Instead I dutifully boarded my flight to Charlotte, only vaguely aware of the black crepe paper and orange twinkle lights draping the airport newsstand. Even the pumpkin on the porch of Matt’s Queen Anne didn’t set off any alarms. I made it through the hour-no breakthroughs, no new insights, another buck and a half that would have been better spent on a blow job from an Iowa farm boy trying to make ends meet. Afterward, I trudged home, grabbed a bottle of beer, kicked off my shoes, and flopped on the bed, ready to tackle the mail that accumulated during the week.
Let’s see. Four envelopes from (who else?) the law firm of Dugan, Castor, and Mullen, LLC. One enclosing an invoice, the second several pleadings requiring review and signature, a third forwarding copies of correspondence from the enemy firm of McNamara, Kerrigan, Whiteside, and Greenberg, the gist of which is that I am a deceitful, repugnant lower form of life. The fourth, the bulkiest, is stuffed with mail addressed to Andrew Nocera, 12 Virginia Dare Court, High Point, North Carolina. Not much of interest. An alumni solicitation from Davidson College. A notice that my subscription to Baseball America is about to expire. (God damn it, Dugan, Castor, and Mullen, where are my back issues? What the hell am I paying you for?) Finally, at the bottom of the pile, is a letter from Kuperstein’s Jewelers asking me to please contact them to arrange to pick up the inscribed gold bracelet ordered July 7. Failure to respond within the next thirty days will result in the forfeiture of my (substantial) deposit.
It was going to be a surprise, not a gift tendered out of obligation to observe a birthday, an anniversary, or a holiday. I was going to smack my forehead halfway across the Pont de la Tournelle, berating myself for, once again, forgetting something, something so important I’d even tied this thread around my finger to remind myself, see? What now? Alice would ask, rolling her eyes, exasperated, resigned to losing our reservation at Les Bookinistes because, as usual, I’d left my wallet on the dresser. This, I just remembered this, I’d say, handing her a small box tied with a white ribbon. I’d smile and wait for her to throw her arms around my shoulders, overcome when she discovers an eight-thousand-dollar piece of armor worthy of Wonder Woman, inscribed with the silly words of the Barry White song I liked to croak in her ear. You’re the first, the last, my everything.
I can hardly afford to lose the four-grand deposit in my current circumstances, but I certainly don’t have the spare cash to ransom the bracelet from those nasty Kupersteins. Ah well, easy come, easy go. Anyway, Alice might have raised a skeptical eyebrow, unmoved by sentimentality and a Gallic backdrop, suspicious of my motivations. Naw, I’m sure she would have grabbed my shoulders and covered my face with kisses, murmuring in French, thanking me, even though, lout that I am, I don’t understand a single word of the language.
Goddamn it, go away, I mutter, irritated by the shrill, insistent bell summoning someone to the front door. I can’t imagine who could be harassing my mother, who I assume must be in her room finishing dressing for a bridge game or a night at the movies with friends. I haul myself off the bed to investigate; I need another beer anyway. Halfway down the stairs, I hear my mother shrieking in joy.
“Oh Lord, I think you’ve just taken three years off my life!” she claims, thrilling the pint-sized Casper in a cheap, off-the-shelf costume.
“Boo!” he (or she) trills, turning to run down the walk.
“Be careful!” my mother calls. “When did you get home?” she asks, turning to me.
“A while ago. I came in through the kitchen.”
“Well, welcome home.”
“Do you want to go out to dinner?”
“I made lasagna. If you’re starved, I can heat a piece now.”
“Let’s go out. It’s my treat.”
“It’s Halloween, Andy! I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”
Three little Jedi warriors and Yoda race to the porch. My mother is hopeless, not recognizing their costumes. She thinks Yoda is some kind of frog.
“Star Wars, Ma. They’re characters from Star Wars.”
“How the hell would I know that?” she carps. “Obviously I could use your help here.”
I’d like another beer but anticipate a gentle rebuke about setting a good example. But if I’m going to be roped into doing this, I ought to be given some slack.
“Just let me grab another beer.”
The kids come and go in spurts. I tell my mother I don’t remember Town Watch patrolling on Halloween and none of us ever wore silver reflecting tape over our costumes. Times have changed, Andy, she says, it’s a different world now. Years ago, my mother would have known all the kids by name. The masks are pointless since they’re all little strangers now. The costumes are disappointing. Only a witch or two, not a skeleton all night. Halloween belongs to Disney and Warner Bros. It’s trademark protected.
“Andy, leave some for the kids,” she scolds, catching me with my fist in the candy bowl.
“Ma, you could restock Wal-Mart with the candy you’ve got! Anyway, let’s eat.”
“Trick or treat isn’t over.”
“It will be if you shut the door and turn off the light.”
“Andy, what’s wrong with you?” she asks, chafing at my irritability. “You used to love Halloween!”
Did I?
Like you said, Ma, times have changed. It’s a different world.
Other boys collected Matchbox cars. For me, there were only the Famous Monsters of Filmland. And I was more than just a collector. I built my monsters with my own two hands from model kits.
My mother would cover the kitchen table with newspaper and I would spread out the airplane glue and little vials of enamel paint. I’d pick a time when I knew she’d be working in the kitchen. I wanted a witness to the creation. Patience, she’d say when I got too excited and tried to rush, you need to let the glue set and wait for the paint to dry.
My clumsy hands could attach the arms and legs to the trunk and mount the head on the neck. It didn’t take a lot of skill to slap paint on the body. But the face needed her delicate touch. Wow, she’d say, this is the best one yet! She would promise to do a really good job so she didn’t spoil it. My little heart would race as she very, very carefully, painted the eyes and the lips and the brows. When she was finished, my monsters looked just like the picture on the box.
The old man put shelves above my bed for my collection. I slept under their vigilant eyes. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Mummy, the Wolfman, the Phantom of the Opera, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Creature from the Black Lagoon. I loved them all. But there was a special place in my heart for my favorite. The Bride of Frankenstein. Regal, silent, austere, she was the most fascinating creature I’d ever seen. I never tired of watching her make her grand entrance in the last minutes of the movie, always hoping that this time, she would walk away from the rubble when the castle collapsed and escape into the horizon as the credits rolled. When I was nine years old, my mother asked me who I wanted to be for Halloween and I shouted, without a moment’s hesitation, the Bride of Frankenstein, of course!
Our costumes were always her October project. That year, my sister was a chubby little Tinker Bell in tights and buckle shoes spray-painted silver. My mother spent a week turning chicken wire and cheesecloth into gossamer wings. My costume was simpler, several yards of muslin for the shroud and ACE bandages to cover my arms and legs. She bought a cheap wig at a discount store, shellacked it into a beehive, and painted skunk stripes at the temples. She gave me a chalk-white face and black brows and red lips. She drew raccoon circles on my face since nature hadn’t blessed me with Elsa Lanchester’s pop eyes. I looked in the mirror and saw the Bride of Frankenstein.
She took our picture and warned us one last time to watch out for cars and not to touch the candy until we got home. Regina was scratching and twitching, already anxious to shed her costume. The shoes pinched her feet, so she kicked them off and tossed them in her trick-or-treat bag, ruining her tights on the sidewalk. She approached the whole thing as a job, an annoyance to be suffered, the price for the payoff.