To begin
with, this story is Faux Fiction. You, the reader will determine
what's real … or not …
When I was 7, I
longed for a shiny acetate store bought Halloween costume. They were
glorious to look at, and if you got one, you were mighty special. You
could be Dale Evans, Peter Pan, Mighty Mouse, a clown or the
Frankenstein monster. Maw had made mine, and I endured it for years –
A furry monkey costume, complete with mask and tail.
The thing about that
costume is it itched me to death! I broke out in hives every year,
but was too proud to admit it until I was safely at home with my bag
full of candy, oranges and pennies. Making matters worse, I was
forced to wear my costume over my school clothes, including tights, a
pair of wool leggings with stirrups that fit over boots, and a heavy
coat. On top of that, I had a tight hood secured to my coat, placed
over a woolen cap. My monkey mask was tied around my bulky head, and
my tail stood straight up. It's a wonder I could move at all. My
friends never waited for me. By the time I got down our front stoop,
it was almost November 1st.
It didn't matter
because I was not allowed to go out on Halloween with my friends.
Rather, I went with Maw, who stood right behind me as I went door to
door down our long block. Maw hated the ordeal as well, but it was
that way or no way.
At each and every
door, Maw would stop; look the house over; and either nod or shake
her head before I could approach the door. Then she would prompt me,
“Say trick-or-treat!”
“Trick or Treat,
Mam.”
“Say Thank-You!”
“Thank you, Mam …”
And it went on and
on. She was selective as to which houses I could stop at or not, and
this always made me mad. I could see my friends running in and out of
the street like banshees wailing and hissing in the night. I wanted
to run wild and out of control too. I always wished Granddad would
come with me, but he was left at home to pass out candy to the other
children.
My friends never
missed a house, and they always had bigger bags than I did; some had
two. “Why can’t we go to the Rozelle’s house?” I would wail.
“All the others are going there.” She'd say,
“Because you are
neither a vagabond nor a scalawag, and you’ll go where I tell you …
where the food is safe!” I rolled my eyes safely behind my mask.
Towards the end of
the block, up by Marsden Street, there was Mrs. Hazel’s lonely
little house, set farther back from the street than the others. We
all had standard “Jamaica Houses,” with three windows and a door,
but she had a tiny bungalow that was nestled back in the trees that
shook when the Long Island Railroad rumbled by. This was the first
year that we noticed Mrs. Hazel decorated her house for the holiday.
She played in Maw’s bridge club, and she and her husband, a short
quiet man, had no children of their own. Since she recently retired,
we figured she'd be home. On her little porch was a pumpkin with a
candle burning inside, and seated in a large cane back rocking chair
was one of those big, stuffed effigies. You know, how folks take old
clothes and stuff them with newspapers so that it looked just like a
real person, placing them in chairs or trees to scare the kids. Back
then, stuffed people hanging from trees weren’t too popular in our
neighborhood. But Mrs. Hazel had a good size person on her porch. It
was headless, with a large pumpkin for a head, and wore a red plaid
shirt and old dungarees stuffed into some scruffy boots. His arms
were folded across his chest and he was slumped down in the rocker.
I was terrified. “I don’t want to go there, Maw,” I whimpered. None of my friends were there to go with me, and frankly, Maw was even standing closer to the street than usual.
“Don’t be
foolish, go on!” she urged. Chills tickled the small of my back,
and I suddenly wished I had on even more clothes. I was so cold, and
scared of the pumpkin goblin. I hate those things, and the pumpkin
itself was beginning to ripen and stink. I rang the bell and ran back
to Maw in a snap. “What are you doing, silly? Go back up there!”
Just as I was about to defy Maw and fly home, the door slowly opened.
Maw pushed me back towards the door.
“Say
trick-or-treat!”
“Trick or Treat,
Mam.”
The door opened
wider, and the warm light from inside lit the porch completely. I
breathed a sigh of relief. “Hilda, is that you?” Mrs. Hazel
hollered?
“Yes, girl! I’m
out with Irene.”
“Well, well, well,
is that you in there, Miss Queen?” She patted my layered head.
“Yes, Mam.”
”What you supposed
to be?”
“A monkey again,
Mam.”
Mrs. Hazel was
silent for a while, and then mumbled, “Sure you are, heh. Come on
in!” Before I could protest, Mrs. Hazel grabbed my arm, pulling me
in past pumpkin man, and Maw quickly followed behind. “Come in and
warm up. I’ve been waiting for some nice company.”
Mrs. Hazel led us to
her small kitchen with the aroma of meat roasting and hot cider. It
was quite warm and cozy in there. Her little round table had an
orange linen table cloth and displayed a large milk glass punch bowl
filled with hot cider, plates of cookies and candy corn.
“Wow!” I
shouted. “Look, Maw!”
“Mind your
manners,” Maw reminded me.
“Oh, Hilda, it’s
Halloween. Let the girl enjoy herself. Here, Queen, help yourself.”
She handed me a little china plate and I loaded it with cookies,
ignoring Maw’s warning glance. I knew the gluttony lecture would be
given once we got home. I sat sipping hot cider, which was very, very
spicy and had an odd taste. I figured that was just Grown Folks
Cider, and I was feeling very full and sleepy, while the two older
women sat and gossiped quietly.
“Where is
he, Hazel?”
“I don’t know,
Hilda. It’s been two weeks. That woman stopped calling here and he
hasn’t come home since. I know he’s with her!” Mrs. Hazel began
to sob softly.
I had learned long
ago from Maw what my place was and not to butt into grown people’s
business. But this was good stuff! I tilted my head back in the
chair, closed my eyes and pretended to doze off so they could speak
more freely.
“Did he take his
clothes?”
“No! That’s just
it. He left for work that morning, and he never got there … Neither
did she!”
“Nooooo,” Maw
crooned.
“Yes, the dirty
blood clot even took his lunch that day! The police ain’t doin’
nothin’ to help find him. He’s just an old man who run off wit de
woman, that’s all.” They had both reverted from proper English to
their more comfortable West Indian dialect they fall into when
angered.
Through the slits in
my eyes, I watched as Maw took another sip of cider after Mrs.
Hazel doused it with a big splash of sugar cane brandy. Oh, brother,
this is going to be a long night. Eventually, I really did sleep, and
the next thing you know, Maw’s dragging me back out into the cold,
past the pumpkin man and down our long, lonely street. It was dark
and scary. All of the children had gone in, and I couldn’t even see
our house at the end of the block. I was grateful when Maw grabbed my
hand in hers and we trotted the rest of the way home.
I was freezing cold,
and the frost from my warm breath in front of me swirled above my
head like a ghost. The big Jamaica houses loomed on either side of
us, and I was too afraid to even mention there was not a soul nor car
out on this Halloween night. Finally, we reach the comfort of our
house, and found Granddad waiting at the door for us.
That night, I didn’t
even bother to sit up and count or sort my candy. I washed my face,
piled into a pair of warm pajamas and climbed into bed without being
made to. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning, enduring nightmare
after nightmare. Soon I was awakened with a start by the sound of
sirens wailing down the street.
That’s our
street, I thought! I sat bolt upright in my bed, just as our
doorbell rang. Who could that be so early in the morning? It was not
even daylight yet. I heard Granddad at the front door talking with
someone; who, I don’t know. He walked back to him and Maw’s
bedroom, where they spoke in hushed voices. Suddenly, I heard my
grandmother’s familiar bawling, “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no! (her
favorite expression),” then, “No, no, no, no!” They talked some
more, and there was nothing to hold me in my bed any longer.
I stood outside my
grandparents’ bedroom door and listened to him relay the story to
her again. A neighbor had heard a gunshot coming from Mrs. Hazel’s
house. When the police arrived, they found her shot to death at her
kitchen table; apparently it was a suicide. Our finger prints are
on that table, I thought. Something was burning in the oven. When
they opened it, they discovered cooked human remains – a woman’s
body stuffed in a big roaster, all fixed up with potatoes, carrots,
onions and celery. On the porch was a headless Mr. Hazel propped up
in a rocking chair with a pumpkin stuck where his head should have
been. His own head, by the way, was found brewing on the stove in a
large cider-filled stockpot full of cloves, cinnamon and apple peel …
Grown Folks Cider ...
I never dressed for
Halloween after that, and the monkey costume was finally put to rest.
Today, as I sit sipping my hot espresso, and spread orange marmalade
on my muffin, I am busy planning. How shall I dress my pumpkin man
for my porch this year?
Excerpt from my
novel “Queen Irene: A Garden of Easters,” not yet released.
Originally published in The Courier-Times, Oct. 25, 2015
