corner of a lightweight blanket to cover her infant’s exposed skin, hairless and pale.

  Alabaster, that was the word. A contrast to Kenna’s head of hair, which was all but black when wet. John had noticed. He’d said there must be a raven hiding in the family tree.

  He’d laughed, but he’d noticed.

  Kenna’s hair was dark. Abby had no idea why; John’s family stopped at dishwater, and none in her own went darker than auburn or her own mousy brown. Well, gray, or medium golden brown number 43—it depended on where she looked. But the original had been a drab brown.

  Do you remember him? How fair he was?

  Abby recalled tiny fingers in her palm, pianist-thin from birth, nails too small and fragile to cut without leaving them kitten-sharp. Eyes the color of the waters where she and John had honeymooned.

  She remembered her husband pointing to an uninhabited island in the Caribbean. John had been sun-blond, then, and ripped on local beer.

  Abby could hear his laugh as he clung to a wet line, leaning over the rolling swell of the sea, pointing with an amber bottleneck, claiming his ancestor had run rum off that very cay.

  The flash of scalp, stiff as a bird’s wing, lighter than ripe wheat, mounted unspeakably on…

  Stop it! He’s alive. Even if… even if he’s gone… he’s not like that.

  The voice cackled with unrestrained delight.

  That’s his hair, is it not?

  I have to stay positive. Stay sharp. I have to—

  —Face facts? Let’s find him together…

  There’s no “we”—you’re me. I know you are. We both do.

  We are not the same. He’s grown, Abigail.

  I hope he has, but I can’t know that. We can’t. We have to prepare for the possibility—

  —It’s not possible. It is. I can show you. Don’t you pray to know, repetitive as an old priest’s mass? I hear your prayers, Abby.

  You don’t. You can’t. Not unless you’re me.

  I do, and I’m not. I can hear what He does not. Wouldn’t you give anything? Don’t you say that? Anything?

  I would. Anything to—

  —But would you? Because this is anything, Abigail. This is the only thing. This is the one way to see him again.

  I don’t pray to you. You lie.

  Lie? I’m not you. I know the truth. I made it what it is.

  No. I made Samuel. Not you. Even if we’re both me, I’m the one who made him. I loved him. He grew inside me, not you.

  But now he grows with me. Do you want to know where?

  They’re doing everything they can. It’s… it’s a cold case, they admit that, but they’re still looking. It’s active. I call the station weekly. Copeland says they won’t stop. I believe him.

  They won’t find him. Seeing is believing… You need this. Closure. How many times have they wished it for you? How many times have you wished it for yourself? Don’t you want to know?

  I know where he is. The part I made. I know. I don’t know where on a map, but I know—

  —That you lie to yourself? He’s not in heaven, Abigail. There is no old man with a beard to cradle him. He’s with me.

  Heaven’s real. You don’t know. You’re not there. Neither am I. There’s no reason not to… even if he’s there. Especially if he’s there. We have to believe.

  Yes, have faith. But think of how John must feel. He can remain faithful and still suspect—and he does. But you, Abigail… you will never know. Not until you’re dead.

  I’m not thinking like that—you are. I wouldn’t… thoughts are thoughts.

  What? Oh. That. Don’t snuff yourself, Abigail. Better to suffer. Pretend the girl needs you. Then again… what will you do when something happens to her? What would you do? Would you… would you do “anything” then?

  Abby clenched her teeth so hard that a crown from her freshman year chipped along the top, crumbling into sharp, powdery flakes, the fragments scraping along the roof of her mouth.

  If not for Kenna, she would h
ave screamed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d sat on their couches; had sat in small rooms with two-way mirrors—she’d taken their pills and polygraphs.

  Vindicated—somewhat—she had begun to recover. She was sure she had. John had said she was better. Had said he understood. He said he was coping, too. Coping the best he could. Day by day; same as her. The job helped. Not directly, but it was a distraction.

  A job that took John so terribly far away. It had opened her to the voice. Kenna teething, and no John, and no sleep—Abby’s mind was tearing itself in half. She could feel the sections parting, a steaming loaf of bread pulled apart by gluttonous hands.

  It was cruel and ugly, but it was her own voice.

  Who else would it be?

  The job helps.

  You couldn’t use it in a cover letter, but Abby had a job. A job she loved—and it did help. It was more important than anything she’d ever seen posted online.

  She tucked one of Kenna’s blankets another inch into the cushion of the carrier and mouthed a kiss. She’d slathered her daughter with layers of sunscreen so thick it was visible in places, but studies had shown even the expensive brands rubbed-off many times per day—if they worked at all. SPF numbers on the bottle were practically arbitrary, or they were according to a news snippet she’d read a few days ago.

  Where?

  She had no idea.

  A waiting room magazine, a scientific study, Buzzfeed, a girlfriend’s Facebook post, a meme… somewhere. Not a hit piece, not clickbait. She skipped those. It wasn’t “research” funded by big pharma or an activist billionaire… at least, not that she could tell. The blanket was a sure bet. A barrier she could see.

  Tuck her in, Abby. Tight, tight, tight. But look around you… use your head. The sun should be the least of your concerns.

  Abby stifled a groan and leaned back, her skull notching into place on the bench. She breathed heavily, stupor dragging at her as though she’d taken an antihistamine with a whiskey chaser.

  She should have asked Gramma about the eye.

  Gramma would have known how it worked; now she was gone. Whatever the abilities and restrictions on an evil eye, Abby was left as she had always been: a child with dainty hands cupping her chin, guessing her way past disbelief.