Halloween

by Paula Guran

  She didn’t have an answer. Alan was throwing too much at her too fast, she needed time to sort this out, she needed order and calm, needed .

  “Alan, look, I . . . ” She had to buy some time. She was letting herself be drawn into his world of grief and dementia. How romantic and seductive it seemed when one was this close. “I couldn’t bring myself to come here any sooner. I couldn’t just sit around here waiting for Dad to die. I can’t stand anything like that, I never could. I need to be where everything is vibrant, healthy, alive . . . goddammit, I was too scared, I admit it, it’s just that . . . I didn’t know Dad wanted me here so much.”

  “Would it have made any difference?”

  A beat, a breath. “No.”

  Jack poked his head around the corner. “Good girl.”

  Alan said, “Jack told me something about Mom. Did you know she always thought you didn’t love her? She told Dad she thought you were embarrassed to have her for a mother because she was just an ignorant factory gal.”

  Marian felt something expand in her throat. “God, Alan, I never felt that way. I always thought she was a good—a fine woman. She almost never complained about things and always managed to come up with some extra money whenever we wanted something special. I don’t think I ever saw her buy a thing for herself. How could she believe I thought so . . . little of her?”

  “You never told her.” His voice was empty.

  Then Jack spoke. “The last time you kissed her, you were nineteen years old.”

  Alan took her hand. “Remember how we used to make fun of her getting tired so quickly? It never crossed our minds that she might be sick. That’s why we were so shocked when she

  died.”

  Marian looked at Mom’s favorite chair and remembered the way Dad had cried when he’d found her there, dead. “She never said anything.”

  “It wasn’t her way,” said Alan. “But we were her family. If we’d cared a little more, we would’ve known.”

  Marian hugged herself. She could feel the affliction and loss trapped within this house; the loneliness . . . God, the loneliness.

  “It becomes easier, once you accept it,” said Alan. “Love it. Embrace it as you would a child. Hold it against you. Let it suckle your breast like a baby would. Let it draw the life from you. Love the pain. Love the emptiness. Love the guilt and remorse, cherish the loneliness, love it all and it will make you strong. It’s what makes us whole.”

  “No. I can’t—I won’t feel bad about not knowing. They could have said something to me, could have talked to me, asked me things. It’s not my fault.”

  “I never said it was.”

  Marian rubbed her eyes, then held her hands against them for a moment. “Alan, please, I don’t know what to . . . what to say or do . . . I don’t understand how—”

  “—how this started?”

  Marian pulled her hands away from her face as Jack answered the call of more trick or treaters. “Yes.”

  “It started a long, long time ago, before either of us were ever born, I guess. But I suppose, for us—you and me—it started with Grandpa . . . ”

  It was three weeks after Alan’s ninth birthday, about seven-thirty in the evening. Marian and her brother were settled in front of the television to watch the next hair-raising episode of Batman. The Green Hornet and his trusty aid Kato were making a special guest appearance tonight, so both were barely able to contain their excitement, stuffing popcorn into their mouths by the plentiful handful.

  The opening credits were just starting when there came a knock at the front door; it was a timid, almost inaudible knock. Alan and Marian looked at each other.

  “I’ll bet it’s that goony paper boy coming to collect,” said Marian.

  “He’ll go away if we don’t answer,” said Alan. “That always works.”

  The knocking persisted just as they were being told it was another normal day in Gotham City as Commissioner Gordon and Chief O’Hara were—

  —Knocking again. Louder this time.

  “Alan? Marian?” called Mom, “will one of you answer the door? I’m in the bathroom.”

  When Alan looked at her and didn’t move, Marian angrily slammed down her popcorn and stomped over to the front door, really ready to chew that paper boy out. How could anyone come around when Batman was on? You did not knock on their front door on Batman nights, and you sure didn’t do it tonight of all nights, when the Green Hornet and Kato were going to be on! Whoever this was had better have a good reason, or Marian would . . . well . . . she’d sure do something, you could bet on that.

  She had to fiddle with the deadbolt for a moment, and then with the stupid, stupid, stupid chain lock, but then it was off and dangling and the front door was wide open—

  —and she was staring at Boris Karloff. She knew it wasn’t really Boris Karloff, but the man who stood on their front porch looked enough like him to make her shiver for a moment, wondering if she hadn’t woke up in the middle of a horror movie.

  The man looked her up and down a couple of times, cleared his throat (it sounded like he really needed to hawk up a loogie), and spoke.

  “Would you be Marian?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Your mom at home?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Would you mind gettin’ her for me?” His voice was like rusty nails being pulled out of old and warped wood. It gave Marian the creeps.

  She turned to call and saw her Mom standing in the doorway to the kitchen, an expression on her face that told Marian not only did Mom know who this man was, but that he was a Big Deal. You Stuck Around for Big Deals. Marian’s mother wiped her hands on a small towel, but when she was done she didn’t put the towel over the back of a chair or lay it on the table; she just let it drop to the floor.

  Marian walked over and picked it up, but Mom took no notice. By this time Alan was standing by the door, looking at Mr. Karloff.

  He wore an old floppy brown hat, straight-legged gray pants, dusty boots, a collarless green shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was carrying a small suitcase. Mom said nothing for what seemed the longest time, and Marian found herself becoming afraid of this man, who looked at them through the reddest eyes she had ever seen, and even from where Marion was standing, the smell of tobacco and iodine was overpowering. His skin was all scratched and stained, like a piece of old leather left out in the sun too long. Marian looked at Alan, then to Mom, who was breathing very slowly, the strange expression on her face suddenly gone, replaced by nothing at all.

  “Glad I found you at home,” said Mr. Karloff.

  “I worked day shift at the plant now,” said Marian’s mother.

  “Days, huh? I’ll bet that makes it nice for the kids here.”

  “I always have time for them,” said her mother, which seemed to hurt Mr. Karloff in the doorway; his eyes started blinking rapidly and the hand which held the suitcase shook a little.

  Marian was just plain scared now.

  She looked more closely at Mr. K. and noticed that one of his eyes was half-closed, a deep cut on its lid, covered in iodine.

  “I been in the V.A. hospital,” he said. “I suppose you know that?”

  “I heard about it,” said her Mom, shaking.

  From the living room Robin exclaim, “Holy hornet’s nest, Batman!”

  Piss off, Boy Wonder.

  “You look good,” said Mr. K. to Mom.

  “You look like hell.”

  And that’s when it happened.

  Marian had never seen anything like it before. Mr. K. took a deep breath, turned as if he was going to leave, but then he seemed to spot something outside of the house that scared him. A lot. Enough to make him not want to go outside, and for the first time Marian realized that she wasn’t alone in feeling this way; maybe everybody once in a while looked out their front doors or windows and saw something that scared them, things that maybe even weren’t there most of the time but you saw them anyway. Maybe this old man could see something
out there, maybe in a tree or behind a bush or a parked car or even in the shape of a cloud, but he saw it out there, he sure did, and he didn’t want to walk out the door to face it, so he let his suitcase slip out of his hand and drop to the floor, turned back around, and without looking at Marian’s mother started to speak.

  His voice came out in low wheezes, fizzling in and out like whispers do. “I only got about twenty dollars to my name right now and I vas just wonderin’ if . . . if you would mind terribly loaning me a couple of bucks. I ain’t had me a thing to eat since about noon yesterday and I’m a bit hungry. I can’t use this money for food ’cause it’s got to go for a room of some kind. I wouldn’t be bothering you otherwise honest. If it ain’t too much trouble would you let me sleep on your sofa, just for tonight, until I can find me a room at the ‘Y’ or something? I haven’t been feeling too good lately and don’t got the energy to go stompin’ around town tonight looking for a place. I’d much appreciate if you’d lend me a hand for the night. Whatta you say?”

  His last few words were so soft Marian could barely understand what he was saying, so she looked up at her mother but Mom was staring down at her feet like she did when she wished things weren’t happening, so Marian reached up and took her hand.

  “Close the damn door and take your shoes off,” said her mother, turning away and wiping something off her face. “I’m just getting ready to fix us some hamburgers.” Marian wondered why Mom was telling Mr. K. that, because they’d just finished doing the supper dishes; they’d already had hamburgers.

  Mr. K. was taking his boots off when Mom turned lack around.

  “And I don’t want hear any of this shit about you getting a room at the ‘Y’ or anything like that. If you help out you can stay here as long as you like. Just don’t get in my way too much.” She turned back into the kitchen, then called over her shoulder: “And I don’t allow liquor in this house. Read me there?”

  “I read you,” said Mr. K. He looked at Alan and Marian, tried to smile, raised an eyebrow, and released a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for years.

  “So,” he said, “you two are Alan and Marian, huh?”

  “Yessir,” they both replied.

  “Don’t you all be cablin’ me ‘sir,’ that’s too formal.”

  “What should we call you?” said Alan.

  “I’d be your grandfather, boy. ‘Grampa’ will do just fine.”

  The next few weeks were a great time for Marian and her brother. Grampa taught them how to play Poker, how to make meatloaf and homemade bread, told them stories about how he fought in the war, helped with the dishes, and even did a lot of extra work on the house for Dad. Eventually Mom allowed Grampa to buy some beer, but only in a six-pack and only once a week. This seemed to make Grampa happy because he and Dad could drink while they were playing cards and smoking cigarettes. Marian really liked her Grampa, and so did Alan, but neither of them understood why Mom wouldn’t talk to him more. When they finally asked her she just shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s of no concern to someone your age.”

  Grampa began getting some kind of checks in the mail shortly after he came to stay, but he never spent any of the money on himself—aside from a six-pack and a couple packs of cigarettes; he always gave a lot to mom, then spent the rest on Marian and her brother. Clothes, records, a new board game, whatever they wanted. And he always had such wonderful stories to tell them.

  Toward the end of his first summer with them the card game became less frequent and he took to watching television. His favorite show was Hee-Haw and, even though she and Alan hated it, Marian would watch it with everyone else. Grampa seemed to enjoy having company while he sang along—always off-key—to the country music songs.

  By fall all he did was go shopping once a week. He couldn’t help Dad much with the house for some reason, and Mom wouldn’t let him cook because she said he needed his rest.

  Every once in a while Grandma came over to see how he was doing. Marian knew that her grandparents had not been married for a long time, but never asked anyone how come, or why Mom seemed to be made at Grampa about something, or why Grampa was doing all these things for them.

  Winter rolled in and Mom rented Grampa a hospital bed from the drug store. Grampa seemed happy when it arrived because, he said, the sofa was starting to get to his back. When the checks came he insisted on paying the rental fee for the bed, but because of that he couldn’t buy Marian and Alan anything. But they didn’t mind that at all.

  It was the first of December when things started going sour. Marian hadn’t realized how sick Grampa was until then; he dropped several pounds in a short period of time and began spending more time in bed. He always kept apologizing to Marian and Alan because he didn’t feel well.

  One afternoon Marian and Alan came home after doing a little Christmas shopping, loaded down with presents from a small curiosity shop two blocks away. Both Mom and Dad were working extra shifts for the overtime, so the only person home was Grampa. They came through the door, set down the presents, and were just heading up stairs to get the wrapping paper and tape they’d stashed earlier when Marian heard Grampa call her name. He was in the bathroom, which was just off the kitchen, so Marian came back down and stood by the closed door.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “Could you . . . ?” His voice trailed off and a terrible sound came from him. The closest Marian had ever heard to that sound was from a small child down the block who once fell on the sidewalk in front of their house and scraped his knee badly; the child fell, rolled over, took in a sharp mouthful of air and held it until he was shaking from head to heel, his face turning red, his veins pounding in his head, but then he finally released the scream—

  —but not before he let out one hideous little squeak! before the cries exploded.

  That little squeak was the sound that followed Grampa’s “Could you . . . ?”

  “Grampa?” said Marian.

  No answer.

  She knocked on the door. “Grampa? Do you need some help with something?”

  Squeak!

  Marian pounded on the door with her fist. “Grampa! Grampa do you need—”

  And from the other side of the door, so quietly she almost mistook it for the sound of her own breath leaving her throat and nose, Marian heard Grampa say one word: “ . . . help.”

  She tried to yank open the door but Grampa had used the little eye-hook on the other side, and try as she did, pulling with all of her strength, Marian could not get the door to open, so she ran over and pulled open the cutlery drawer and took out Mom’s biggest cutting knife and jammed it deep inside the crack beside the door and pulled it upward, then had to turn it around so that she was pushing it upward, instead, and somewhere she could hear Alan calling for her, asking what’s wrong Sis what is it but she couldn’t answer him, she needed to hold her breath and answering him would mean she’d have to let her breath out and if she did that she’d never get the door opened and if she never got the door opened then Grampa might die, so she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth and pushed up with knife as hard as she could, making sure to wiggle it from side to side as much as she could (a villain on The Green Hornet had done something like this once) and just when her arms were throbbing and her shoulders were screaming and she felt like she was going to pass out from being so dizzy, three things happened: she felt the hook wrench from the eye, heard the thwack! of the metal against the doorjamb, and released her breath it one massive puff; then she threw down the knife and threw open the bathroom door and saw that Grampa leaning against the sink, shaking, his face so red and sweaty Marian thought he might scream, but he never did, not once, not ever, because he was too busy gripping the sides of the sink, his wrinkly old arms looking like old sticks you used for kindling in the fireplace, and she realized that Grampa had been trying to sit down on the toilet when he got sick or felt the pain or whatever it was that happened to him, because the toilet seat was up and his pants were halfw
ay down his legs but his underwear had gotten stuck and they had a big red stain spreading all over them and the more the blood spread the more Grampa shook and squeaked, and he pulled away one hand and said . . . “ . . . these damned underpants, I can’t never . . . ohgod . . . ” and he tried to grab hold of them with one shuddering hand but he couldn’t reach them, it hurt him too much, but then Alan was there, on his knees next to Grampa, grabbing the ruined shorts and pulling them down so they could get him on the toilet, and they did, she and Alan, Marian holding him around the waist while Alan took hold of his legs and they eased him down onto the toilet seat and all the time Marian just wanted to cry for how much Grampa was hurting, but Alan was being the big cry baby, whining over and over Grampa I’m so sorry you’re so sick I love you I don’t want you to die, but then Grampa was on the toilet and breathing okay, his face wasn’t as red now, that was good, and Marian almost smiled when he looked up and winked at her.

  “Got it that time, didn’t we?” he said. He reached out with an unsteady hand and grasped Marian’s arm.

  “Thank you both very much,” he said. “Now go.” There was a hideous sound from below his waist as his ruined bowels exploded.

  Marian grabbed Alan and went back out, closing the door behind them. They stood there for a moment listening for him in case he needed more help.

  “You two can go about your Christmas wrappin’ business,” he said. “I’m almost eighty years old and I been in worse situations than this. I got me no intention of dying on a goddamned toilet seat. Now move along.”

  They were heading back upstairs for the paper and the tape when Alan squeezed her hand and said, “He’s so sad.”

  “He’s just sick,” replied Marian. “He’ll be better.”

  “I don’t want him to feel sad. I love him.”

  Marian looked at her brother and shook her head. “I love him, too. But I don’t think that’s enough to make him not sad anymore.”

  Alan looked heartbroken. “Not even a little?”

  Marian shrugged. “Maybe a little. But what good’s that, what good is a little?”