By now the sun was asleep, but the sky still light enough to see a good distance, though hazy like dim TV reception. Little ones wearing capes and robes and swirling fabrics, faces covered with masks and makeup, carried paper sacks and plastic jack-o’-lanterns, being led from house to house by one parent or two, sometimes supervised by older children or babysitters.
Back in my day, we waited until full dark to go trick-or-treating. That’s what made it scary and fun. Sometimes we went out in big groups, parents watching from down the street, talking with other bored mothers and fathers, hardly keeping an eye on us at all. But those were different times. Back then, you could still play with lawn darts without causing a Congressional uproar.
Streetlights warmed, cutting through thick tree limbs and dead leaves. This middle-class suburb sometimes flirted with upper middle-class, depending what corner you turned. The homes, most of the two-story variety, were close together, separated by hedges and driveways. The two-lane streets running north-south were well-traveled enough to warrant speed bumps, but the smaller roads running east-west were often barren and dark, their tar crumbling and scarred.
It was those scarred streets I clung to; up and down, back and forth, trying to figure an angle to help me narrow the search. Polite groups of costumed children excused themselves as parents weaved them around me, on the hunt for fresh candy. The happy cry of “Trick or treeeeeat” sing-songed up and down the block.
I heard the humming engine of a large car slowing behind me, tires crunching loose pebbles. I didn’t turn to look but rather waited until it crept past; I felt the heat from its engine warming my leg. As I suspected, it was a police car, though this one was unmarked, as they say. Plain black tires, beige paint job, and at least two too many antennae bristling from the rear quarter; not as undercover as they’d like to think.
I cocked my head to glance through the passenger window. A red light perched on the dashboard, dormant. The cop behind the wheel, wearing a plain grey suit about as stylish as his car, was a good enough looking guy, I suppose, if you like blond hair, cleft chins, and perfect teeth. His smile was polite, but I wouldn’t call it flirtatious. It disappeared quickly as he kept moving, keeping a close eye on the roaming band of children crossing the street up ahead.
As I watched the car roll on, I was blindsided by a kid running full on, slamming into me, knocking the wind out of my sails. This time, I did spill the coffee.
“David! Watch where you’re going!” A young mother strode toward me with a little girl in tow.
The ten-year-old who ran into me — David — lifted a rubber gorilla mask. “Sorry.”
I tried to be patient with him as I shook burning hot coffee off my hand, “Maybe I should’ve been looking too.”
“Oh no,” said the woman, as if I were one of her little ones. “Here,” she handed me a handkerchief to wipe my hand.
“Thanks.”
“It’s better than wiping it on your coat,” she said, reaching out to feel the fabric. “That’s nice.”
I handed the handkerchief back.
She said, “These kids are a little too excited tonight. Sometimes they’re tough for me to keep a handle on, at least since my husband passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I remember how exciting Halloween was when I was a kid. Can’t blame them for being exuberant.”
“I’m King Kong,” said David.
“Okay,” I replied, stifling my comment that a rubber mask alone does not an Eighth Wonder make.
I bent to smile at the little girl, truly cute, dressed as an angel. “Well, if he’s King Kong, does that make you Fay Wray?”
The little angel looked up at me, wide-eyed, her mother holding on to both shoulders, keeping her close.
“She’s a little overwhelmed, I think,” said the mother. “It’s sort of her first Halloween.”
The angel was maybe five; it might be the first Halloween she’d remember.
“All these ghosts and goblins are kinda scary, aren’t they, honey?” I asked.
She glanced down at her hands, picking at a bag of Skittles.
“Don’t eat your candy yet, hon,” chided her mom.
With face downcast, the angel glanced up as if apologizing to me.
“Maybe we should take her home. David?”
“Okay, Mom.” David reached out and grabbed the little girl’s hand. “Come on, Suzie.”
“...Danny,” she said as he pulled her away. A bright yellow Skittle fell out of the open bag in their wake, bouncing like a tiddly-wink on the sidewalk.
“Not too far!” the mother shouted after, grinning. “For some reason, she thinks Danny’s a better name for her brother than David. If I’d had her first I would have consulted her on it.” She touched my arm warmly. “I owe you a coffee.”
I waved it off. “Forget it.”
She smiled and turned to go.
I said, “Keep a close eye on them.”
She nodded, resolute. “I will.”
She and every other parent out here was of like mind, keeping an eye out for the Boogeyman. The real one.
I watched the trio disappear around the corner, then turned and hiked up to the intersection, tossing my now-empty coffee cup in a garbage can.
A pack of teenagers swarmed around me, old enough to be unsupervised, waiting for the light to change. Their costumes were lame: overalls or cowboy hats; one kid wore a T-shirt with a tuxedo printed on it, oh so clever. One of the girls had disheveled hair, and was draped in nothing but a burlap sack; a bag lady, I guess. Loud and obnoxious, they shoved into each other like punk fans in a mosh pit. A guy with Mickey Mouse ears bounced off my arm, jostling for space. But I didn’t give him any.
He looked at me as if I’d just teleported there from outer space.
“Oh,” he dripped with sarcasm. “Excuse me.”
His buddies tittered.
“No excuse for you, clown.”
He reacted as if I’d slapped him. Well, not really. If I’d slapped him, he’d be on his keister.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s yer problem?”
“Careful with your horsing around. You might knock somebody into traffic.”
“Whatever.”
The light changed. I hung back while the group crossed en masse. Halfway across the street, Mickey Mouse whirled around and waved a little birdy at me. His gang thought it was more hilarious than a rerun of Friends, though that’s not a tall order.
I let it slide. I had more important things to do than roust a bunch of goofs.
With a sweep of my dark coat, I turned north and kept walking.
I pulled the Cosseli girl’s Missing flyer from an inside pocket and unfolded it. Though it was still posted on stores along the main drags — Tacoma, Milwaukie, Powell — I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to remind people.
I showed it around, stopping parents doing their Halloween duties. I was met with sympathizing frowns and shaking heads and bewails of “Isn’t it horrible?” Many voiced the opinion that they wished the little girl home safe and sound with her parents, but the public’s hope was fading as quickly as that of the police. Parents out here clung tighter to their children, secretly thankful that it wasn’t their own son or daughter who was missing. Selfish perhaps, but all too human.
I passed nearly an hour that way, gaining nothing but new blisters on my feet.
I skirted a group of black-suited Reservoir Dogs, their sunglasses bouncing streetlights back at me as they marched toward a trio of oncoming Droogs. Crossing the street to bypass their collision, I heard a little boy screaming, “No! Let me go!”
I raced around the corner to see a familiar unmarked police car parked at the curb pointing the wrong way, the red light on the dash no longer dormant but glowing like Dracula’s eyeball. The driver’s door hung open and on the sidewalk an undercover cop in a grey suit gripped the arm of a boy no more than eight, wearing a red Superman cape. It appeared to be the same blond cop that had passed me earlier.