After lunch, Susan Feeney pulled out the contents of the curbside mailbox, recognizing with pleasure the plastic-wrapped October issue of Martha Stewart Living. With the exception of Christmas, Halloween was Susan’s favorite holiday and Martha was always good for another creative idea or two.
Susan loved to sew, and the attic held her extensive collection of outfits she had made for the children and for James and herself to wear to masquerade parties they had attended, starting even before they were married. The carefully marked cardboard boxes held the costumes of a monk and a nun, a pirate and a harem girl, Dracula, Zorro, a French maid, a go-go girl and Uncle Sam and the Statue of Liberty. Susan and James had won the prize for best couple’s costume when they wore those patriotic outfits to a local Halloween party the year before. She would always dress up and trick-or-treat around the neighborhood with the kids. One year she had gone as a pregnant clown and nobody knew who she was.
She was having fun planning what this Halloween would bring. Last year Kelly and Kimberly had been a pair of little yellow Twinkies, while James had insisted on being Batman. This year, Kelly would be a bumblebee, while Kimberly was going as a ladybug. Susan had both of their costumes almost done. She had suggested that, in keeping with the insect theme, James could be a spider. But James had a mind of his own. He didn’t want to be a spider or a devil or prizefighter, the other options his mother suggested. Susan was trying to be patient, but if he didn’t decide soon, she was going to make the decision for him. There was a thin line between allowing and encouraging a son to steer his own course and raising a spoiled brat.
Turning from the mailbox, Susan heard a child’s voice call from across the street.
“Mrs. Feeney, can James come over to play?”
Janie Blake, buttoned up in a bright red sweater, was standing in her driveway holding a leash with her golden puppy pulling on the end. Mrs. Garcia was standing guard behind her.
“James is inside watching a video, Janie. If it’s all right with Mrs. Garcia, you’re welcome to come over to our house for a while.”
Janie turned to her caretaker and handed her Daisy’s leash. In the child’s mind, the decision was made, but she went through the polite motions. “It’s okay, right, Mrs. Garcia?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Yes, muñequita. It’s all right. I come over for you in a while and pick you up and walk you back home.”
She held the child’s hand and escorted her across the street.
James was engrossed in the Popeye video when Susan brought Janie downstairs to the playroom. The little girl took a seat on the sofa beside him. With both daughters upstairs napping, Susan decided to take a few minutes and sit down and relax. She flipped through the pages of her magazine, noting a recipe for Boston baked beans she would try, and another for Halloween lollipops, if she got ambitious enough and found the time.
That was the thing about Martha Stewart. It was fascinating to watch her television show or read her magazine and see all the things that could be done to make life nicer and more gracious, but Susan wondered if more people might be living vicariously through Martha’s projects than actually had the time or inclination to do them.
She looked up as she heard James and Janie laughing at Robin Willams’s antics as Popeye on the television screen. The hairless sailor with the bulging biceps and contorted face was eating his spinach and getting out of an improbable jam and the kids loved it.
“Hey, James! I have a good idea. How about being Popeye for Halloween?”
Her son burst from his seat on the couch. “Yeah!”
Janie sat quietly.
“Do you know what you’re going to be for Halloween yet, Janie?” asked Susan.
Janie shook her head silently.
“Would you like to be Olive Oyl? You can ask your mom and if she says yes, I’ll make your costume, too, and you and James can trick-or-treat together.”
The thought was a real hit. Janie beamed. She knew it was going to be all right with Mommy. Mommy didn’t sew. Mommy was always at work.