The Best American Mystery Stories 2019

by Jonathan Lethem

  Their porch light was dark, no smiling jack-o’-lantern to greet trick-or-treaters, no bowl of candy waiting by the front door.

  Hannah bit her lip, looked through the screen at the girls gathered outside smiling in at her from the shadows, begging: “Please, please, pleeeeeaze.”

  “It won’t be like before, we promise.”

  “Please say you’ll be our friend and come with us,” they begged.

  Hannah shook her head. “I’m not supposed to.”

  It was more than the fact that her daddy would skin her alive if he caught her going out with these girls. It was that she didn’t trust them. Not one bit.

  They’d given her dog biscuits, telling her they were oatmeal cookies, then barked out their own laughs, saying, “Hannah’s a dog! Bowwow, Dog-face! Bow-fucking-wow!”

  Then she’d cried, actually cried, and they’d said they were sorry, sorry, so, so sorry. It was a joke. Just having a little fun is all.

  Some days they took her lunch money, saying it was a tax she had to pay, and if she didn’t pay it, they wouldn’t be her friends anymore, wouldn’t let her sit with them, not ever. Not like they did all that much anyway. Mostly she was greeted with disgusted snarls of “Go away, Hannah.”

  The worst was the time they’d tried to turn her into a real girl. “Trust us,” Mel said. “We’ll make you pretty. You want to be pretty, don’t you, Hannah?”

  And they took her to Katie’s house, where they made her soak in a tub full of “pretty-girl bath salts” that made her break out in a hot rash all over her body. Then they coated her legs with shaving cream, and Mel shaved her with a pink razor, saying, “You’ve got quite the pelt going on here, Hannah. What are you, a wolf-girl?”

  And Hannah had bared her teeth, laughed, and said, “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m going to eat you up.” She gave them a growl, deep in her throat, and snapped her jaws at Mel, made like she was going to bite her.

  This had startled Mel. Or maybe she just pretended to be startled. Maybe she slipped on purpose.

  The next thing Hannah knew, she was dripping blood down her leg, not like little weeping dots, but like a spring stream that runneth over.

  “Fuck,” Mel said. “Sorry.” But then she smiled ever so slightly and shot a quick glance at Manda and Katie, and Hannah knew she wasn’t sorry. Not one bit.

  Hannah still had the scar.

  “It’s Halloween, Hannah,” Manda said now, pleading. She was dressed up like a cat burglar with a striped shirt and watch cap, a black mask, and a pillowcase with a huge dollar sign drawn on the outside. Katie was a girlie clown, a feather boa draped around her shoulders. And Mel, she was some kind of superhero space princess with a silver dress, tall black boots, a silver cape, a tiara, and a big plastic laser gun strapped to her back.

  “Don’t you want candy?” Katie asked as she stood shoulder to shoulder with Mel. “We’ll get candy. So much candy! Whole pillowcases stuffed full of KitKats, peanut butter cups, Mars bars.”

  “So much sugar we won’t sleep for a week,” Mel promised.

  “Then we can swap,” Manda said. “I know you love peanut butter cups—I’ll give you all of mine.”

  Hannah let herself imagine it: roaming the streets, going door-to-door with these girls, opening her sack up, and watching the candy fill it until it was heavy, so heavy that it was hard to carry, bulging with chocolate, lollipops, wax lips, candy she’d never even heard of, never even tried.

  “Come with us,” Mel said.

  “Come with us,” Katie begged, an echo of Mel. Which was how Hannah thought of her. Not a person all her own, just an echo. Whatever Mel said, Katie did. Whatever Mel wore, Katie wore. She even brought the same kind of sandwich as Mel to school each day—peanut butter and fluff, with the crust cut off.

  Hannah looked at Manda. The only one she half-trusted. She’d been to Manda’s house before, spent the night once even. It had been during February break, and the other girls were away; Hannah knew this would never have happened if they’d been around, if there’d been even the slightest possibility that they’d find out.

  Manda’s house was big and beautiful. Her parents were real nice too. They took Hannah and Amanda to the video store, let them pick out whatever they wanted; then they stopped at the grocery store and bought a pan of popcorn that they cooked on the stovetop—pop, pop, pop—and the foil over it puffed up as it filled, turning it into a crinkly, metallic mushroom. She and Manda made pink cupcakes with purple sprinkles, and Manda’s mom wrapped the leftovers up for Hannah to take home. Hannah stayed in her clothes at bedtime, and Manda’s mom was all like, “Where’s your nightgown, sweetheart?” and Hannah said, “I forgot it,” when the truth was she didn’t own one at all.

  “Well, I’m sure Amanda has something you can borrow! Let’s go see.” Then Amanda’s mom was opening all the drawers in her dresser and going through the closet and making a whole pile of stuff that she said was either too small for Amanda or that Amanda never wore anymore. Not just nightgowns, but jeans and a dress and shirts and this pair of pink cowboy boots that Hannah tried on, and they fit perfect, like her feet and Manda’s were the same shape and everything. “Take them,” Manda’s mother said. “Take all these things. Amanda doesn’t wear any of it anymore.” Amanda looked kind of surprised, a little angry maybe even, so Hannah said, “No, thanks. I’ll just borrow the nightgown for tonight.” Manda’s mom gave Manda a look, and Manda smiled at Hannah and said, “No, you should take all this stuff. I was just gonna give it to the Salvation Army anyway.”

  Hannah went to sleep that night curled up against Manda, wearing her white nightgown, Manda’s heavy comforter on top of them, and it was the happiest she’d ever been. “I love you, Manda,” she said. “Manda Panda,” she added, giggling the new name into Manda’s shoulder.

  “Go to sleep,” Manda said.

  She wore Manda’s pleated acid-washed jeans and lavender polo shirt (with the collar turned up, the way Manda always wore it) to school when they all came back from break the next Monday, and Mel had laughed, then got all angry, and asked, “Amanda, isn’t that your shirt? And your jeans?” and Manda turned bright red, and Hannah said, “Yeah, they are. I stole them. When I was at her house.”

  Mel glared at Manda. “When was Dog-face at your house?” And Manda—she looked all frantic, little drops of sweat dotting her forehead.

  “I broke in,” Hannah said quickly. “Broke in when no one was home.”

  “Thieving little bitch,” Mel said. “Give them back. Right now.”

  “Yeah, go take them off, or we’ll do it for you,” Katie said. She took a step closer to Hannah like she was going to start ripping them off right in the hall.

  “It’s okay, really,” Manda had said. “They’re like a hundred years old, they don’t even fit, just let her—”

  “It is not fucking okay,” Mel snarled. Manda hadn’t said any more.

  And Hannah had gone into the bathroom and taken off the clothes and put on her gym clothes and worn those all day instead—her stinky T-shirt and too-tight shorts. She’d folded Manda’s clothes up neatly and returned them to her during study hall. Manda slipped them into her book bag without saying anything, but she smiled apologetically at Hannah. When Hannah got home from school that day, she put the rest of the hand-me-downs in a kitchen garbage bag, sealed it tight, and hid them in the bottom of the trash bin in the garage. One of her chores was rolling the bin to the curb every Friday night, so she knew it’d be gone soon, and her daddy would never know.

  But the boots, those lovely pink boots, she kept those. She knew better than to wear them to school. She put them on every day when she got home and danced around in her bedroom, imagining she was Manda, and she lived in a big house with a big closet full of clothes she never wore and sweet pink cupcakes baking in the kitchen.

  The real Manda, just outside her bedroom window, smiled at her now, held out her hand. “Come on,” she said. “Come trick-or-treating with us. It’ll be so much fun. P
romise.”

  “I . . . I don’t even have a costume.”

  “It’s cool. We’ll make you one,” Mel said. “We’ll give you parts of ours.”

  Then Mel reached up, untied her beautiful silver cape, and held it out.

  It sparkled in the streetlights.

  “Katie will give you her wig,” Mel said.

  “But the wig is—” Katie started to protest, then Mel shot her a glance.

  “The boa too,” Mel ordered.

  Katie took off the wig and boa without question and held them out to Hannah.

  Hannah lifted up the screen, wiggled her way out the window.

  It was only when she dropped to the ground that she realized she was wearing the pink boots, Manda’s boots, but no one said anything; no one seemed to notice, not even Manda.

  “Oh, Hannah,” they all said, putting their hands on her, patting her back, stroking her hair like she was something truly great, like their own pet unicorn. “We’re going to have so much fun. It’ll be a night you won’t ever forget.”

  2016

  Amanda stood looking out the living room window, watching Erin and her friends saunter off down the street. They moved so easily together, bumping against each other, moving the same way, the same direction, like a school of fish. She’d walked that way once with Mel and Katie, like they were one being, a three-headed beast, finishing each other’s sentences, breaking into Journey songs: “Don’t Stop Believin’” and “Who’s Crying Now.”

  It was just past six now, already full dark. Amanda went out onto the porch, plugged in the plastic glowing witch, the strings of tiny orange lights wrapped around the porch railings. Putting up the lights had been Jim’s job too, but Amanda had gone out and bravely gotten up on a stepladder, wrapping them around the posts, but no matter how she’d tried, she couldn’t get them to come out even. “Being honest? Looks like shit, Mom,” Erin had said with a shrug. And she’d been right.

  Amanda didn’t even attempt to do the fake cobwebs and dangling plastic spiders Jim usually decorated the porch with. He loved Halloween.

  Amanda hated it.

  She shivered now, looked down the street at a group of small ghosts and witches heading her way with their parents. Amanda went in, readied herself with the giant plastic bowl of chocolate bars and lollipops.

  Jim had dressed up every year, answering the door dressed as a zombie, a vampire, a mummy. Always a monster. Always something slightly frightening.

  The trick-or-treaters had loved it. Erin had always made a show of running from him as he chased her around the house, arms outstretched, reaching for her as she screamed in mock horror.

  Amanda had hidden in the back of the house, claiming she had so much work to catch up on, or a migraine coming on.

  “Trick or treat!” the little crew gathered on her porch now called. She forced a smile, opened the door.

  “Oh my goodness, what do we have here?” she said, holding out the bowl. “A ghost, two witches, and—what are you, sweetie?”

  The girl in the back stepped forward, into the light. She looked about five or six years old.

  “I’m a chicken,” she said, showing off her cardboard wings with yellow feathers glued on. She wore a yellow shirt all splattered in red.

  “And what a fine chicken you are,” Amanda said.

  “I’m a dead chicken,” the little girl said delightedly. “See my blood?”

  “Oh my,” Amanda said. The woman with them (too young to be a mother, surely—must be an older sister, or a babysitter maybe) gave her an apologetic you-know-how-kids-are smile.

  Amanda spotted another group coming down the street. Older children. One of them wearing a rainbow wig.

  “Happy Halloween,” she said, closing the door on the small children, wanting to lock it.

  She went back into the kitchen, opened a bottle of merlot, and poured herself a full glass. The uncarved pumpkin sat on the island, taunting. She took a good swig of wine, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dark window over the sink: a frazzled-looking woman in jeans and a black turtleneck, dark circles under her eyes. She took another long sip of wine, feeling it warming her from the inside out, and turned toward the pumpkin.

  She could do this. And wouldn’t Erin be surprised when she got home and saw the soft glow of a grinning jack-o’-lantern decorating their porch?

  See, your old mom’s not such a Halloween party pooper after all.

  Amanda opened drawers and cabinets, pulled out a large carving knife and small paring knife, a big metal spoon, a plastic bowl for the guts, and a baking tray for the seeds because that’s another thing Jim had always done—roasted the seeds after sprinkling them with cinnamon and sugar. Erin loved them that way. “These,” she’d say, holding a handful of seeds, “are the epitome of fall.” Then she’d give a coy grin, clearly pleased with herself for showing off her vocabulary.

  There was a knock on the door. Amanda set her glass of wine down, picked up the bowl of candy, and opened the door.

  Not one but two Hannah-beasts greeted her, blue faces leering, smiling, rainbow wigs glowing.

  “Trick or treat,” they said.

  Amanda took a step back.

  There was a third girl, wearing a white lab coat and big black-framed eyeglasses, just behind them. She said, “Dumbasses, you’re supposed to say boo! That’s what the real Hannah-beast said.”

  Amanda’s breath caught in her throat.

  Say boo.

  Say boo, Hannah.

  1982

  “Say boo, Hannah,” Mel instructed as they stood on their first porch, holding open their bags.

  Hannah’s face itched and felt tight from the blue makeup they’d put on, left over from Katie’s clown kit—she’d used up all the white and red on her own face, and blue was the only color she had left, so they’d coated Hannah’s face in it. At first it had been greasy, sticky as they rubbed it on. Now, as it dried, it itched.

  The old man passing out candy stared at her, taking in her rainbow clown wig, feather boa, and silver cape. He asked, “And what are you supposed to be?”

  “She’s a Hannah-beast!” Mel crowed. “Say boo, Hannah. Say boo and show the man how scary you can be.”

  “Boo,” Hannah said quietly.

  The man shook his head, laughed. The girls laughed too.

  Hannah stood up taller, rocked back on her heels, and lunged forward like a snake about to strike. “BOO!” she screamed.

  The old man jumped, startled. Then he frowned, muttered, “Crazy kid,” and closed the door in their faces.

  The girls squealed, squealed with joy, patted her on the back.

  “Nice job, Hannah-beast.”

  “Holy shit, did you see his face?”

  “Hannah-beast is scary!”

  “Hannah-beast is crazy!”

  “Hannah-beast is spectacular!”

  They ran down the sidewalk, laughing. All the other groups of trick-or-treaters, all the adults on porches, turned to look their way.

  The soles of Hannah’s pink boots clapped as loud as a horse’s hooves along the sidewalk. “The boots look good on you,” Manda whispered in her ear, her breath sweet with sugar.

  They ran through the center of town, past the park where the Halloween party for the little kids had been earlier—the park where tiny ghosts and goblins and princesses had bobbed for apples, played pin the arm on the skeleton, and attacked a ghost piñata strung up with heavy rope from a beam in the center of the white gazebo.

  They ran and ran until Mel stopped them at a house with a porch decorated with Halloween lights, several happy jack-o’-lanterns, and a patchwork scarecrow slumped in a chair.

  They all crowded together on the tiny front porch with sloping floorboards, shoulder to shoulder, and it felt good, so good to be bumping against these girls, laughing with them under the Halloween wind chimes hung above the front door—little ghosts dancing, banging into each other, making music. They were like those ghosts, Hannah thought, smil
ing up at them.

  They knocked too loud on the door, sang out, “Trick or treat, trick or treat!” and a woman answered, held out a bowl of candy, said, “Happy Halloween!” A poodle danced around the lady’s feet, barking in that little yappy-dog kind of way, a pink collar with fake diamonds glittering around its neck.

  And the girls didn’t have to tell Hannah this time; she did it without being asked. She pressed forward, stood on her tiptoes to make herself taller. She held up her arms, cape flapping behind her, got right in this lady’s face, and screamed, “BOO!” which made the poor lady recoil and scream a little, and once she caught her breath, she asked, “What is wrong with you?”

  “She’s Hannah-beast,” Mel said, giggling. “That’s what’s wrong.”

  “She can’t help it,” Katie said. “She’s crazy. I’d bring your puppy inside if I was you. She might just eat it up!”

  And Hannah bared her teeth and growled. The lady pulled her dog inside, slammed the door in their faces.

  The girls all laughed loud and shrieking laughs.

  “You’re the real thing, Hannah-beast,” Katie said, twirling around her like Hannah was the sun and she was just a little planet trying to get warm.

  “I am spectacular!” Hannah crowed to the night as she flew down the steps, the others following her now, chasing her, calling after her: come back, slow down, don’t leave us, we love you, Hannah-beast.

  2016

  Amanda cut the top off the pumpkin in six quick slashes, lifted it off, a neat little cap with a curved stem. She went to work hollowing the thing out. She hated the cold, squishy feel of the pumpkin’s insides—“the guts,” as Erin called them.

  She thought of that long-ago Halloween, the week before, actually, when Mel had presented her carefully laid-out plan.

  “I think it’s totally brilliant, but are you sure it’ll work?” Katie asked.

  “Of course I’m sure. She’ll come with us. She’ll do what we say.”

  “But don’t you think it’s kind of . . .” Amanda hesitated.