The Boy in the Skeleton Suit
My wife, Samantha, has always disliked the Halloween season. She never found enjoyment in anything about it - pumpkin carving was always a bore, costumes an unnecessary expense, decorating and doling out candy a tedious and unwelcome undertaking. Where seeing the streets speckled in orange, green and purple - seeing swathes of costumed children with paper bags, pillowcases or plastic pumpkins marching door to door for sweets - has always made me smile, these scenes have always provoked nothing but irritation and credulity from her. Not a year has gone by without her voicing her opinion about how unsafe Halloween is, how easy it would be for some psycho to set razor-blades in the flesh of an apple only to be hidden by a sweet layer of caramel or to inject drugs or hide a blotter of LSD in the folds of a piece of salt-water taffy. I’ve always contended with her on these subjects - not only for my own sake, but for that of our son, Clarke. Now, I wish that I had listened to her.
In the area that we live, there are two separate nights set apart for Trick or Treating. The first, deemed “Treat Street,” takes place on the 30th. It is on this night that parents of children eight and under can come out with their little ones and help them hunt for candy without fear of losing them in a crowd or getting scared by some of the more disturbing, adult costumes. For ages eight and up, Trick or Treating takes place on Halloween itself, and a much more frightening visage is taken on by the community. Clarke, being nearly seven, fell into the first category, and, just as I have every year since he could walk, I loaded him into the car under my wife’s disapproving gaze and drove him into town to get candy.
This year, Clarke picked out his own costume - a full-bodied skeleton suit, complete with gloves and mask. While I could only imagine how many other parents’ children would be dressed in the very same thing, especially when it was so readily available as a “last-minute” costume option at the local Walmart, I couldn’t help but chuckle at how excited he was. The entire ride to town, he was fidgeting with his costume - pulling the folds, smoothing them, and turning his plastic jack-o-lantern bucket over and over in his lap in heavy anticipation for its being filled. I talked to him, but he would only answer in short sentences. “Skeletons are serious,” he told me, growing tired of my attempt at light-hearted conversation, “that’s why you never see them smile.”
When we reached downtown, we got out and went by all of the businesses first. There was a miniature parade of children, their parents standing on the cold cobbled streets with hot chocolates and coffees held close to their faces in their mittened hands as they chatted and watched their children move along. Clarke took his place in line behind a little girl who was dressed as a bee. She turned and told him that she liked his costume. He nodded and grunted in response.
By the time we’d finished making our way through downtown, almost an hour had passed, leaving only a couple more for the evening. Clarke and I climbed into my car, and, as I drove, he pushed the chocolates around with his gloved hands without a word. I decided to follow our usual route - Downtown, the neighborhoods, and a finishing flourish with the gated community up on the hill. That’s where the best treats came from - the full-sized bars, the bags of chips, the cans of soda. Clarke always loved going there last. I always loved ending on a high note.
As we were finishing with the neighborhoods, we ran across one of Clarke’s school friends and his father. The kid was dressed as “The Boy Who Fell Down in the Movie Theater,” complete with M&Ms and popcorn glued to his shirt and face. The boys decided to hit the last of the houses in the neighborhoods together while the father and I talked.
“Hilarious costume,” I chided, “definitely inventive. A nice break from the ‘ninjas’ and the ‘pirates’ and the bed-sheet ‘ghosts.’”
The man laughed. “That’s my Sara’s doing. Not a big fan of the scary part of Halloween, but she likes to enable Derrick. She thinks it’s healthy for him to get out and socialize with the other kids like this. Most of the time, he just kind of mopes around at home.”
I shook my head and took a swig of the coffee in my thermos. “Huh. Well, you know, it seems like Clarke and Derrick get along pretty well. If you guys would ever like to set up a play-date, I could swing the idea by my wife and let her know.”
The guy nodded and smiled. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Sara would like that.”
We sat in silence, our eyes falling on and following our kids as they bobbed some hundred or so yards away, nearing the last of the houses with their lights on.
“Getting chilly out here, probably going to call it quits after this,” Derrick’s father said idly.
I turned, amazed: “Did you guys hit the houses on the hill yet?”
Derrick’s father turned to me. “No, we didn’t. It’s usually so busy there that we really never have. Good stuff?”
“Good stuff? Jesus, you should see what they hand out to kids up there. If that place had existed in the 80’s, I would’ve spent all night there, just swapping costumes every time I got through them all! You know, if you want, you and Derrick could tag along with us. We’ll make it quick.”
Derrick’s father mulled it over and then agreed. Shortly after, the boys met up with us again and we piled into my Jeep. One last stop, then home.
Derrick’s father, Matt, was a nice guy. We chatted as we followed behind our boys slowly, just about anything and everything really. He and I, it turned out, had gone to the same high school, but he’d been a self-proclaimed “band geek” and I’d been on the football team. He told me about his wife, and I told him about mine, and we both agreed that they should have a Lady’s Night Out sometime so we could hang out at my place and watch the Bruins play while Derrick and Clarke had fun. It was nice to make a new friend, especially one who seemed to enjoy a lot of what I did. That didn’t happen so often anymore.
We met up with our kids at the roundabout on top of the hill, where the biggest and most austere houses stared out over the rest of the town like kings. Derrick was picking through his candy, and Clarke was just turning his over in his bucket, clearly lost in the little trove he’d amassed. Matt and I told them it was time to get moving, and they both snapped to, lingering a bit behind us as we made our way back to where we’d parked. I dropped Matt and Derrick off at their car and told them I’d be calling. Then, Clarke and I began our ride home.
“You have a good time, buddy?” I asked.
He nodded slowly in response, his eyes still trained on the bucket in his lap. I could tell that he was getting sleepy because he’d stopped playing with the candy and was now sluggishly moving his eyes from the bucket to the windows and back. I patted him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, bud. You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy that candy when we get home.”
When we arrived, I parked the car outside the garage and Clarke and I moved inside. We were greeted by Sam, who held her hands out expectantly. Clarke looked down at his bucket, then back to her, and, finally, placed the jack-o-lantern in her hands. I told him to go ahead and get ready for bed. He slowly made his way up the stairs.
Samantha moved into the kitchen and poured all of the contents of the jack-o-lantern out on the table. Her eyes scoured it all expectantly, her fingers plucking pieces out to reveal those hidden beneath it.
“I don’t know why you have to do this to him every year, Sam. Just let him enjoy the candy. He’s a good boy, he earned it.”
She didn’t say anything, only plucked a few empty wrappers from the pile and set them aside. I knew that she was going to chew Clarke out for it. She hated it when he ate candy before she could make sure it was safe. It was those same fears repeated every single year on the news that drove her to be so overbearingly protective.
Her fingers found a little yellow square - a folded up sticky note that had hidden itself below a handful of Jolly Ranchers and a tube of pennies. She unfolded it, the glue snapping as her nails peeled it apart, and then our eyes scanned the scrawl on its face:
I’LL TAKE THE TREAT IF YOU’LL HAVE THE TRICK
Sam’s eyes snapped to mine. I shrugged, “Maybe it’s just a prank.”
“A prank, Deacon? Really? This seems pretty creepy to me. I want to know where he got it from.”
“Sam, stop. Just let him sleep.”
“No. I want to know who would write something this fucked up and put it in some kid’s bucket.” The words seethed as they hissed through her teeth. I pinched the bridge of my nose and called for Clarke.
There were a few minutes before I heard the steady thump of his stockinged feet as they descended the hardwood staircase. He entered the kitchen, still fully clad in his costume, his eyes down to the ground. Sam pushed the note out and struggled with her words to subdue the anger:
“Honey, where did you get this?”
Clarke didn’t even raise his eyes. Sam cupped her hands under his chin and raised his face to meet her’s.
“Clarke, I need to know where this came from. Whoever wrote it wasn’t being very nice.”
Clarke mumbled something, but it was unintelligible. Sam straightened up.
“Honey, can you take off the mask and talk to us?”
Clarke’s fingers twitched and he raised his arms slowly, gripping the base of the skull-painted balaclava. He peeled it away.
“Oh my God. OH MY GOD!”
Sam fell back against the counter, the note dropping from her hands as they snapped to her mouth and tears sprung to her eyes. I turned and looked at Clarke.
His face was swollen, bruised red and purple with blackening welts on the hills of his cheek, the rest tawny and gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and teary, his lower lip cut and quivering. He let the mask fall from his hands, the skeleton suit bunching up as his fingers dug into his hair. He opened his mouth and sobbed, spittle catching on his front teeth.
But the worst thing of all was that he wasn’t my son. by Sainte-Vicious Reddit FB
