He was thinking on these misfortunes, when he saw through the limbs and brush a white sheet go by.
Preacher Judd poked his head up and saw Cinderella running down a little path going, “Wooooo, wooooo, goats.”
She had already forgotten about him and had the ghost thing on her mind.
He got up and crept after her with his frying pan. Pretty soon she disappeared over a dip in the trail and he followed her down.
She was sitting at the bottom of the trail between two pines, and ahead of her was a clear lake with the moon shining its face in the water. Across the water the trees thinned, and he could see the glow of lights from a house. She was looking at those lights and the big moon in the water and was saying over and over, “Oh, priddy, priddy.”
He walked up behind her and said, “It sure is, sugar,” and he hit her in the head with the pan. It gave a real solid ring, kind of like the clap of a sweet church bell. He figured that one shot to the bean was sufficient, since it was a good overhand lick, but she was still sitting up and he didn’t want to be no slacker about things, so he hit her a couple more times, and by the second time, her head didn’t give a ring, just sort of a dull thump, like he was hitting a thick, rubber bag full of mud.
She fell over on what was left of her head and her butt cocked up in the air, exposed as the sheet fell down her back. He took a long look at it, but found he wasn’t interested in doing what animals do without sin anymore. All that hitting on the Widow Case and Cinderella had tuckered him out.
He pulled his arm way back, tossed the frying pan with all his might toward the lake. It went in with a soft splash. He turned back toward the house and his car, and when he got out to the road, he cranked up the Dodge and drove away noticing that the Halloween sky was looking blacker. It was because the moon had slipped behind some dark clouds. He thought it looked like a suffering face behind a veil, and as he drove away from the Case’s, he stuck his head out the window for a better look. By the time he made the hill that dipped down toward Highway 80, the clouds had passed along, and he’d come to see it more as a happy jack-o-lantern than a sad face, and he took that as a sign that he had done well.
FAMILY MAN
by John Bruni
A stiff wind blows chills through my tightening skin, and the ground crunches beneath my feet. Laughter drifts through the streets, and the sweet scent of candy tickles the inside of my nose.
A small hand slips into my own, and I look down to see Dracula. Underneath the makeup and blood, my son smiles up at me, showing off his plastic fangs. His fingers are cold and sticky, which means he’s been sneaking into his trick-or-treat bag. I think I should say something, but the moment is too precious. Let his mother chide him later. Now is the time to enjoy the crisp autumn night.
My eyes meet with Suzette’s over Duane’s widow-peaked head. We rarely get to enjoy time together with our son these days because of work, and it’s good to see her eyes bubbling over with joy. Perhaps it’s the cool breeze that brings tears to her cheeks, but I doubt it.
We approach our house, and Duane stops to play with the skeleton in our front yard. The neighbors like our decorations. They believe we’re in the spirit of the season. We win local awards on a yearly basis.
Suzette pauses to keep an eye on our son, probably because she has noticed his shiny fingertips, and I clomp up the porch steps, fiddling in my pocket for the keys.
The first thing I notice is the candy dish. It has been overturned, and there are no treats on the deck. The sign, “Help yourself! Happy Halloween!” remains, and I can see a tiny sneaker-print on it.
Then I see the door, and my guts freeze as if the frigid air has managed to penetrate my skin.
There is a bloody handprint on the door, and it shows only four fingers. I know what has happened.
With a casual smile, I ease down the steps and approach Suzette. “Hey, baby.” I peck her on the cheek. “Why don’t you take Duane to Mrs. Starkey’s place for a while? You know how he likes her hot chocolate.”
She glances sidelong at me. “Are you all right, Sid?”
I try not to look behind me at the door. “Sure. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?” This time, she kisses me on the cheek. I barely register it as she leads Duane away; I am too focused on the open door, on the crimson handprint.
When I’m sure Suzette and Duane are gone, I take the penknife from my pocket. The blade is not very long, but it is sharper than a box cutter.
Gingerly, I push the door all the way open, and I glance down at the carpet. There are spots of blood no larger than pinpricks. Anyone who isn’t looking would miss them.
I touch a red dot, and my finger comes away smudged with crimson.
Fresh.
I follow the miniscule trail until I realize that it leads to the kitchen. Here, the drops are more plentiful. Just before I reach the threshold, I see long slashes of blood, as if something had been dragged through here.
I stoop down and peer into the kitchen at knee-height. It is probably an unnecessary precaution, but it always pays to be prepared.
“Brother Sid! Careful as ever, I see! What’s up, man?”
I stand and step over the blood. The man in my kitchen is almost a reflection of me. We are identical in all ways except two: he is more muscular than me, and he sports a mustache. My twin brother, Stan, believes this makes him look macho. I believe it makes him look like Groucho Marx, and judging from the rest of our family, my opinion is the more popular one.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He waves a dismissive hand at me. It is covered with blood and is missing its pinkie finger. A childhood accident. He shouldn’t have been playing with Dad’s favorite hunting knife.
“You could have called,” I say.
“Sorry. This ain’t the kind of thing you talk about over the phone.”
“Are you in trouble?”
He shrugs. “In a way. Not with the law, though. Check it out.”
Stan steps aside and gestures with his hand, a game-show host revealing a prize, at the kitchen table, where the corpse of a young woman rests, eviscerated.
“Why have you brought her here?” I ask.
“I need your help.”
The answer is immediate, without consideration. “No.”
“Come on, man! I need you back in the game!”
“You’re on your own,” I say. “Take this body out of here before my wife and son get home.”
Stan’s lower lip quivers. “I can’t do this without you, bro. You were always the brains of the operation. I’m screwing everything up without you. This broad’s the mayor’s daughter, and I didn’t figure that out until it was too late.”
I sigh. “Why do you think I stopped working with you? You took too many chances. I can’t bail you out of everything.”
Stan grins, and the mustache slithers beneath his nose. “Bro, get real. The thrill comes from taking chances, not from being careful all the time. That’s why I need you, Sid. You’re the yin to my yang. Together, we’re like…like the dynamic duo, or something.”
“I think you need to get real. Weren’t you listening to anything Dad taught us? We have urges, Brother Stan, just like Dad and Grandpa. They always told us to be careful. Look what your thrills have gotten you.” I point to the mayor’s daughter.
Stan sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. I don’t know if he is aware of doing this, but it is something he has always done when he wasn’t getting his way.