John Chabot

The doorbell chimes.
Before Marcie can move, I say, “I’ll get it.”
She gives me her disbelief look, but says nothing as I put down my crossword puzzle, get up and go to the door. Marcie had turned on the front porch light earlier. When I open the door I see pretty much what I’d expected: a princess and a pirate. The young royal, maybe nine or ten years old, is all in filmy pink lace with a sparkling tiara in her dark hair. The pirate, younger by a year or so, has a stuffed parrot on his shoulder that’s having a hard time staying erect.