In the end, we morphed the two. For Halloween, Isuzu would become the ghost of a warrior princess—a clear sign that even princesses who can take care of themselves are living on borrowed time.
As it turns out, we never make it to the laser tag place.
And as far as my basketball jack-o’-lantern? Funny thing about that. Seems a basketball that can hold its shape even when the air’s let out won’t keep that shape once you put a lit candle inside.
I’ve cut the candle down, so I can slide it in through the biggest available opening, which in this case is Jack’s zigzaggy mouth. And then I push the face gently in, bending an eyehole over the wick, so I can light it before pulling the face gently back into shape. Isuzu is still getting ready in the bathroom, and so I dim the lights so Jack can shine in all his flickering glory.
The effect, I must admit, is magical. For a while, at least.
Isuzu sees it the first thing upon emerging from the bathroom, the candlelight hitting her princess sequins, sending dozens of blue-tinged blobs of light dancing across the walls like a mirrored disco ball. She turns one way, watching the little blue lights swim upstream, and then the other, watching them retreat. She looks at Jack, and then at me, smiling as broadly as either of us. And then she claps, holding her hands off to the side for a quick, polite pat-pat-pat. The applause of an art patron’s understated appreciation for her up-and-coming’s latest effort—the “bravo” assumed, but not the air kiss to either cheek. It’s one of those gestures that make me wonder about Isuzu and her mom’s life together, before me, before this. Did her mom clap for her this way after some long-forgotten accomplishment? Was this the language they’d developed? And did Isuzu’s heart feel like it might break or burst the first time her mother praised her this way—like mine’s feeling now?
“Thank you,” I say, taking a bow. “Thank you. Thank you…”
Air kiss. Air kiss.
“You’re welcome,” Isuzu says, courtly, still her mom for a second longer, before settling back into being Isuzu, a little girl dressed up as the ghost of a warrior princess.
“Trick or treat,” she says, her little pink hand darting out suddenly from underneath the sheet, palm up.
I start with a piece of rock candy. The plan is to work up to the chocolate, and then on to laser tag to work off the sugar buzz.
Her fingers close around the rock candy as her hand retracts under the sheet, followed by the sound of crunching and the subtle bobbing of Isuzu’s warrior-princess-ghost head.
“Tank you,” she says, in between crunches, her mouth full.
“You’re welcome,” I say, trying to echo her, echoing her mom.
The crunching and bobbing stop, and the little hand pops out again.
“Trick or treat.”
“What do we say?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
And so it goes, Jack flickering in the background all but forgotten as I deal out treat after treat to my sole trick-or-treater. At one point, I suggest that maybe it should be trick orre treat, and—to my amazement—she actually finds this funny.
“Trick or retreat,” she says.
And says.
And says.
Until I’m pretty sorry I got the whole thing started, but pleased, too, because even though it’s getting a little monotonous at the moment, that’s exactly what we’re having—a moment. Time of the quality sort. Good parent points, scored and banked.
And that funny smell? I don’t think much of it. Or what I think is this: Herbs. I haven’t burned a candle with dried apricots and herbs in it since—well, forever. So yeah. Herbs. Burning herbs. That’s what stinks.
Until the smoke detector goes off. Followed by the fire alarm. Followed by my entire building being evacuated.
“Come on, Marty.” A neighbor bangs on my door. “It’s a fire. We gotta go.”
I act like I’m not home. It’s not too hard. We’ve been quiet and the lights are already turned down. And now, with Jack reduced to little more than a smoldering hunk of burned rubber, the place is completely dark. I reach out and find Isuzu’s hand—also not too hard, seeing as it’s been reaching out to the same place every minute or so for the last half hour.
“Sshh,” I say, and she doesn’t have to be told twice. We listen together in the dark as doors open and close, followed by footsteps, some running, some surprisingly slow, given that they don’t know that it’s a false alarm. It sounds like the footsteps of old people—but there aren’t any of those anymore—not bodywise, at least. Which leaves the only other explanation I can come up with: reluctance.
But what would make someone reluctant to leave a burning building?
And then it hits me. My reluctant friends and neighbors? They were doing it! They were naked and in the shower and doing it when the alarms went off.
This,I havegot to see.
So I go to the window, but then stop. Because this is not something Isuzu should be seeing. Not that I’m a prude, but there’s only so much honesty a kid should have to put up with to make her parent feel open-minded. Some lines have to be drawn, and this is one I’m drawing. Isuzu doesn’t need to be exposed to public displays of exposure.
Me, on the other hand, I’m way past legal and I’ve known these people forever. And I’ll admit it. I’m curious. There are some nicely curved silhouettes from across the way that I’ve been wondering about for years. And it’s not as if opportunities like this drop in your lap every day.
So I part the drapes, but up high and out of range of Isuzu’s roaming ghost eyes. I live on the fourth floor and have a halfway decent view of the lawn below where my friends and neighbors are now gathering.
But when I look down, what I see makes me bark with laughter. It makes me want to believe in God again. What I see is not genitalia—tufted, shaved, or swinging. It’s not breasts, shapely or otherwise. It’s not even secret tattoos or piercings, where and on whom I’d never have imagined.
But itis about secrets. It’s about a world of secrets I should have guessed, but didn’t. It’s about perversity and hypocrisy and the delight of discovering we can still count on both.
Four stories below me, huddling and mingling and milling about, are ghosts and witches and Dracula-style vampires, complete with old-time fake plastic fangs over their real ones.
“Son of a bitch,” I say to myself, but loud enough for Isuzu, even with a sheet covering her radar ears.
“That’s a bad word,” she reminds me, just in case I was in any danger of forgetting. “You’re gonna go to…”
“Sssshhh,” I say, cutting her off. “I know,” I whisper, still staring at my oh-so-vampirically-incorrect neighbors. And I’m not the only one staring. The ones who aren’t dressed up are staring, too. Their disgust is clear from even four stories up. Those whoare disgusted—that is—which is by no means all of them. Some are just amused, while others seem almost contemplative, as if wondering why they let themselves be talked into giving this up. Oh, so it’s un-VC, eh? It’s kids’ stuff and we’re not kids anymore?
Yeah. Right.
Some of the uncostumed ones are chatting with their made-up neighbors, some of the latter turning to afford them the full view, or fanning out their capes, giving them the ol’ Lugosi batwing spread.
Isuzu tugs on my pant leg. “Trick or retreat,” she whispers.
“Hey, Pumpkin,” I whisper back. “Come here.” I kneel so we’re the same height, and then spread the drapes again, but lower.
“For you,” I whisper as she presses her little ghost face to the glass. “Happy Halloween,” I add, wishing I could take her down there, let her mingle, let her play, let her offend the sensibilities of those who disapprove. Because that’s what Halloween was all about before—that’s what made it such a great holiday.
The only rule for Halloween is breaking the rules.
But I can’t. This is as close as we get, this little peek from a distance. Is it enough? Is it a cruel tease?
>
Isuzu turns away from the window and answers all my questions with a hug. She kisses me on the cheek through her ghost sheet. When she pulls away, I can see the shape of her mouth bleeding through the front of the costume, in chocolate.
“Thanks, Dad,” she says, as I try to gulp my heart back down. Try not to leak anything red on her princess sequins, or her little make-believe shroud.
10
Pope Peter the Last
Istill don’t know what to do with the dead time between Isuzu’s going to bed and sunrise. I’ve tried synching up our schedules better, so that she sleeps for a good part of the time I’m at work. And I’ve pushed back on her bedtime, a little bit each week, trying to shrink that dead space, trying to encourage her to sleep through as much of the day as possible. But you can push that sort of thing only so far. She’s growing like a weed, now, and mortals, like plants, need sunlight. There are vitamins in it, or something.
I still use the cell phone to listen to her snore. It helps. I’ve bought a separate phone, just for under her bed, which is a real one, now, and not just the air mattress. But sitting in the living room while she’s in her bedroom, snoring over a wire plugged into my ear…this seems weird. It’s too close. Too creepy.
So I go for a walk. The moon’s out, and full, and it’s drawing those inky black shadows of everything across the sidewalk. I still have Isuzu plugged into my ear, just in case, and to keep me company.
Before Isuzu, this would be the time I’d head out to a strip club, in search of noise, distraction. Breasts. But that doesn’t seem right, now. Not with a child at home. Not considering the fact that the last time I went, I got kicked out. Plus, I wouldn’t be able to hear my cell over the music.
So I just walk to walk, following my shadow, no particular destination in mind.
It’s after I’ve walked for a few blocks that I see it, up ahead. A church, all lit up for midnight mass, which isn’t just for Christmas anymore. It’s Sunday. The dead time’s always worse on Sundays. And the stained glass is throwing rainbows to the sidewalk, along with the moon’s inky shadows. Catholic vampires (and yes, thereare Catholic vampires) stroll in through the yellow rectangle of the wide open double doors—singly, doubly, in small groups that almost look like families. There’s a sign outside, lit up, with a question mark in it.
“CH __CH,” it says, followed by, “What’s missing?”
I have to go around to the other side—the side closer to those open doors—to read the answer.
“UR,” the other side says.
Normally, something that corny would make me groan, or slap my forehead, or shake it, at least. You see, I gave up being religious back when I gave up dying. But every so often lately, ever since Isuzu’s started living with me, I hear a little voice.
“Pssssttt…”
I flinch. That’snot the little voice I was thinking about that just wentpsssttt. The little voice I was thinking about usually comes from inside my head. Thepsssttt is coming from just behind me.
“What’s the score?” the voice asks.
When I turn around, what I see is the same bucktoothed collar that hovered over me as a child, all throughout the school week, and every Sunday. He’s got a German shepherd on a leash. It’s not vamped. I can see its hot breath chugging out in puffs.
“Father?”
“What’s the score?” he repeats, tapping his ear.
I’ve never been much on sports, especially now, when the hockey players heal so quickly. There doesn’t seem to be much point in it.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in there?” I ask, pointing.
“Not my shift,” the priest says. “And Judas wanted a walk.”
“Judas?”
“What else would you name a son of a bitch?”
“Good point.”
“Plus, I like the idea of keeping Judas on a leash, if you get my meaning.”
“Cute.”
We stop. The conversation just runs out of gas. Instead, we stare at each other for a second or two, black marble eye to black marble eye. This never works with vampires, this trying to size each other up by looking into the onetime gateways to our souls. But we keep on doing it anyway, until one us blinks.
“Father Jack,” Father Jack says, offering me his unleashed hand.
“Marty,” I say, taking it.
“You look a little lost, Marty, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Yeah, it’s that kind of talk that’s kept me away from these kinds of places. Usually. But lately…
I sigh, Isuzu still in my ear. She makes one of those grunts she sometimes makes, when she’s dreaming and the dream’s turning badly.
So I don’t tell Father Jack to go fuck himself. But I don’t bite, either. Instead, I change subjects. And the one I’m talking to.
“Hey, boy,” I say, scratching Judas’s head just behind his spired ears. He leans back into it and lets his big dog tongue loll, dripping saliva onto the sidewalk. His fog production goes up. “Attaboy, Judas.”
“You got a dog, Marty?” Father Jack asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“What’s its name?”
“Um,” I hesitate. “Trooper.”
“Were you in the army?”
I nod.
“Vietnam?”
“World War Two.”
“Oh yeah?” Father Jack says. “The greatest generation, eh?”
“Soitney,” I say.
“So you’re a Stooge man, too,” Father Jack says.
I nod.
But he’s doing the math under the cover of this chitchat. He’s still trying to size me up, place me within my historical context. Could I be…one of them? Could I be one of the ones who…did this?
Not that anyone linked to the Catholic Church has any reason to get judgmental on that account. Not considering the role they played…doing this.
Father Jack continues, preparing his exit strategy. “So, anyway,” he says, “Judas and I are usually around this time of the night. Out walking.” He pauses. “In case you and Trooper ever need any company,” he says. “Or, you know, someone to discuss Stoogiana with.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I lie. “ ’Night, Father.”
“ ’Night, Martin, paterTrooperis,” Father Jack says, letting Judas lead the way.
Perhaps I should back up.
All the way back, to before.
It all started because the strippers weren’t cutting it. I mean, they were good. They worked their little fangs off to drum up recruits for the Benevolent Vampires. But we were still miles away from reaching critical mass. We needed somethingbig, something to push us over the tipping point. And so I had this great idea.
Here I was, living in the home state of Henry Ford, father of mass production. What the Benevolent Vampires needed was a way to vamp en masse, to give up on the onesies and go straight to the hundredsies.
So I got myself a job with the local blood bank, and slipped a little bit of me into every pint.
I just didn’t think it all the way through. I survived a mentorless vamping, why wouldn’t they? Seems I conveniently forgot that I was actually present and witnessed my vamping, got winked at by the vamping party, and evenbonsoir ed. I conveniently forgot about our little mortar-lit game of charades out there in the middle of World War II. Sure, I didn’t get mentoredmuch —but the most important stuff had been passed along, along with whatever it is in our blood that does this to us.
I remember waking up that first night into my “great idea,” the air stinking with the smell of combusted hemophiliacs, smoldering hospitals and homes and apartment buildings. Sirens wailing wearily in the distance. Lawns and sidewalks scorched with the silhouettes of fallen bodies. City garbage trucks on overtime, beeping and clattering with the leftover bones.
All the TVs in all the bars, diners, and department stores are tuned to the news, some with actual footage of flameouts, played in slow motion, zoomed in, digitally enhanced, trying to pinpoint the point of igni
tion. Is that smoke—or just a shadow? Other stations are interviewing witnesses and loved ones, showing faces in profile, sunburned on one side, pale on the other, or unwrapping bandaged hands to reveal blistered palms that had held on for just a bit too long.
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