Chapter Twenty-Seven

The last weekday of October already. I collect Alice from school, and we drive out to Emerald Lake to see Agat. I’ve got a tin of cookies for her; they’re a mix of cheerful pumpkins and brightly coloured spider webs. I thought it better to leave off the witches and ghosts. I’m trying to thank her, not make a point. Alice is tremendously excited. All along the way we pass gateways decorated with all the trappings of Halloween—barrows piled with pumpkins, witches, wizards and warlocks hovering in trees, and black cats sneaking and creeping along and over walls. On fire with fall foliage and redolent with the rich smell of wood smoke, it couldn’t be more festive. Christmas must be amazing in Maine. I wonder what I’ll be doing at Christmas? Where will I be?

Agat has jolly jack o’ lanterns along the front of her porch, and some not so jolly ones. “Unhappy.” Alice points to one with a hideous grin and plus signs for eyes.

“Evil,” Agat says, opening the front door.

“What’s evil?” Alice asks.

“Naughty,” I say quickly. “What do you say to Agat?”

“Hello, and thank you for knitting my bunny!” she sings, like I’ve told her to.

“You like it?” There’s no denial. Agat’s voice is soft. I wouldn’t say she smiles, but she moves her mouth into an expression of acceptance. She reaches out to touch Alice’s hair. “Precious Lis,” she murmurs.

“Lara made you biscuits, Aunty Agat. They are cookies, but she says biscuits and Daddy loves them.”

Agat raises her eyes to mine. “Good,” she says.

“He also says biscuit now. Molly thinks it’s funny!”

I hold out the container. Agat won’t take it, but steps aside and points to a space on the old tabletop at the back of the porch. I gather I have to put it there, that she doesn’t want to touch it while I am. That’s okay, so long as there’s no spitting and finger wagging. The cookies get placed between a jar of seagull feathers and a chipped, white enamel bowl containing a lifetime’s collection of seaglass.

“Wait,” Agat says, going inside. Alice fiddles about, touching everything, while I look out at the trees, leaves rustling in the smoky wind, falling like coloured rain.

A few minutes later, Agat’s back with a small plastic bag of something frozen. “Wild duck for Buster,” she tells Alice, placing it on the table. “Take. Check for bones before you give it.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Come, Alice, we must go.”

Alice picks up the little bag. We leave. Agat watches us until we’re in the car, and then goes inside and shuts the door.

Back at Blue Rocks, Lucas has put out huge happy-carved pumpkins on either side of the gate. There are more merry pumpkins on the porch flickering in the dusk.

“Who’s going to see those?” I ask, when he comes to open the sea horse door for us.

“We are.”

Lucas has colonized the kitchen to make chilli. There’s music on, wine open—and a cheery pile of carved pumpkin debris, used pots, dishes and chopping boards on every surface, reminding me of that evening back in June when I first walked in here.

“How did it go with Agat?” he asks, on the point of going upstairs to supervise Alice’s bath time.

“Not bad. We’re not big mates, but she was okay with Alice. She gave us wild duck for Buster.”

“Great.” He chases Alice upstairs with such spooky wails, that even Buster pays attention. He looks up from extensive tail-grooming in the middle of the kitchen doorway, his yellow eyes shining with the thrill of the hunt.

“For a black cat on Halloween, you sure are laid-back,” I tell him, “and very indoor-orientated. Shouldn’t you be out and about scaring people?”

Buster watches the stairs for a minute and then carries on licking, ignoring me. I’m not sure I’ll give him the wild duck. I know he’s a naturally large cat, but he’s a teensy overweight in my opinion. Perhaps rich, fatty treats aren’t the best idea. Also, call me mad, but what if Agat’s poisoned it? Lucas’s Buster-disembowelling comment sticks in my mind. I’ll ask Lucas what he thinks. Meanwhile, I won’t put it in the freezer because we might forget it. Someone might eat it by mistake, months hence. I’ll put it away, somewhere high up in the pantry, discuss with Lucas, and either debone it for consumption tomorrow morning or chuck it out. I put the duck in a recycled, sealed plastic container and stash it on the top shelf, closing the door. I help myself to a glass of wine, take one sip and change my mind. Sod it, I’m going to chuck the duck. Why take risks?

Retrieving the container, I hover at the kitchen bin. Not good enough, because I know that cat. I go out through the sea horse door, checking from habit that the key’s in my pocket—where it mostly lives—and put the duck, container and all, in the outside bin behind the garage. The wind’s picked up, driving sharp arrows of drizzle into my face. I run back to the house, where the pumpkin lanterns gutter in the porch and the open door throws a long rectangle of yellow light. I crunch over stray leaves on the threshold and quickly shut myself inside.

“Where were you?” Lucas comes down the stairs with Alice in his arms, wrapped in a towel.

“Outside.” I shiver.

“Why?” Alice asks.

“To check I’d locked the car.” I see no problem telling a small white lie if it keeps someone safe, even Buster. I glance at him. He’s in exactly the same place, only stretched out on his side, fast asleep.

Lucas carries Alice into the den and puts her on the sofa. He lights a fire and closes the shutters against the throb of sudden, heavy rain on the windows. I dry Alice and help her into her pyjamas. We turn down the lights, light candles and watch Halloween cartoons suitable for a four-year-old until Alice’s bedtime. Before he takes her upstairs, Lucas reads aloud two Winnie stories and then carries Alice out onto the sea porch to look for witches. The rain’s cleared, the air’s crisp and still and the moon’s beautiful, burning a track of white fire on the dark sea.

Once Alice is asleep, we eat chilli and drink red wine in front of the fire. That done, we watch a movie called Haunted October—Lucas laughs and I scream. We go to bed at midnight, the very height of the witching hour, Buster—Blue Rocks’ own living Halloween symbol—following us to Alice’s room, where he curls up on her feet like a plump, furry cushion.