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“And, Johnny, don’t drag your little brother up that hill.” Backlit on the porch, our mom planted hands on hips.
My big brother Johnny sighed and snapped his white pillowcase in the black Halloween night. It cracked beside my ear.
I watch them, the young Americans with trendy $200 haircuts and designer clothes straight from the front pages of Vogue. I listen to their carefree laughter and idle chatter regularly punctuated with a giggle or an OMG! They haven’t a care in the world. Their charmed lives lie ahead of them. Dinner and dancing with handsome men who drive fancy sports cars. Trips to Europe and exotic islands. They take it all for granted. Like their lives are unfolding in a script of their own making.
The woman on the park bench was reading a novel, sipping a cup of coffee, and enjoying the spring day.
Suddenly a clown bopped by, stopped then plopped down beside her. He had orange hair, giant red shoes, a big red honker, and a pointy hat with a bobble.
Maybe All Hallow’s Eve should be called All Hallow’s Evil, Dot Henderson mused as she watched the costumed Bostonians parade by that October night in 1926. A leering Harlequin slid into the shadows. A dark-hooded Death carried a scythe over his shoulder, while a red-forked tail sprang out from behind a statuesque Egyptian queen wearing a grotesque mask.
Beneath Gwen’s feet was an undulating carpet of leaves. Above, a cowardly sun, setting earlier and earlier. She incited an explosion of sparrows as she sprinted down the path between two rows of towering Poplars dressed in flames of Autumn.
I walked into the jewelry store and looked around. I was the only customer. An older man, who I took to be the manager, was arranging watches in the wall case. A young woman standing behind the counter looked up at me. So far, so good, I thought, although I realized I hadn't gotten very far yet.
“This is Chet Armor. I need to dispose of a parrot.”
“Thanks for your call, Chet,” Jake replied. “I’m sorry, but we don’t––”
“You have to take him. I’ve called every bird and animal adoption place within an hour of Sacramento. No one will take a parrot. Snakes, pot-bellied pigs, and rats are welcome, but not parrots.”
Dan O'Leary dropped from Anna Peavey's bedroom window and melted into the darkness of the neighboring alley. He oozed confidence now, was no longer worried about the still form lying on the bedroom floor.
“You really think we’ll find ourselves a couple of rich husbands tonight?”
I laughed. “Just yesterday, you quoted from that book you love so much…something about rich men on the hunt for wives.”
