Part 11 (1/2)
”Hate Halloween,” said Killup. ”Hate being bothered.
Doorbell starts ringing and goes on forever. Drives me crazy.”
Michael looked at his father, slightly shaking his head.
Maybe he was the meanest man on the block, but he was also a lonely old widower.
”Go home with me,” Michael said, b.u.t.toning his overcoat.
”I invited you.”
Killup shook his head. ”Those kids would burn down the house if I didn't stay here and protect it.
There's no end to the trouble they cause. When are you coming back?”
”Tomorrow after work,” said Michael. ”Your refrigerator's almost empty. Five eggs, half a pound of swiss cheese, a tub of whipped b.u.t.ter, and half a gallon of b.u.t.termilk. Choles terol City. I filled the thing up on Sat.u.r.day. Have you been stuffing yourself lately?”
”I'm hungry all the time,” said Killup. ”Nothing else to do except eat.”
Michael reached into his pocket, took out a piece of the cheap candy he'd bought, untwirled the purple cellophane wrap per, and popped it into his mouth.
”It tastes terrible,” said Michael, grimacing. ”So don't eat it all yourself.” He opened the front door, stepped out onto the porch.
”Not a chance,” said Killup. His father had already pushed the door half closed, as if to show how eagerly he antic.i.p.ated Michael's departure. ”Bring me some waffles tomorrow night. Real frozen ones.
Not the kind you pour out of a carton.
Michael straightened the lapels on his father's cardigan.
He saw that the rip in the shoulder seam was wider than two days ago. In the voice that parents employ to demand a clean room of a ten-year-old, Michael said, ”When I come back tomorrow, I want to see all that candy gone, you understand?”
Killup made no reply but silently adjusted the sign that read, NO SALESMEN, CENSUS TAKERS, OR RELIGIOUS FANATICS so that it covered the doorbell.
”If you're not nice to those kids tonight, you're going to deserve anything they can do to you,” Michael warned his father. He uncovered the doorbell again, then stalked off toward his car in the driveway.
Killup's only good-bye to his son was to shut the front door more loudly than was at all necessary. The dull red oak leaves swirled up for a moment, then settled again on the narrow, railed porch of sinking boards.
”Trick or treat,” said the child in a fuzzy white suit and a slick white mask with white plastic whiskers and a big wicker Easter basket that danced before Killup.
”I'm sick,” Killup said. ”See my brace? Why are you bothering me?
Didn't you see I didn't turn on the porch light?
Go annoy somebody else.”
”Trick or treat, mister,” said the Rabbit again, as if it might have thought Killup's brace and invective were only a sort of Halloween costume for adults.
”I don't have any candy,” said Killup, the candy clearly visible on the table behind him. ”Wouldn't give you any if I did.”
He slammed the door in the Rabbit's whimsical face. The Rabbit didn't run off but quietly reached into the bottom if its Easter basket and withdrew a can of flourescent orange spray paint. The Rabbit shook it as quietly as possible, then thumbed off the cap. Its white-gloved finger was on the b.u.t.ton when the door suddenly flew open again. Killup took an admo nitory swipe through the air and scowled at the Rabbit.
”I know your tricks. Don't even think about spraying this door with that paint. I've already called the police, and they're on their way.”
The Rabbit ran off into the night. Killup smiled his first real smile of the day and quietly shut the door.
He padded back toward his chair in the living room, moving not much faster and with little more ease than he'd shown earlier when he'd tried to make his son feel guilty about not helping him lock the windows. Killup was genuinely a weak man.
If he wanted to look to the left, he had to turn his whole body that way. Any movement of his neck caused a sharp pain that was followed by a dull pain that turned into a headache. His chair was placed so he could look directly ahead at the television. Here he stayed all day, ignoring the doorbell, ignoring the telephone (unless he thought it might be Michael), getting up only to go to the bathroom or to fumble in the kitchen drawer Michael kept full of cigarettes. Just as he was easing himself down into his chair again, the door buzzer sounded once more.
He sat down, determined to ignore it.
It buzzed again. Then again, too insistently to ignore.
This one wore a clown's suit, with a woolly white wig and a peaked cap. The Clown's mask was dead white with splotched red cheeks and a wide, lurid grin.
”Trick or treat, mister . . .”
”Go home,” said Killup. ”There's no candy here. No free food. No treats. And if any of you kids soap my windows, I'm calling the police. After I shoot you. After I bang your head against that porch rail.
After I pour hot grease down your throat with a ladle.”
He slammed the door.
The buzzer sounded again immediately.
Killup flung open the door. ”I thought I told youa””
”Trick or treat” said the Devil. Pointed ears, slanted eyes, diamond-shaped mouth, and painted flames on his suit.
”Did you just change masks?” asked Killup. There was no sign of the Clown.
”Trick or treat,” said the Devil, holding open his bag.
Killup slammed the door.
The doorbell buzzed again immediately.
”Trick or treat,” he heard through the closed door.
”Trick or treat,” emphasized with a stomping on the floorboards.
”Go to h.e.l.l! You little monster . . . Go to h.e.l.l!”
There was silence for a moment. Killup sighed.
”Trick or treat, Trick or treat, Trick or treat!”
”Candy?” cried Killup grimly, glaring at the closed door.
”You want candy?”