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Authors: Laura Brodie
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this year, advising their children to leave poor Mrs. McConnell alone. Soon she would become the Boo Radley of the town, her life the subject of whispers, her address branded unlucky. Its location at the end of a street already made her house an inefficient stop on the Halloween route, unless the children were guaranteed a good payoff. And so she piled on the candy, imagining herself as the witch in “Hansel and Gretel.”
Widows were often accused of witchcraft, so Sarah mused as she inched past the Laffy Taffy. There was something frightening about a solitary woman, something that made her fit for burning. Many cultures blamed widows for their husbands’ deaths. Maybe this year she should retrieve her pointy black hat from the attic; some of the parents might appreciate the irony. She doubted it. Better not to put ideas into anyone’s head. Better instead to stock up on these bags of miniature Snickers bars. She would greet Halloween with a bright porch light, a bottomless bowl of candy, and a smile calculated to assure the neighbors that she was utterly harmless.
The children began to emerge from their houses shortly after six. First came the Foster brothers, all three, even the fourteen-year-old, whose only costume was a rubber George Bush mask. “Terrifying,” Sarah said as she extended a wooden salad bowl full of candy. She guessed that their mother had sent them together to pay their respects before they disbanded to their separate activities. All were unfailingly polite, taking only one piece of candy from her bowl.
“No, no, take more. I’ve got plenty inside.” Their fingers spread into claws and depleted her bowl to half its depth. She would have to limit the next children to two pieces each.
Sarah had never before seen so many trick-or-treaters. She counted seventy-six in the first two hours, an insignificant number compared to the main residential drag, where the totals regularly topped three hundred. In recent years the town had been overrun by county dwellers, children from small farms or new rural subdivisions where each house was separated by at least six acres. Too hefty a trek for a single piece of candy. In the wealthy neighborhoods of Jackson children ran from door to door accumulating hoards of sweets, while their parents waited down the street in dusty pickups. Jackson’s older residents complained that they were frightened by the unknown urchins and their lurking vehicles. Most of the old folks turned off their lights on Halloween and hun kered down, as if the children were a passing storm.
At Sarah’s house, half of the faces were familiar. Mrs. Foster seemed to have spread the word that she was accepting trick-or-treaters, because all the local children made a point of coming down the street, saying “Thank you, Mrs. McConnell” and “Happy Halloween, Mrs. McConnell” with rehearsed precision. Sarah welcomed princesses and fairies, vampires and superheroes; Harry Potter reigned supreme.
By nine o’clock the stream of children had slowed to a drip. Her doorbell rang at intervals of five, eight, and ten minutes, rousing her each time from a tepid Poirot mystery movie. At nine-thirty, as the last child was leaving, she stepped out on the porch and scanned the street. Three houses down, heavy-metal music thumped through the Fosters’ windows. Teenagers roamed the back lawn, drifting in and out of the bushes. Many pumpkins will be smashed tonight, she thought vaguely as she turned off the porch light and took the bowl of candy into her bedroom.
After changing into her nightgown, she settled under the sheets with a Mr. Goodbar. The body count for Poirot had reached three, but the inspector was unruffled. He conducted his search for clues as if it were a treasure hunt, confident that the prize was waiting at the end. She hated this cinematic version of predestination, where some characters were always fated to triumph, while others remained trapped in a cycle of despair. Clicking
Widows were often accused of witchcraft, so Sarah mused as she inched past the Laffy Taffy. There was something frightening about a solitary woman, something that made her fit for burning. Many cultures blamed widows for their husbands’ deaths. Maybe this year she should retrieve her pointy black hat from the attic; some of the parents might appreciate the irony. She doubted it. Better not to put ideas into anyone’s head. Better instead to stock up on these bags of miniature Snickers bars. She would greet Halloween with a bright porch light, a bottomless bowl of candy, and a smile calculated to assure the neighbors that she was utterly harmless.
The children began to emerge from their houses shortly after six. First came the Foster brothers, all three, even the fourteen-year-old, whose only costume was a rubber George Bush mask. “Terrifying,” Sarah said as she extended a wooden salad bowl full of candy. She guessed that their mother had sent them together to pay their respects before they disbanded to their separate activities. All were unfailingly polite, taking only one piece of candy from her bowl.
“No, no, take more. I’ve got plenty inside.” Their fingers spread into claws and depleted her bowl to half its depth. She would have to limit the next children to two pieces each.
Sarah had never before seen so many trick-or-treaters. She counted seventy-six in the first two hours, an insignificant number compared to the main residential drag, where the totals regularly topped three hundred. In recent years the town had been overrun by county dwellers, children from small farms or new rural subdivisions where each house was separated by at least six acres. Too hefty a trek for a single piece of candy. In the wealthy neighborhoods of Jackson children ran from door to door accumulating hoards of sweets, while their parents waited down the street in dusty pickups. Jackson’s older residents complained that they were frightened by the unknown urchins and their lurking vehicles. Most of the old folks turned off their lights on Halloween and hun kered down, as if the children were a passing storm.
At Sarah’s house, half of the faces were familiar. Mrs. Foster seemed to have spread the word that she was accepting trick-or-treaters, because all the local children made a point of coming down the street, saying “Thank you, Mrs. McConnell” and “Happy Halloween, Mrs. McConnell” with rehearsed precision. Sarah welcomed princesses and fairies, vampires and superheroes; Harry Potter reigned supreme.
By nine o’clock the stream of children had slowed to a drip. Her doorbell rang at intervals of five, eight, and ten minutes, rousing her each time from a tepid Poirot mystery movie. At nine-thirty, as the last child was leaving, she stepped out on the porch and scanned the street. Three houses down, heavy-metal music thumped through the Fosters’ windows. Teenagers roamed the back lawn, drifting in and out of the bushes. Many pumpkins will be smashed tonight, she thought vaguely as she turned off the porch light and took the bowl of candy into her bedroom.
After changing into her nightgown, she settled under the sheets with a Mr. Goodbar. The body count for Poirot had reached three, but the inspector was unruffled. He conducted his search for clues as if it were a treasure hunt, confident that the prize was waiting at the end. She hated this cinematic version of predestination, where some characters were always fated to triumph, while others remained trapped in a cycle of despair. Clicking
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