by Rich Wallace
Danny could smell chicken roasting. There would be at least two rock or jazz performances going on at any time, under tents or on temporary stages around town.
A lot of people were already walking. By noon it would be so crowded that you could barely move.
Danny found his jack-o’-lantern on the lowest row of a five-platform scaffold. He looked around, then lifted the pumpkin and placed it two rows higher, close to eye level and next to Janelle’s, which she’d carved with much greater delicacy and skill.
“Beauty and the beast?” asked a familiar voice.
Danny turned to see Luke pointing at the two pumpkins and laughing. Luke was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts; didn’t seem like any parents told him what to wear.
Carter was standing with him. Carter never said much; he just hung close to Luke all the time.
“As if you’ve got a chance with Janelle,” Luke said. “Those two pumpkins are closer than you’ll ever get to her.”
“What are you talking about?” Danny asked.
“Like we don’t know you have a crush on her?” Luke said. “Everybody sees you staring at her in class.”
“I do not.”
“You do, too.”
“I do not!”
“You do it every day.”
“So what if I do?”
Luke turned Danny’s pumpkin and pushed it slightly, so its mouth was up against Janelle’s pumpkin. “Look. Your pumpkins are making out. That’s as close as you’ll ever get.”
“Cut it out,” Danny said. He readjusted the pumpkins.
“We’re just kidding around, Danny Boy,” Luke said. “Dream about her all you want.”
Luke and Carter walked away, laughing.
“Jerks,” Danny said. He said it out loud, but not nearly loud enough for anyone else to hear.
By noon Danny had eaten a container of French fries from the fire department, a pulled-pork sandwich made by a church choir, and a slice of pumpkin pie from a Girl Scout troop. He had his eye on some chicken fingers and kettle corn.
A teenage grunge-rock band had started playing in the parking lot in front of Cheshire Tire, so he made his way through the crowd to listen. He squeezed between two people in motorcycle jackets and found himself standing next to the last person he’d hoped to see: his sister, Claudine.
Claudine rolled her eyes and took two sideways steps away. Someone else moved into the gap.
Janelle.
She was his height, and she seemed to glow with fitness and confidence. She was gyrating her shoulders in rhythm to the music, which must have been hard because it didn’t seem to Danny that there was any rhythm.
Janelle was the first girl Danny had ever thought was beautiful. When he caught her eye, she seemed to brighten, and she made a motion with her hand that looked like a duck’s beak closing.
Danny waved, too, a sweeping, open-palmed gesture. He lifted one shoulder and dropped the other in imitation of her dance, then immediately stopped trying to be cool.
He could see Claudine looking over in disgust. Janelle turned to her and smiled, and Claudine sunk back into the crowd and disappeared.
“Your sister doesn’t like you much, huh?” Janelle asked while the musicians broke between songs.
“I don’t like her much either.”
“Why not?”
“She’s …” Danny hesitated. His father had told him—repeatedly—that speaking ill of others would not endear you to anyone else. “She’s at an awkward age,” he said, a phrase his father constantly used when referring to Danny.
Janelle gave a half smile. She was the best-liked kid in class. “What age isn’t awkward?”
The band started up again, intentionally off-key and sullen. Janelle leaned toward Danny and jutted her chin toward the drummer. “That’s my brother,” she said.
“You get along?”
Janelle nodded vigorously. “Really well. But he’s five years older, not like you and your sister.”
“I don’t think we’d get along if she was even older than that.”
“You should try. My brother is great.”
“That’s the thing; Claudine isn’t.”
Danny felt a slight shove as more people tried to get close to the band. He shoved back, but stumbled as he was pushed a little harder.
Luke was now between him and Janelle. Carter was on the other side of her.
Luke and Carter danced more aggressively than Janelle did, swinging their arms and nodding their heads.
Danny backed away. The band wasn’t any good. Janelle didn’t even notice that he left.
Watching the costume parade was okay for twenty minutes—thousands of little kids dressed as monsters and princesses and rabbits and football players, mixed in with the high school band, the college dance team, and politicians in convertibles.
Danny bought some fried dough with powdered sugar and watched a jazz band that was set up on the median for a few minutes. Then he crossed the street to the Colonial—a century-old theater with wooden seats and high walls and an ornate ceiling. He almost never went there. Half the movies weren’t even in English, and the live shows and operas were only interesting to stuffy adults like his father. But during Pumpkin Fest they showed old Looney Tunes cartoons all day for free.
He sat through a dozen Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck cartoons, laughing the whole time. He was older than most of the kids in the place, but this was a lot more fun than a grunge band. The theater smelled of burnt popcorn.
People were constantly coming and going, grabbing a quick rest or trying to keep bored kids entertained. Parents’ patience ran short. Danny decided to move to the front row to avoid the commotion.
There was his sister again, in an aisle seat in the second row. Danny poked her arm as he walked past. She smacked him with the back of her hand.
“Where are all those friends of yours?” Danny asked sarcastically.
“They must be with yours,” Claudine replied.
Danny took a seat in the center of the first row. He watched four more cartoons, then headed home for the rest of the afternoon, cutting through the college campus. He imagined what it would be like to have Janelle walking with him, friendly and making jokes.
The sky was overcast and the mist had never quite burned off. As he circled around Brickyard Pond, he felt a touch of loneliness, but he shook it off, like he always did.
His parents weren’t home. They’d be strolling among the jack-o’-lantern scaffolds and maybe having a once-a-year ice cream sandwich.
He went up to the bathroom, shut the door, and turned to the mirror. He dropped his left shoulder, then his right, and swirled his fists in a circle as he swayed to the music in his head.
“Now that’s ridiculous,” he said, abruptly stopping his attempt to dance.
He went to the living room and toggled back and forth between three college football games.
A copy of his father’s new book was on the coffee table. It was a thin paperback with a photo of the mountain on the cover. Sixty-four pages with one poem per page and a brief intro. The book was dedicated “For my children—May they grow as strong and enduring as the Mountain itself.”
Danny read the opening lines of the first poem, “Life in the Shadow.”
Sixty-one years now:
Twenty-two thousand days
Give or take a few
I’ve stayed in your shadow
Never out of view.
Your granite peak’s a constant reminder
That life’s long climb is worth the effort;
That death will not be kinder
Ooof! Danny thought with a sigh. You opened the book with that, Dad? Way to be subtle.
Danny set down the book as a Notre Dame quarterback got sacked by two linemen from USC.
The back door opened. Claudine came in. “What are you watching?” she asked.
Danny thrust his hand toward the screen. “It’s called football.”
“They showed ‘Little Red R
iding Rabbit’ right after you left,” Claudine said.
“Darn,” Danny replied. He imitated Red, speaking to Bugs Bunny. “ ‘I got a little bunny rabbit which I’m takin’ to my grandma’s. Ta have, see?’ ”
Claudine laughed. “ ‘Hey—what sharp teeth ya got, Grandma!’ ”
Danny nodded. “Good stuff.”
“They still out?”
“Seems like it. I never saw them.”
“I did,” Claudine said. “They tried to get me to walk around with them, but, like, there was no way I was going to be seen hanging out with my parents.”
“Seen by who?” Danny asked.
“Duh. Everybody. None of my friends were anywhere near their parents.”
Danny stared at the television and decided not to make another remark about Claudine’s friend situation. He was surprised that she stood and watched the football game for a minute.
At the next commercial, Danny pointed to the poetry book. “Have you read this?”
“Some.”
“The first one is kind of preachy.”
Claudine scrunched up her mouth as if deep in thought. “More teachy than preachy, but I know what you mean. That’s Dad.”
“He’s probably read a billion poems in his life,” Danny said. “You’d think he’d finally write a good one.”
Claudine seemed to be holding back a laugh. “It’s a long climb to the peak.”
Danny let out a short, huffy breath. “I mean, if you’re going to rhyme your poems, at least get the meter right.”
“Like you could do better?”
“Like I would want to?”
Claudine went out to the kitchen. Danny heard the refrigerator open. “Do we have any orange juice?” he called.
“Yes,” Claudine said.
But when Danny got there, he found only a half-gallon container of carrot juice.
Claudine smirked. “It’s very orange, isn’t it?”
“Real funny. What normal household has giant cartons of carrot juice and nothing else to drink?” He drank a glass of water instead and went back to the couch.
“Does anything rhyme with Monadnock?” Claudine asked as she looked out the window toward the pond.
“A padlock,” Danny said. “A bad doc.”
“My dad’s sock,” Claudine said. “Wow. I guess we could be famous poets, too!”
Danny picked up the book again and leafed through it. A poem titled “Legends of Brickyard Pond” caught his eye. He scanned it. “Here’s one that works,” he called.
“Let’s hear it.”
“You can read it yourself. Give me a second.” He read it more slowly to himself.
Unnerved by the sight of phantom steeds
I stepped aside in the autumn weeds
As the equine rhythm of hooves grew near
And my countenance shook with awe and fear
Now shadow, now flesh, now sinewed hocks
The drown-ed horses of Cheshire Notch
Came racing freely, strong and ripped
No longer bound to their watery crypt
Through the teeth of the storm
A century since death
The four horses raced
With intense, heated breath
Deceased or alive, did it matter which?
For a moment they raced in a spectral niche
Toward an unseen goal with their flying feet
Where they finished the race in a wet, dead heat.
“He saw them!” Danny said.
“Who saw what?”
“The horses. The ghost ones.”
Claudine sighed. “If you believe that, you’re dumber than I thought.”
Danny scowled and looked at the clock: 5:32. He wanted to get a barbecued chicken sandwich at the American Legion booth, and he’d heard that a classic-rock band would be playing in Central Square at 6:00. “If you see them, tell them I left.”
“Don’t miss Dad’s poetry thing. I’m going, so you better.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Don’t be late, Danny.”
“I can tell time.”
“Yeah, and you usually ignore it. You’re late for everything.”
“What do you care?”
“Just don’t be late.”
“Just mind your own business and shut up.”
He could not possibly look at every pumpkin, but Danny moved slowly through the crowds, amazed at the variety. There were jack-o’-lanterns on every doorstep, on every bench, in every store window, and on hundreds of scaffolds. Every pumpkin had a small candle inside.
In the wide alley between the old inn and the tavern, people were feverishly carving more pumpkins, hoping to push the number above the record.
Central Square was so dense with scaffolds that Danny spent nearly an hour looking at jack-o’-lanterns as the band banged out covers of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “Welcome to the Jungle.”
Most pumpkins were carved with scary or goofy faces, but others showed intricate scenes of dragons or witches or constellations. I’ll do a better one next year, Danny thought. Much better.
He was surprised by a tap on his shoulder, and more surprised when he turned to see Janelle. She was wearing a maroon baseball cap, and her braid hung down to the middle of her back.
“You disappeared this afternoon,” she said.
“Yeah … well … I had to be somewhere else.”
“Too bad. My brother’s band was good.” She tilted her head toward the bandstand. “This one is just loud.”
Danny stared at the band for a second: two guitarists and a drummer in the small gazebo. “You’re alone?” he asked.
She nodded. “Luke and them think they’re too cool to look at pumpkins. But I love them.”
“See this one?” Danny asked, pointing to a fat, round pumpkin on which a carved horse was leaping over a gorge, with a large crescent moon behind it.
“That will look awesome when they light it up,” she said. “We’ve gotta be here for that.”
We?
Janelle laughed. “That one makes mine look like something a kindergartner would have done.”
“Mine, too.… But yours is a whole lot better than mine.”
“I didn’t see yours. Show me.”
“It’s way over by the Colonial,” Danny said.
“So’s mine.”
“I know. I saw it.” He did not want Janelle to see his very weak pumpkin, so he pointed to a nearby one with fine lines showing a haunted house with a bat flying overhead. “I also did that one,” he said, grinning.
Janelle smirked. “You did not.”
“Sure I did. It only took a few seconds.”
Janelle smiled and swatted him gently on the arm. “Make another one, then. I’d like to see how you do it.”
Danny looked around and shook his head. “No tools. And no spare pumpkins.”
“They’ve got hundreds of them in the alley. It only costs a dollar.”
“Wish I had the time,” Danny said with insincere regret. “Otherwise, I’d make a really elaborate one. A masterpiece.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“They’re starting to light them,” Danny said. The sun was down, and adults with long, tapered candles were lifting pumpkin stems to light the smaller candles inside.
“It’s so cool,” Janelle said. “Let’s get candles and help.”
Volunteers were handing them out. Danny and Janelle went from pumpkin to pumpkin, holding the flames to the wicks until they began to glow. All over town, people were doing the same.
“Awesome,” Danny said after a third of the jack-o’-lanterns in the square had been lit.
“Let’s go see ours,” Janelle said. “We’ll light them if nobody else has.”
She grabbed Danny’s arm and gave a little tug. He blew out his candle and they pushed through the crowd, hurrying along Main Street.
A light drizzle was falling, but since there was no wind, the pumpkins were staying lit.
Danny glanced at the clock in the bank as they passed—6:56.
“Oh, man!” he said. “I’m late.”
“For what?”
“My father has this … show he’s doing at seven. I have to be there.”
“He’s performing?”
“Something like that. But it’s all the way over at the college.”
“Let’s go.” Janelle cut down a side street and started running. “We’ll make it.”
Danny caught up. “You don’t have to go,” he said. “I don’t think you’d want to.”
“Is he playing music?”
“No. He’s reading his poems.”
“Scary Halloween poems?”
Danny rolled his eyes. “I wish.”
They cut across the parking lot in front of the diner and ran past a row of run-down houses rented by college students. They reached the campus in another minute, but the arts center was all the way on the other side.
They ran until they could see it. Danny was slightly out of breath. Janelle did not seem to be. “Think we’re too late to get a seat?” she asked.
“Have you ever been in there?”
“Yeah.”
“There are about six hundred seats. How many people do you think are going to be at a poetry reading the night of the Pumpkin Fest?”
The head of the English department was at the podium when they walked in, reading an introduction from an index card. Danny quickly counted eleven people in the first three rows of seats. The other rows were empty. He and Janelle stood at the back of the theater and waited.
His mom and sister were in the center of the first row.
“He earned his bachelor’s and master’s degrees right here at CNSC before taking the PhD at the University of New Hampshire,” the introducer read. “And now, please give a warm welcome to Professor Byron Morgan.”
Danny’s father stepped to the podium at the edge of the stage and everyone clapped politely. Danny led Janelle to the sixth row and they grabbed the first two seats on the aisle.
His father launched right into “Life in the Shadow,” which sounded a bit better than when Danny had read it to himself. Then he told a story about the first time he’d hiked to the top of Mount Monadnock with his father when he was eight years old. He mentioned “the exhilaration of seeing a red-tailed hawk from the peak.” Then he began reading another poem. “This one is called ‘Sighting the Hawk.’ ”