ELIOT
Halloween night, and Marj was late getting home. Road construction again, she said.
She charged through the house, yelling up to me that we would leave in five minutes.
I was ready. And waiting. I rushed downstairs.
A few seconds later, Marj came out of her room. From her hand dangled three black facemasks. The kind that only covers your eyes and nose. “I didn’t know,” she said, “what kind of costume you wanted. At lunch, I went to a costume store, but it was so crowded. So, I just–”
She stopped. She had pulled on a yellowish-brown T-shirt that had mussed her hair, and she looked even more like a lonely scarecrow.
Marj had actually thought about me during the day. And she had tried. Surprised, I found a smile on my face.
It was enough. She had tried.
I took two masks from her hand, one for me and one for Alli. “You have to wear your mask while we’re at the Community Center. The whole time you’re in the Bread Project booth. Okay?”
“I’ll do it.” She slipped on the mask and her eyes twinkled from inside the dark cutouts. “And after, I’ll drive you and your friends around to do some trick-or-treating. Okay?”
I took a deep breath, suddenly full of hope. “Thanks.”
“Well. Good.” Now, Marj was embarrassed and couldn’t look at me. “Okay. Let’s get going. Gotta pick up Alli.” She almost ran through the kitchen, stopping only to grab a small bag of pretzels, and hustled out to the car.
At Mr. Porter’s house, Marj pulled in the driveway and stopped. “Hurry,” she said.
I jumped out of the car and galumphed up to the door, too happy to merely jog or trot. This was going to be a good night.
Two jack-o-lanterns sat on the front step, casting a flickering light. Creepy sounds–squeaks, screams, and moans–blared from small speakers. Pretty lame, but–hey, Mr. Porter was trying. And tonight, trying counted.
A tall, cloaked figure opened the door. From deep within the hood, Mr. Porter’s voice croaked, “Welcome to our haunted castle.”
I grinned and played along. “Trick-or-treat!”
Mr. Porter shoved back the hood and looked me up and down. “Where’s the costume?”
For a second, when Mr. Porter’s pockmarked face appeared, I thought of werewolves and Beauty and the Beast and other stories that explained ugly faces. I didn’t know if I should shudder or laugh. So, I just went ahead, still playing along.
“It’s a joke.” I made Vs with my fingers, and put one finger on my eyebrow, the other under my eye, on either side, in a fake mask. “I’m disguised. As a sixth grader.”
Mr. Porter raised an eyebrow, and this time, I did want to laugh. I could’ve played along a bit more, but Marj was in a hurry.
Dropping my hands and smiling, I asked, “Is Alli ready?”
“For what?”
“We’re going to the Harvest Party at the Community Center.”
“She didn’t ask permission for that.”
“But–” I stopped, suddenly remembering who I was talking to. Mr. Porter, the sixth grade social studies teacher who never smiled except on Halloween night when he played up the scary stuff.
I stepped back and waved for Marj to come to the door.
She slipped the car into park and turned off the engine. Half-pulled herself out of the car. Called, “What’s wrong?”
I only waved at her to come.
Mr. Porter stepped outside, too, and closed the door. “Don’t want the house to get cold.”
When Marj stopped at the bottom of the steps, Mr. Porter said, “Now, what’s going on tonight?”
“The Community Center Harvest Party. We have a booth for the Bread Project, and Alli is supposed to come and help.”
“Oh. That project.” Mr. Porter knelt and took the top off a jack-o-lantern, letting the candle throw deep, sharp shadows over his creepy face. “It’s a waste of time.”
All my elation fell away.
Apparently, satisfied that the candle would burn a while longer, he replaced the jack-o-lantern’s top. He straightened up and stared at Marj. “It won’t work. People won’t bake bread and won’t bring it for Thanksgiving.”
Now, his gray face almost disappeared against the gray concrete of the house. Like a ghost fading in and out, that’s what he looked like. I shivered.
“Thanks for the warning,” Marj said. Her voice wasn’t melting chocolate anymore: it was as sharp as an icicle. “But we’re doing the Bread Project anyway. And Alli has volunteered to help. Volunteered. If you don’t mind.”
From a block or so away, we heard kids yelling. Mr. Porter pulled his hood back up and muttered, “A bread project.”
At his sarcasm, Marj took a step up. She held her body tense, like a rubber band stretched to its limits. “You don’t mind if Alli helps, do you? Because the Project is to honor the memory of my husband.”
A lump filled my throat: sadness that Griff was gone, yet pride that Marj was standing up there, defiant, fighting for Griff’s memory. I stepped up beside her.
Mr. Porter returned her stare. Then abruptly, he dropped his eyes.
The laughter from the trick-or-treaters echoed through the neighborhood. They were just two houses away.
Mr. Porter jerked open the door and called. “Come on down. You’re trying to listen anyway.”
Alli clattered down the wooden stairs and out the door to stand beside Marj.
“You’ll bring her home later? I won’t have to get out and pick her up?”
“I’ll bring her home,” Marj said.
Walking out to the car, I said, “Guess what Marj brought us?” I pulled out the masks.
“Oh. I bought masks, too.” She held up her two masks.
Suddenly, we were laughing and piling into the car. Happy.
Behind us, the group of kids had reached Mr. Porter’s house, and we heard his voice croak, “Welcome to our haunted castle!”
“Trick-or-treat!”
Walking into the community center, it was already crowded. The Halloween booths were already decorated and people were chattering, gossiping, smiling. I saw Toby at his Dad’s political booth and waved.
We had to ask several people before we found someone in charge, who sent us to find the janitor, who led us to the back of the gymnasium. He pushed up his wire-rims, turned away slightly and sneezed. “Sorry, I must be getting a cold.” He rubbed his nose again, trying to keep back another sneeze.
I put my hands behind my back and stepped away.
Meanwhile, the janitor stopped at a booth and gestured. I stared at the blue curtains that created a small booth space. The other booths were lined up in the aisles, like the setup for the back-to-school party. But the Bread Project booth was on a far wall. Far away from everything else. Separated by a huge empty floor space, an ocean to cross to get to our booth.
“This is our booth?” Marj demanded.
“Your sign up said this was a Bread Project.” The janitor pushed up his wire-rims again. “Most food booths want to be close to the kitchen.”
Marj and Mrs. Lopez looked at each other and then back at the janitor.
“There’s nothing else?” Marj asked.
“Not tonight.” The janitor turned and walked away.
Mrs. Patel looked back at the aisles of booths, then at ours. “We don’t have anything to decorate with, either.” Today, she’d come straight from work: black skirt, white shirt and heels.
I sat cross-legged on the floor. “No one will find us over here.” This was a big setback for the project. I was afraid to look at Marj, to see her disappointment.
By now, we realized that we had to contact the parents; without them, the project was dead. Kids just didn’t understand it exactly, how important it was to pass off the sourdough starter on time each week. They didn’t understand enough about baking. And then, there was the question of who would buy the bread. The auction needed community people who would buy bread as a donation to the school.
The aisles were full of costumed figures: a David and Goliath walking along together, several wore the latest store-bought Batman costume, and some poor kid who had decided to actually wear a World War I wool uniform. I felt sorry for him.
Mrs. Johnson set down her basket of supplies and bread and put her hands on her hips. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ve made a mistake, not getting a better booth, not setting up early. But we’re just learning. It happens.”
“Si. Let’s get set up, and while we work, we can decide what to do,” Mrs. Lopez said.
Alli stepped up then. “Good. And while you work, you have to wear a mask.” She passed out the masks, and everyone put them on. Somehow it was easier to smile with a mask on your face.
I finally looked at Marj, and she even tried a smile. She nodded at me to help her with our boxes that held a couple loaves of bread. I heaved them onto the table top and lined up the loaves. Soon, the table was heaping with breads.
Mrs. Lopez had pan dulce, a Mexican sweet bread; Mrs. Patel had her naan; and Mrs. Johnson had made cinnamon rolls. Lots of great samples, lots of brochures to pass out, just no one to give them out to. I pulled the mask back over my face and wished the evening was over.