Halloween Carnival Volume 1
Page 2
“How long since your last confession?”
The man coughed again. “A while. I honestly can’t remember.”
“What matters is you’re here now. What’s on your heart?”
A deep sigh. “I’ve been away, but I’ve come back. I need…need to do something, but I don’t…don’t know if I can…”
—
I got back in town a few hours ago, Father. First thing I did was walk around town. It was quiet, but of course around here things usually are. Clifton Heights is a rarity. Our worst offenses—at least, while I lived here—usually amounted to petty larceny and low-grade vandalism. At any moment, I knew a patrol car would roll by. The streets and homes here are mostly safe from the violence spreading over the country.
Yellow light glowed from living room windows. On each porch were jack-o’-lanterns of all kinds. On one porch sat a round jack, carved with the classic triangle nose and eyes and a buck-toothed grin. On the other side of the street, a taller pumpkin, eyes more rounded, with a serpentine smile. At the next house, one whose grin threatened to eat the world. All of them lit by blazing candles throwing orange flickers on front walks.
I continued, smelling the dust of autumn leaves and the faint scent of cooking pumpkin. I smelled it, but I wasn’t moved. I remembered, too well, one kind of jack in particular.
The kind Evan loved making.
The kind he’d never make again.
ALL SAINTS CHURCH
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
A rasping sigh. “Thank you. Evan was gentle and mostly soft-spoken, unless in the midst of an…episode.”
“What kind? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Evan had difficulty controlling his emotions, and he was large for his age. He suffered from poor coordination. Often bumped into other kids without meaning to. But he never intentionally hurt others, ever. When he got angry, he just wasn’t rational.”
“He loved Halloween, I take it?”
He heard the man’s smile. “Yes. He adored it. Over the years he dressed up as superheroes, cowboys, knights, astronauts. He loved dressing up.”
“And he loved carving jack-o’-lanterns?”
“Yes. He preferred friendly jacks, though. Cross-eyed, with gap-toothed grins. He wanted a funny face on our doorstep, inviting all the kids to our house. That was the interesting thing about Evan, Father. He didn’t want to go trick-or-treating. He wanted kids to visit our house so he could give them candy.
“But every year he was disappointed. No kids showed up. I don’t know why, exactly, though I can guess. No one ever bullied Evan directly, Father…but you remember how kids are. They’re afraid of what they don’t understand. He didn’t have many friends, and unfortunately, I think his outbursts in school and social functions earned him a reputation. Kids and even their parents were always looking at him…oddly. As if expecting him to do something strange at any moment.
“That didn’t stop Evan, though. Every Halloween, he’d sit in a chair next to the door, bowl of candy in his lap, dressed in his chosen costume, rocking back and forth, waiting.
“No one ever came.”
Emotion tightened Father Ward’s throat. “Must’ve been hard.”
“He always hid his disappointment well. Always smiled and nodded, with only a small glimmer in his eye as he said, ‘It’s okay. They’ll come next year. I know it.’
“But they never came. And now…none ever will.”
“Again, my condolences. Outliving your child is a horrible burden.”
“It’s worse. I blame myself for allowing Evan to…”
A sniff.
“He…he hit my son…but it’s my fault Evan was crossing the street alone. Mine.”
“You can’t be blamed for an accident.”
A heart-wrenching sigh. “That’s what’s everyone said. I shouldn’t blame myself. It wasn’t my fault. I tried to believe. I did. But if I had never…”
A gasp, which dissolved into quiet sobs. Father Ward waited, heart twisted by the pain he felt radiating through the grate. Finally, the man swallowed and continued.
“Linda felt the same way. And why shouldn’t she? I made a unilateral decision without her input. Anyway. Several weeks after, she packed her things and left. Three days later I got a phone call from a divorce lawyer in Utica.”
—
Night was falling, the sky getting darker. I was walking, not sure where I was headed, but pulled somewhere, all the same. Though I imagined the houses on both sides were filled with laughter and giggles of excitement over the night ahead, silence surged around me, the only sound my shoes scraping asphalt, crisp autumn leaves skittering on the sidewalk, and the breeze ruffling the trees.
When I hit Main Street, I saw it was lit in yellow and orange. Storefront and restaurant windows were strung with harvest-colored lights. On door frames, orange and black streamers fluttered. The windows of several shops were populated by cardboard cutouts of ghosts, goblins, vampires, werewolves, and Frankenstein’s monsters. They passed by in a blur, until I found myself standing before Handy’s Pawn and Thrift.
Don’t know if you’ve been there, but Evan and I visited Handy’s regularly. After a bad day of school one September, when Evan was eight, I picked him up early and was driving around town while he sobbed loudly “IT’S NOT FAIR!” over and over. He claimed a boy had stolen his box of crayons during art class. He’d responded in typical fashion by shouting “THOSE ARE MINE!” The boy called him a retard. Evan threw himself on the floor, kicking and screaming.
I believed Evan’s story about the other boy. I figured his teachers did, too, but as usual, Evan was the one sent home, because he was the one yelling and screaming. I didn’t fight it. You get used to it after awhile.
Anyway, I’d turned onto Acer Avenue and was heading toward the Salvation Army when Evan shouted “There!”
I stopped the car and found myself before Handy’s. I’d heard of the store but had never driven by it before, much less gone inside. From what I saw, couldn’t see why I’d want to. The front windows on either side of the door offered nothing but old shoes, stacks of dusty board games, and piles of rusted tools.
I’m not sure what caught Evan’s eye. It didn’t matter at the time. Evan had switched from sobbing to bouncing with excitement, so I didn’t care what he saw in Handy’s.
“What’s up, bud? Want to check it out?”
As an eight-year-old, Evan acted younger. It’s part of his condition. A developmental delay, they called it. I remember him pressing his face against the rear passenger window, breath fogging the glass. “Yeah.”
“Okay. We’ll stay ten minutes. Then we leave. Deal?” Linda and I had learned early on that Evan needed specific timeframes to help him transition.
“Deal.”
A pause, and then, “If I see something I like, can we get it, Daddy? Please?”
I didn’t answer right away. Whatever I bought would become Evan’s obsession for the next few weeks. Evan would carry it everywhere: home, on the bus, in school, in the car, to church. He’d sleep with it, bathe with it, bring it to dinner. It would consume him and drive us insane.
But.
I couldn’t deny Evan this small comfort, especially after the day he’d suffered. It would drive us crazy and I’d catch hell from Linda, but even so.
“Sure, Evan. If it’s small. Okay?”
I glanced in the rearview mirror, and Evan’s delighted grin nearly broke my heart.
“Okay!”
ALL SAINTS
Father Ward paused before speaking, choosing his words carefully. It was obvious this man’s son died while he’d been away, serving overseas. He’d only been home since July, so it was conceivable he hadn’t heard the news…but still. It seemed odd that Father Thomas, head priest at All Saints, wouldn’t have mentioned a hit-and-run accident involving a child. He’d have to ask him about it tomorrow.
“You said you’ve come back. How long have you been gone?”
“And why have you come back?”
A pause.
Feet shuffling.
A deep breath, and then, “For the man who hit my son.”
—
Handy’s was the junk shop I’d taken it for. Tins full of screws and marbles, old tools, cameras, and jumbled piles of toys. I figured it wouldn’t be long until Evan grew bored.
Surprisingly, he made a beeline to some ceramic figurines cluttering a nearby shelf. He didn’t hesitate and picked up a bird: a grayish-blue one with black wing tips. “This one, Daddy.” Evan held it up, beaming. “I want this one.”
I was impressed. Initially, the figurines had appeared chipped and yellowed with age. In Evan’s hands, however, the ceramic bird was painstakingly crafted and lifelike. Honestly, I could almost imagine it taking flight.
“Nice. What is it…a barn swallow?”
“It’s a mockingbird. I take it you’re not a bird watcher.”
I turned to see the shopkeeper standing behind us. He was tall, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and likewise trimmed white hair. His face was moderately stern, but warm green eyes glimmered as he smiled gently.
Maybe coming from anyone else I would’ve been offended by his bit about me not being a bird watcher, but I wasn’t, for some reason. “Not a birdwatcher, no,” I admitted. “Not like my dad, anyway. He knew every bird around here by sight. Had most of the trees memorized, too. Me, I know a birch tree when I see one, can pick out a maple leaf…”
The shopkeeper nodded. “We all have our callings.” He regarded Evan, who still cradled the ceramic mockingbird. “You’ve got something more special to mind.”
The shopkeeper turned to me, and y’know, it was weird. Most folks looked at me with pity. In the shopkeeper’s eyes I saw only admiration. “He’s not like the rest of us, is he?”
Something in his tone struck me. “No. He’s not. He’s different.”
“Not different.” The shopkeeper folded his arms and regarded Evan warmly as he continued to examine the mockingbird from every angle. “He’s better. Better than us, anyway. And the mockingbird suits him.”
He paused, then said, “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy…they don’t harm anyone, but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight. I knew the quote, of course. We read To Kill a Mockingbird in high school. But as much as the shopkeeper’s quote moved me, it hurt, too. “I appreciate the sentiment. At times, maybe you’re right.”
I gazed at Evan holding the mockingbird, thinking of his irrational rages over a picture he’d drawn wrong or a toy not working the way he wanted. I thought about how the slightest change in routine could send him into earthshaking meltdowns. “Too often, though, the sounds Evan makes is not music.”
“O sing gods, the rage of Achilles,” the shopkeeper whispered.
I sighed. “Not so romantic. He’s not Achilles or the gods, I’m afraid.”
The shopkeeper nodded, instantly apologetic. “It is, of course, none of my business. I can’t imagine the daily toll it must take on your family.”
His curious spell over me faded. I glanced at my watch. “Wow. Almost four. Linda’s going to think we disappeared.”
The shopkeeper nodded. “By all means. The mockingbird is twenty-five cents. Feel free to bring him back often. I have many more figurines in stock. Don’t expect to have a demand for them anytime soon.”
I nodded, realizing—surprised—I fully intended on bringing Evan back. “Sure. Evan…would you like that? Maybe come in next week?”
Evan glanced up from the mockingbird, blinked slowly, more peaceful than I’d ever seen him. “Sure, Dad. Sounds great.”
I smiled and shrugged. “Looks like we’ve got a deal.”
The shopkeeper waved toward the sales counter. “A pleasure to serve you. If you’ll follow me?”
Oddly enough, he didn’t obsess over his figurines like I thought he would. He did love them, however. We often came across Evan sitting in his room, on his bed, gazing at them on the narrow wooden shelf I mounted the day after purchasing the mockingbird. Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, rocking gently, humming to himself.
Evan’s collection grew. He added more birds, along with owls, hawks, eagles, foxes, raccoons, and deer. In the five years Evan collected them, never once did the shopkeeper indicate they were in danger of running out. Up until that day, the shelves stretched around the room as his collection grew.
After, I sat on his bed, staring at the figurines, which glared at me with accusing eyes for my failure to protect him. I sat there for hours, taking their judgment.
Two weeks later, Linda left while I sat there. I didn’t hear her leave; didn’t hear if she said goodbye.
I never spoke to her again.
ALL SAINTS
Father Ward rubbed his mouth, thinking. They’d discussed this often in seminary. How to handle confessions of crimes or desires to commit crimes, struggles with thoughts of suicide. He wasn’t sure which was happening here. Regardless, he felt compelled to keep the man talking and in the booth as long as possible. “If you don’t mind my asking…what was your son’s diagnosis?”
“Autism. High-functioning. Intelligent, but as I said, he couldn’t handle complex situations. Would get confused and emotional. Irrationally so. Also, he had to be taught things repeatedly, things other kids picked up on their own.”
The man chuckled slightly. “We brushed our teeth, combed our hair, and put on deodorant together every day. He learned best by mimicking others. Got to be our morning routine. He looked forward to it. Needed it.”
“Routine was important to him.”
“Yes. Everything had to be just so. For a while, Linda and I worried his intelligence would be wasted because of it. He made progress, though. Developed a charming personality, got better at socializing. He still needed his routines but became more flexible, sometimes initiating change himself. See, he wanted to do something different. Wanted to do something on his own. And I let him. I…”
His voice dissolved into wracking sobs. Father Ward remained silent, waiting until the man pulled himself together, which he did after several minutes. “How did it happen? Can you tell me?”
A deep sigh. “It was a week before Halloween. Friday. We always went to Handy’s for a figurine on Fridays. He also had library books to return. He loved reading. We thought after high school maybe he could take a few classes at Webb Community. Maybe someday work a job, something to give him purpose.”
A harsh sob.
And silence, until the man continued.
—
A week before Halloween, Evan was excited as usual. Wanted to see the decorations on Main Street, and that night we were going to carve our jack. He couldn’t wait.
Anyway, we visited Handy’s first. He took longer than usual because he wanted to see their Halloween display, their toys and costumes. I often wonder if we’d gotten out of there earlier, would I still have my son? Or was it meant to happen?
He bought a cardinal. I’ll never forget it. A red cardinal, bright red, perched on a branch. We did our usual thing; he brought it to the counter himself, paid for it with the allowance he earned doing simple chores around the house. The shopkeeper asked how school was going. Evan told him in exhaustive detail. The routine completed, we were on the sidewalk, at the car, when he said “Dad…I want to do it myself this time.”
I stopped, car door open. “Do what?”
Evan took a deep breath—eyes shining, as if he was excited—and said, “I want to return my books alone.”
“Sure, Ev. I’ll wait out front of the library…”
He shook his head, determined. “No. I want
to cross the street by myself. Go in, return my books, get new ones, and cross the street, by myself. You can wait on the sidewalk.”
This caught me off guard, though I suppose it shouldn’t have. He’d been asking to do more things on his own. But cross the street by himself—twice?—go in and out, by himself?
“I dunno. Not sure if you’re ready.”
“You’re not ready. I am.”
He was right, y’know. It was as much me not being ready as I was worried he wasn’t.
“You can stand on the sidewalk and watch me, Dad,” he said, still serious. “You can see me the whole way.”
I should’ve said no.
God, I should’ve said no. Or at least called Linda first. But I was so tired, y’know? You love your kid, want to accept him as he is, protect him…
But you want him to be at least a little normal. To fit in. Especially when, even though he’s never said it, you know he wants to fit in, too. And all I could think about, standing there, was him waiting on our front porch every Halloween for kids who never came. I can give him this, I thought. At least this.
Why didn’t I call Linda?
Here’s the worst part.
I knew she’d say no. She’d want me to play it safe.
And I was tired of safe.
—
Bassler Memorial Library is around the corner from Handy’s, on the opposite side of Main Street, right before Black Creek Bridge. Main Street widens considerably at the crosswalk to the library, because it splits right into Haverton Road, continues straight across the bridge, and turns left onto Deposit Street, toward the lumber mill.
I’d forgotten how wide Main Street was at the crosswalk. For a moment I thought about backing out and driving Evan to the library as usual.
But I was committed. Evan had improved at dealing with the unexpected, but when you told him something was going to happen in a certain way, it was going to happen. He was thirteen, and if you met him in passing, he seemed normal enough. But he could pitch a fit with the best of them. It was too late to renege on our deal, especially if I didn’t want him screaming and crying and, believe it or not, throwing himself to the ground.
We reached the crosswalk. He pressed the button for the walk sign on the telephone pole and waited patiently for it to click over, humming, gently working his new cardinal figurine in his hands. The light on the other side of the street finally clicked to a walking green figure. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine.”