Despite their appearance, Christine treated the jack-o-lanterns as if they were alive. She always addressed them by name, showered them with affection, and shared her life with them. She supplied their parts of conversation, changing her voice a little for each personality. One who only overheard her play might have believed the child to be one of triplets. Mother found this mildly amusing, but she did not let on. Why shouldn't her little girl have playmates who always wanted her more than anybody else?
Halloween, that year, was on Friday night. Christine and Ian dressed up in their costumes early in the afternoon and came very close to driving their mother into the nearest asylum. "When can we go trick-or-treating? Can't we go now? Isn't it late enough yet?"
Trying hard to remember what it was like to be three years old-or six-Mother held on to the last wisps of her temper and assured the children that they would go trick-or-treating after Daddy got home, the moment it got dark.
Daddy arrived about four, but dark took forever and seven days longer. Mother put on her makeshift costume, a mishmash of gypsy skirt and every piece of costume jewellery she could lay hands on, a black cape and hat she'd bought at the theater costume sale, and a particularly gruesome mask that Daddy intended to wear to the costume party they'd be attending later.
The family went out to the porch to watch Daddy light the candles in the jack-o-lanterns. Ian had learned not to look at Bat's lantern. He waited at the foot of the steps, steadfastly staring at the pumpkin Punkin. Punkin followed them out the door. He yawned, then curled himself in the slight hollow in the top of his lantern. He rubbed his head against the little boy's side in a surprisingly reassuring gesture.
Ian wanted Punkin to come along, but Punkin yawned again and was asleep before he exhaled.
"Do you think we should blow out the candle?" Mother asked. "I wouldn't want him to get singed hair."
"Bat says it's all right," Christine informed her parents. "He says Punkin only looks stupid. He's not, really."
Over the children's heads, Daddy mouthed that he'd keep an eye on the cat, and Mother set out with Robin, the Batboy, and Tina the (Bat)Tamer. Bat (the cat) led the way on his leash.
The only other trick or treaters making the rounds this early in the evening were no older than Christine, and everyone had a jolly time. Bat made a great hit as a circus big cat, and Christine's star-status as his trainer was almost enough to make up for the times she'd been left out. Mother stood on the sidewalk with her flashlight, shining its beam to light the children's way up the front walks. Other mothers, doing much the same, struck up conversations.
"We're lucky to live in this neighborhood," one woman said. "Where I used to live, gangs would make things really scary on Halloween. Not the shoot-'em-up kind of gangs, or at least I don't think so. But they got a big kick out of frightening little kids and egging houses and writing on car windows with wax. Got so bad last year that the cops came."
Silently, Mother thanked the combination of their hard work, good fortune, and good planning that meant they could buy a house here. Halloween should be fun, not awful, not for little kids. Not, really, for anyone. Never having been that kind of child, she didn't have much understanding or sympathy for teenagers whose idea of fun was making malicious mischief. It occurred to her to make certain that their cats were locked safely indoors when they got home. Recently, the news had been full of the stomach-turning animal mutilations of Satanists.
Because it was Friday, Christine and Ian got to stay up late enough that they could see the costumes of the elementary school contingent who came by after the Carnival closed. But nine o'clock arrived, and the porch light was turned out, and the costumes had to be taken off and hung up. Ian was asleep before Daddy pulled the covers over him, which was all for the best. He'd come to expect Punkin, his soft, warm, living pillow, to purr him to sleep. But despite the intent and efforts of Mother and Daddy, neither of the cats was indoors. Exactly where they were was not clear, as they weren't on the lanterns, on the porch, or, for that matter, anywhere in the immediate neighborhood.
To her parents' ill-concealed astonishment, Christine was not at all concerned. Where else would Bat be but guarding the house from a hidden vantage point? He'd come in through the cat door after he was sure everything was all right. Mother, who'd been sure she would have a hysterical youngster to deal with, tucked her confusing daughter into bed and kissed her good night. She hoped Christine was correct.
No other sitter would do on Halloween night than Grandmother, and Daddy picked her up, as scheduled, at nine-thirty.
"Both asleep," Mother said. "They're really tired."
"We won't be too late," Daddy told her. "About two."
"Run along, dears. Have a good time. I'll watch TV, then go to sleep on the couch. Don't wake me when you come in."
"Please keep an eye out for the cats. Neither of them is in, and it's no night for a black cat, particularly, to be out."
"Bat can take care of himself," Grandmother said. "But I'll watch for them."
Grandmother was awake when Mother and Daddy got home, and she told a tale of noises and nastiness up and down the street. "Both children slept through it, I'm glad to say. And the cats came in soon after it got quiet outside."
All seemed well.
In the morning, when every other jack-o-lantern on the street had been thrown, with much high-strung, overloud laughter, into the middle of the street, smashed, and jumped upon, Christine's and Ian's lanterns stood unharmed, if not in the same positions as they had the night before. "Of course," Christine said. "Bat and Pun-kin wouldn't let those bad boys hurt our friends."
Fortunately, Daddy was taking Grandmother home, for, thoughtlessly, he might have tried to convince his daughter that no such situation could have occurred. Mother, who got her mouth shut in time, found herself wondering if Christine's belief might not, possibly, have some truth in it, though she couldn't figure out either how or how much.
The next night, she was even more perplexed when Daddy told her that, during her evening out, a very angry man with a pimply-faced teenager in tow had banged on their door and demanded that they get rid of the puma and the panther and pay for all the damage the dangerous beasts had done or he'd call the cops. Introduced to Bat and to the sleeping Punkin and shown the damage and destruction caused by the boy and his friends the night before, the man transferred his irritation to his offspring.
"Good thing," Daddy said. "I'd have called out all the neighbors whose kids had their jack-o-lanterns wrecked." He grinned.
"But how did the boy get the idea we had a puma and a panther?" Mother asked.
"Great story," Daddy said. He sat down and, to both people's slack-jawed astonishment, Bat leaped onto his lap, stretched out, and purred. Daddy stroked, rather as if afraid that if he didn't, he'd regret it. He got his story back into line.
"The guys were taking turns running up onto the porches and grabbing the lanterns, heaving them out into the street, then kicking what was left into slop with their boots. When this kid came onto our porch with a friend, the other guy got Punkin's lantern. He insists that it closed its jaws on his hand, dug in with its teeth, and wouldn't let go. He screamed bloody murder and clubbed with his other fist, but nothing helped. Pimple-puss tried to pull the pumpkin off the other kid's hand, and he couldn't. He swears it growled at him and he could feel hair and hot breath. He turned around and grabbed up Bat's pumpkin-I gather to use as a weapon-and nearly lost his whole arm. Or so he says. I don't know where he got the marks, but they sure do look like cat bites. Five times too big to have been made by our cats, of course. But you have to credit him with a lot of imagination."