Lou

Our mom didn’t see us, she was out in the kitchen ironing. She does a lot of ironing, mostly for other people, for money. We knew she was ironing because she was singing. She always sings when she irons, I don’t know why, she hates ironing. But maybe that’s why she sings. I sing when I’m doing my homework, like I’m way far away from it, out there singing. She was singing Johnny Cash, but in a high shaky voice. It sounded funny that way:

“‘I keep a close watch on this heart of mine...’”

Anyway, that was good, her being out in the kitchen. We didn’t want her to see the Jesus rock. She wouldn’t make us put it back, but she would make that face of hers, with her mouth to one side.

Even the rectory lady didn’t believe, you could tell. She was going to leave it on the porch, like a jack-o’-lantern.

Daddy said he was going to bring a pumpkin home tonight and carve it. I hope he remembers.

I’ll probably go this year as a hobo again. I don’t know about Ralph, if he’s even going. Last year nobody knew who he was supposed to be. His costume was just his pajamas and bathrobe, a rubber cigar in his mouth and a paper crown on his head. People kept saying, “Who are you supposed to be?” He wouldn’t answer. Then he finally just went home. I still don’t know who he was supposed to be. Probably someone from a story. I told you, he reads a lot of stories, whole books even. But I don’t. So how am I supposed to know? Or anyone else?

We put the head on the dresser. It looked good up there.

So. Now what? I sat on the mattress. “What’re we gonna do now?”

He kept standing there with his arms folded staring at the head, thinking hard.

I flopped on my back and spread out my arms and looked up at the ceiling. “What’re we gonna do now, Ralph? What’re we gonna do?” I like whining.

He told me to stop.

I got up on my elbows. “Are we in a story?” I like when he puts us in a story. “Is this a story we’re in?”

He was still staring at the head. He said he wasn’t sure. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and went walking around, frowning down at the floor.

“What’re you thinking, Ralph?”

He didn’t answer.

“Ralph?”

“Quiet, will you?”

I whispered, “What’re you thinking?”

He covered his ears.

I let him think.