In Pennsylvania, the night before Halloween is known as Mischief Night. Kids play harmless but annoying pranks, like throwing toilet paper into trees, soaping windows, and egging cars. Occasionally lines are crossed, and what was annoying becomes malicious. Sometimes even deadly…
Willard Cole came out of his glassy-eyed stupor as an acrid wet stain spread across the front of his pants.
“Oh, Christ. Not again,” he muttered to himself. He reached over with a trembling hand to the bottle of whiskey on the end table and took several deep swallows. Only the flickering of the television illuminated the room. His red-netted eyes fell on the bookcase in the corner. On it were the many awards he had collected over his career as an insurance salesman—or consultant, as he preferred to be called.
“You piece of shit,” he said to himself, and passed his hand over his eyes. “I’ve turned into my father.”
Willard Cole’s father had drunk himself to death at fifty-three. He had been a mean drunk, taking out his rage and frustration on the minds and bodies of his wife and sons. At fourteen, Willard had gazed at his reflection in the mirror, lightly touching the puffy bruised tissue around his left eye—a result of coming home from his friend’s house five minutes late the previous evening—and wincing.
“I will never, ever, EVER drink alcohol. NEVER!” he said to the boy in the mirror.
Fired with the desire to show the world that he was not his old man, Willard worked hard. He married his college sweetheart and raised two children, a boy and a girl. He rose in the corporate ranks, bought a nice house on a quiet street, and retired at sixty-six, a successful man, with a loving family and two adorable grandchildren. And he never took a drink. Not even a beer. Willard kept the promise he had made to his fourteen-year-old self.
But now that he had achieved everything he’d planned, a little voice whispered to him that it would be okay to have a cocktail now and then, like everybody else. He could drink now, socially, of course, and on the elegant vacations his wife had planned to fill their golden years.
Sure, he thought. Now it’s all okay.
And it was, for a while. An occasional glass of wine with dinner, or a whiskey and soda on the nineteenth hole with his golf buddies. But, having waited sixty years, the siren’s call of alcohol had grown loud and powerful within him, and the craving overcame him quickly.
The occasional drinks became daily drinks, and then several daily drinks. He began hiding bottles around the house to conceal how much he was taking in. He arranged for the liquor store to deliver cases to the house, explaining to his wife that it was cheaper that way and assuring her that there would always be something for company and impromptu parties. But there never was any company or parties.
His temper became shorter. He changed from a thoughtful spouse and doting grandpa into an irritable man who preferred to be alone so he could drink in peace.
He took one vacation with his wife to Paris. Between the drinking, the fighting about his drinking, the hangovers, and more fighting, it was misery for both of them.
After they returned home, his wife staged an intervention with his son about his drinking. She showed him several half-empty bottles she had found stashed in the linen closet, under the bed, and in the toilet tank. She offered to take him to a hospital, and showed him some literature she had picked up at an Al-Anon meeting. Willard responded by shoving her into the wall and slapping her backhand across her face, splitting her lips. His son punched him, breaking his nose. She left that night with her son, returning the next day to pack her things. She did not speak to him. He watched her balefully, over his swollen nose, a drink in his hand.
His daughter had called a few days later.
“Dad, how could you? How could you do this to Mom?” He could hear the tears in her voice, and his heart hurt. But the whiskey made him say that it wasn’t his fault that her mother had become such a nag and a bitch, and it was probably better this way.
“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to see your grandchildren until you stop drinking. And I won’t see you, either. Please, Daddy, please stop. I can look into rehabs for you—”
Whiskey made him hang up on her.
A year later, the house was coated in dust, the yard unkempt and full of weeds. He hadn’t spoken to his wife and children. Or anyone else, really. The divorce papers were probably in the pile of unopened mail on the dining room table. His life was spent now in front of the TV, sitting in a urine-stained La-Z-Boy. His skin was yellowed, his belly stretched tight over his enlarged liver.
By following the siren’s call, Willard had wrecked himself on the rocks of acute alcoholism and self-pity.
As he tried to gather enough energy to go and change his wet pants, a clattering crash came from the basement. He heard the sounds of breaking glass and then a low moan.
Three shadows crouched behind a rhododendron bush in front of a well-kept and brightly lit home a few doors down.
“Oh man, this is going to be so awesome,” Nolan said in a whisper.
“Yeah, if we don’t get caught,” Dustin replied.
“Don’t be such a pussy. We won’t get caught.”
Meanwhile, Tyler was carefully reaching into a plastic bag. He pulled out a wet-stained, foul-smelling paper bag. The boys made exaggerated retching sounds.
“OMG. This is so gross,” he muttered. “Nolan, didja bring the lighter?”
“Yep. Criminy, how much poop did you put in that bag?”
“I scooped my yard and the neighbor’s yard. And he’s got a German shepherd.”
“This is going to be so great,” Nolan said again.
The boys were all seventh-graders at Merion Junior High. They were well acquainted with the resident of the home—Mr. Worrall, the assistant principal. As the chief disciplinarian at the school, he struck terror into the student body.
Nolan, in particular, held a grudge. His parents were going through an acrimonious divorce and using Nolan as an emotional tug toy. Nolan retreated into himself, and since he couldn’t talk to anyone, he started to act out his pain. He began clowning around in class and being hostile to his teachers. This led to a few unpleasant conversations with Mr. Worrall in his office.
“I hear you called Mr. Osman a stupid shithead, since he had the nerve to disrupt your little comedy act in the back of class,” Mr. Worrall had said, looking over the top of his glasses at Nolan.
Nolan tried to summon his inner thug.
“So?”
“So that’s not acceptable here at Merion.” Mr. Worrall looked through a file on his desk. “Your grades have gone from a solid B average to a D. I’ve gotten a few complaints about you and your behavior in class. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Nolan thought about his mother moving to California, and her empty promises about taking him with her. About losing the house he’d grown up in, and living in a tiny apartment with his father, who was silent and morose these days. Except when he launched into angry tirades about how Nolan’s mother was just a stupid, greedy bitch. He thought about how his life just blew chunks these days.
“I’ve got nothing to tell you,” he replied, and slouched lower in his chair.
Mr. Worrall sighed. “In that case, I’m giving you three days of detention, and I’m going to have a chat with your father. Don’t let me see you here again.”
Nolan had waited for an opportunity to revenge himself, and Mischief Night presented a perfect opportunity. He consulted with his buddies on the best and most obnoxious prank to play. Since there was no tree in the Worrall front yard, TPing was out. Egging the house was not enough. So the three of them had decided on the flaming-dog-poop-bag trick. Watching their nemesis stomp on the bag and get dog poop all over his slippers would be excellent payback, they thought.
“Gimme the lighter,” Tyler said. Nolan reached into his pocket and handed over a Bic lighter. “Now be cool.”
Creeping carefully in the darkness, Tyler moved silently up the front walk and gingerly placed the bag in the center of the front porch. He flicked the lighter into flame and lit the edge of the bag. He waited until it was burning brightly, rang the doorbell, and hightailed it back to the rhododendron bush. He had just managed to hide himself when the door opened. A man was silhouetted in the doorway, and he jumped back when he saw the burning, stinking bag on his porch.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He grabbed the doormat and beat at the bag, scattering embers and decaying poop all over his porch.
The boys were racked with laughter, choking it back.
“You little punks! I know you’re out there, and I have a pretty good idea of who you are.”
Dustin started a little, but Nolan put a hand on his arm.
Just then, a large dog appeared next to Mr. Worrall. It barked once, a deep booming bark, and sniffed the air. The rottweiler’s neck hairs bristled.
“Shit, I didn’t know he had a dog,” Nolan said. Fear shot suddenly through all three boys.
The dog let out a low growl and bounded off the porch toward the rhododendron bush.
“Thor! Get back here!” Mr. Worrall yelled.
The boys scattered like dry leaves in the wind.
Nolan ran blindly, looping around through the backyards of the houses on the street. He sucked air into his lungs in deep tearing gasps.
Just don’t fall down, he thought.
He could hear the pounding of his heart and the slap of his sneakers on the dew-slicked grass. He strained to hear the thudding of paws gaining on him, the teeth ripping into his flesh.
Hide…I have to hide.
He saw the outline of a bulkhead basement door behind one of the houses in front of him. He swerved toward it and saw that it wasn’t locked. The house was dark, as far as he could see. He grabbed the handles and flung the doors open and jumped onto the stairs. But his feet flew out from under him, his wet sneakers unable to grip the warped wooden treads, and he tumbled down into the basement.
With a smashing crash, he landed on a pile of trash bags filled with bottles. His right leg twisted under him, and he heard the sickening crunch of his ankle breaking against the concrete floor. Pain shot through him, and his stomach twisted, then twisted again at the overpowering smell of stale whiskey rising from the broken bags. He was bleeding from numerous glass cuts on his arms and hands.
“Oh my God,” he moaned. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Upstairs, Willard reached into the end table drawer and pulled out a pistol. Hands shaking, he checked to see it was loaded. He rose unsteadily and half staggered to the basement door. He flicked the light switch and, gripping the railing tightly, slowly descended the stairs.
There were at least thirty trash bags of bottles in the basement. Willard had been reluctant to put them in the trash at first, lest the neighbors and the trash collectors see the full extent of his drinking and decide that his wife was right to leave him. He had planned to take them to a recycling center, but over time, as the bags multiplied, he became daunted by the task.
Better to just toss them down and forget them, he thought. He never went into the basement, anyway.
Over by the open outside door, where the biggest pile of bags were, he saw a boy, half on and half under them. Broken glass from the torn bags was strewn all over the floor.
He raised his pistol.
“What the fuck are you doing in my basement?” he said, his voice raspy from whiskey and disuse.
Nolan looked up at Willard and saw an old man, dirty, unshaven, and reeking of alcohol, with red-rimmed eyes and a dark splotch of wet on the front of his pants, aiming a gun at him. His eyes widened and his stomach leapt into his throat. He was dizzy with fear.
“Please don’t shoot! It was an accident! I just fell, that’s all,” he said in a high shaky voice, and then he retched uncontrollably. The stench of hot vomit mixed with the whiskey smell.
I’m going to pass out, Nolan thought. And then I’m going to die.
“Accident, huh,” Willard snorted. “More like breaking and entering. I’m going to call the police.” He turned and attempted to go back up the stairs, but his legs shook violently. He sat down heavily on the basement stairs, keeping his pistol pointed at Nolan.
“Seriously, Mister, it really was an accident. Mr. Worrall sicced his dog on us, and I was looking for a place to hide. Look, Mister, I think I broke my leg and I’m all cut up.”
Willard stared at Nolan. His brain felt like wet cotton, and about as sharp.
Now what do I do? he thought.
“Can you help me up, at least?” Nolan said, pleading. “Get me out of all this glass and stuff?”
“Hell, you should be helping me up,” Willard replied sourly.
“I can’t.”
“Well, then, I think we’re both stuck,” Willard said.
They sat in silence for a few moments as Willard tried to process what Nolan had said.
“So Tom Worrall sicced his dog on you? Why would he do that?”
Nolan grimaced with pain and shifted his weight against the bags. Empty bottles rolled from the broken ones, rattling and clanking on the cold concrete floor.
“Me and my buddies were playing a prank on him. For Mischief Night.”
“Then it serves you right, huh? Maybe this will teach you not to do stupid shit like that.”
Nolan knew the right thing to say was Yes, sir. But his pain and fear turned to anger.
“Maybe. But I don’t think I deserved to end up with a busted leg in a drunk guy’s basement. I think you need help more than me.”
Willard bristled. “I don’t need some punk-assed kid telling me what to do. You broke into my house, and I’d be in my rights to shoot you, right there.”
“Yeah, and then the cops would come, and they’d find you with piss all over yourself and all these fucking bottles, and they’d haul you off to jail.”
“Well, at least I wouldn’t be lying in busted glass in my own puke with a bullet in my head,” Willard retorted.
They glared at each other for a few moments.
“I’m calling the cops right now,” Willard said. “Then we’ll see how much of a punk you are.” He tried to rise to his feet, but his legs shook under him, and he sat back down heavily on the stairs.
Nolan snorted. “Damn, dude. I’ve never seen anyone that wasted.”
A wave of alcoholic self-pity flooded over Willard. “A couple years ago, I could have kicked your ass. I had a wife and a family and a career. And that’s all gone. Now I’m stuck in my own basement with a snotty little asshole who thinks he’s hot stuff.” Tears of frustration rolled down his cheeks.
“Whose fault is that? Nobody made you drink all this,” said Nolan, gesturing at the bags.
Willard began to sob. Nolan had never seen any man over fifteen cry like that. In a way, it was more unnerving than the angry yelling and pistol-brandishing.
He’s pitiful, even if he is an old drunk jerk, Nolan thought.
“Look, Mister. Put the gun down and just get me out of here. Maybe my folks can help you, take you to a hospital or something. Call your family for you.”
“They won’t come. I’m a failure. I just want to die.” Willard wailed like a child.
Taking advantage of Willard’s distraction, Nolan decided to see if he could crawl out of the pile of bags. He rolled and wiggled, trying to find traction for his hands and knees. The rattling noise brought Willard back to reality. He pointed the pistol at Nolan’s face.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Nolan blanched.
“I’m gonna try and help you,” he said.
Willard’s face contorted. “No, you’re not. You’re going to get out and leave me here. Not till I call the cops. You just stay right where you are or I’ll shoot your brains out.”
Nolan realized that Willard was not only drunk, he was probably insane as well. Fear bit into him again, and he began to shake. I’m never getting out of here. We’ll probably both die here.
“Everybody leaves me all alone. You’re not leaving till I say so,” Willard said childishly, moaning.
Nolan’s ankle throbbed with pain. In despair, he covered his face with his bleeding hands for a few moments, and then lifted his eyes to meet Willard’s. “My leg is broken. I need a doctor,” he said quietly.
The tone of Nolan’s voice sparked a wisp of sanity in Willard’s sodden brain. He met Nolan’s eyes and saw a frightened, hurt young boy. Just like I used to be, he thought.
Compassion filled him for the first time in a long, long time. His mind cleared, and he knew what he needed to do.
“You got it wrong back there. I think you need help more than I do,” he said, and tried again to rise to his feet.
Nolan began to reply, No shit, Sherlock, but he realized that Willard was somehow different now. He kept quiet and still, waiting.
Willard straightened his legs, which finally steadied a little under him. He took a step down.
Nolan suddenly had a bad feeling about Willard coming down the stairs.
“Mister, maybe you should go upstairs first and call nine-one-one. The ambulance guys can get me.”
“No, no, I’ll get you out of here,” Willard said. He took another step, and his toe caught on a bag of bottles that he had left on the steps. He teetered, arms pinwheeling, and the pistol fired with a sharp, echoing crack. The bullet ricocheted off a support post and creased Nolan’s scalp.
“Nooooo!” Nolan cried. Blood poured over his forehead and into his eyes.
Willard pitched headfirst onto the concrete basement floor, and his neck snapped like a dead twig. Silence hung heavily for a few moments.
“Mister? Mister? Hey, dude, wake up!” Nolan yelled. “I’ve been shot! Help me!”
Willard did not reply.
With effort born of panic, Nolan pulled himself out of the pile of bags and crawled to where Willard lay motionless, dragging his useless foot behind him. He grabbed his bony shoulder and began shaking him. Willard’s head lolled crazily on his neck, and Nolan’s empty stomach lurched again.
“Wake up, man! Wake up! Get me out of here!” Nolan began screaming incoherently, wiping the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand.
Suddenly he heard the chuffing of a large dog. He froze.
A flashlight beam shone down into the basement.
“What’s going on down there?”
Nolan recognized Mr. Worrall’s voice.
“Please, please get me out of here! The old man’s dead!”
“Hold on, son.” Nolan heard footsteps coming down into the basement and mutters of shock and disgust at the bags of bottles and the blood and the vomit. Relief washed over him like a warm spring rain, and he began to cry.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Worrall, sir, I’m so sorry.” He grabbed Mr. Worrall’s hand as the man reached him.
“It’s okay, son. It’s all okay now.”
Mr. Worrall knelt on the floor and wrapped his arms around Nolan as the boy sobbed uncontrollably in his pain and grief.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Nolan’s father asked as they parked in front of the funeral home.
“Yeah, Dad. I am,” Nolan replied.
“Want me to come with you?”
“No, I’m good.”
Nolan’s father opened the car door for him and helped him out. Nolan used one of his crutches to push open the door of the funeral home and hobbled inside. He saw a throng of middle-aged men and women in somber suits and tasteful jewelry, broken off into little conversational groups. At the back of the room was an open casket. He made his way to the casket, knowing that his crutches, cast, and bandages, not to mention his baggy shorts and Metallica T-shirt, made him conspicuous. The knots of people fell silent as he passed by.
He looked down into the casket. Willard’s body and head had been realigned, and he was dressed in a suit and tie. Nolan checked the front of his pants, and they were dry. The yellow had been powdered out of Willard’s face, and he was clean-shaven.
He looks like all the other suits in the room. Not like the crazy, dirty, drunken asshole in the basement, Nolan thought. He looks normal.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned his head. A pretty young woman dressed in black smiled at him.
“Are you the boy they found with him?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Nolan. “It was an accident. I was only trying to hide.” He stopped for a moment, and added awkwardly, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
“I lost my dad a couple years ago, when the alcohol took over.” She gestured at Willard and sighed. Nolan thought he heard relief in her sigh, along with sorrow. “You know, I wouldn’t see him or speak to him anymore because of his drinking. So I never got to say goodbye.”
“Oh, wow, that sucks,” Nolan replied. He looked down at the cast on his ankle, and a shudder went through him.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you that night,” she said. “It was nice of you to come.”
“I sort of felt like I had to. I mean, if I hadn’t been there, he might not have died. And I feel kind of bad about that.” Nolan looked down at the floor, his shoulders hunching with guilt.
“No. He would have been dead in a week or two, anyway, the doctors said. Your being there or not wouldn’t have changed anything. And in a funny way, I’m glad he didn’t die alone. He wasn’t a bad man, you know. Not really.”
Nolan thought for a few moments. “I know,” he said.