Candace stepped into the early afternoon, still stunned from what Mamalee had just told her.
She only wanted to forget it, to shut it out and live a normal life.
Life had always been a disappointment, even a quiet horror. Now—disappointment was a word so small it meant nothing at all, and the horror was louder.
The scent of Ember Hollow’s share of autumn helped her wall it off and put it behind her, if only for the time she would have to be distant from it.
Candace knew she would soon miss that scent, and she would miss Stuart. She considered the place she called home and then Everett’s shed, seeing it differently. The heaviness in her heart felt ancient.
She trotted to the end of the driveway, then turned onto the road, feeling stranger by the step. The strangeness was like freedom of a sort, and that freedom was like fear—with which she was well-acquainted.
She felt herself begin to trot, either into the strange freedom or away from it, not caring which. Her trotting became a run, and her run became a desperate sprint, as she let herself pretend that she was escaping the family and the “home” she knew, and maybe even heading into Stuart’s arms. Tears streamed from her eyes and either giggles or sobs burst from her lungs as her hair blew behind her.
* * * *
Upon taking his job, Hudson believed that he should remain professional and businesslike not only while in uniform but at church and during off-duty hours.
Leticia had seen him on duty and patiently explained that he need not fear being disrespected, that folks would feel more secure in knowing that he was easy to talk to.
These days, Hudson had good relationships with just about everyone. His friendship with Dennis Barcroft, forged in the wake of the Barcroft patriarch Jerome’s passing, was good for both parties. Knowing the lawman liked and respected the Outlines softened their standing with Ember Hollow’s more conservative residents, and even encouraged those residents to support the band as it became clear they were beginning to ascend.
Jerome Barcroft had been a retired US Air Force mechanic who served as a sort of technical consultant for local farmers and sometimes repaired their equipment, more as a neighborly gesture and hobby than as a true business.
One would have been justified in assuming Jerome Barcroft was fairly conservative and straight forward in his expectations of his family. But he and his wife encouraged the musical inclinations in their boys without reservation, buying them instruments and records and taking them to shows. Perhaps Dennis’s leanings toward punk rock raised an initial concern—but it was his interest and his talent, no one else’s.
Besides, there was also a healthy injection of rockabilly and tongue-in-cheek humor in this weird mashup called horror punk, and there was nothing wrong with that.
Hudson admired this in Jerome, and he vowed to be the same way with his children. Good thing, since DeShaun turned out to be as quirky as they come in his obsession with B movies and comic books.
When the accident happened, the horrific incident with the grain thresher Jerome was fixing, Hudson was among the first to arrive on scene. Worse than any shooting or traffic wreck, the death of his friend shook him to his core, tore into all his reserves of faith and professionalism.
It was a horrible way to die, and a worse way to lose one’s father or husband. From the second he saw Jerome’s corpse, the man’s family became Hudson’s. Thus, it hurt him more than he could express to see Dennis, barely out of his teens, plummet into alcoholism—he finished his father’s bottle of Diamante’s Deep Dark Rum, and thereafter drank only that—to the point of near-suicide. Seeing Elaine crippled with grief yet still trying her best to be a mother, and little Stuart trying to understand the new upside-down world he inhabited, put things in grim perspective.
Hudson teamed with McGlazer, twelve years sober himself, to free Dennis of his suffering, to find him a band and give him a cause.
Hudson already knew Pedro from the juvenile system. The big half-Mexican kid had been in far more than his—or just about anyone’s—fair share of fights. But mostly against bullies and bigots. Pedro liked heavy music and was often caught using a fake ID not to get alcohol but to get into clubs where metal bands were playing, just to stand alone as near to the stage as he could get.
Hudson arranged a meeting between the boys and was gratified when they hit it off. Dennis gave Pedro a bass, and a very young Stuart taught him how to play it. Soon they were talking about forming a band.
McGlazer placed an ad for drummers and hosted tryouts at the church. Hudson stressed the importance of staying clean if they were serious about music. Jill displayed the most lethal combination of alt beauty and skins-bashing talent any two troubled young fellows could ever hope to see.
Initially, Hudson and McGlazer worried that the boys might fight over her. It was either a testament to their dedication as musicians or the fact that Jill unabashedly, uninhibitedly chose Dennis, that their worries were assuaged. Besides, Pedro had no trouble eliciting female interest, and being in a band would only magnify the effect.
In short time, they were a cohesive unit, with Dennis calling the shots when they played. But they were also closest friends, equal and inseparable away from the instruments, with Pedro and Jill forming a protective shell around the still-reeling Dennis.
It was no surprise that oily-but-mostly-harmless Kerwin Stuyvesant took an interest in managing them. Hudson had seen the report on the bar destroyed by the Outlines one winter night, heard how Stuyvesant smoothed over the trouble and took the Outlines under his managerial wing with just a few silky words.
It was less surprising that a record label would sniff them out.
* * * *
Mamalee put the finishing touches on Everett’s meal of baked potato, flayed and garnished, a healthy portion of the tender roast, barely solid at all, summer squash medallions, and, his favorite, a slice of pumpkin pie. She dabbed whipped cream onto the pie and placed two little chocolate chips on top to create a ghost. His pre-Halloween meals were always extra special. The boy would need a lot of energy.
Satisfied, she hummed a happy Halloween tune from one of Everett’s records as she set a large plastic spoon to the side and then covered the dish with a thin plastic cake cover. “Aloysius! Everett’s lunch is ready!”
She poured milk into a plastic child’s sippy cup, orange of course.
Aloysius was grim, as usual. “It smells like dinner, not lunch.”
“He’s getting big, Aloy. I read about growing boys. He’ll need lots of carbohydrates for his big night.”
“My God, how you spoil him,” Aloysius grumbled.
“Aloy.” She waxed serious. “He deserves to be spoiled in some way.”
“Yes?” Aloysius gestured toward the door, as they all did when discussing Everett. “And what do we do when he is grown?”
Mamalee answered, “He is grown, Aloy.”
Aloysius rubbed his face, then took the covered tray and the chain leash that hung beside the door.
* * * *
Aloysius glowered toward the orange-lit windows of the cement shed, allowing himself a plaintive huff for the many misfortunes of his life. He saw Bravo’s big paws crossed in repose and uncoiled the chain, whistling to wake him. But the huge paws retreated into the dusty dark of the doghouse.
“Come, boy! Stop this nonsense!” Aloysius tromped to the doghouse and reached in to grab the mastiff’s thick leather collar, balancing the tray in his other hand.
Bravo pulled back from him with his strong legs, whimpering.
“Damn your hide!” cursed Aloysius. “Worthless beast…”
Aloysius set the tray atop the doghouse and reached in with both hands to drag Bravo out. The dog resisted, very strong. “I’ll starve you if you don’t mind me, boy!”
Gritting his teeth, he heaved Bravo out, only to have the whining dog scoot away again. With great exertion, Aloysius hauled him from the house and whacked him with the slack of the chain, something he’d rarely done since the dog had reached maturity. “You will obey me, damn it all!”
Bravo sank to the ground in a peaceful protest that left Aloysius enraged. “Get…up, God damn it!”
He yanked at Bravo’s collar, causing the dog to whine. Aloysius felt guilty, fearing he had hurt his loyal pet. When he released the choke, Bravo took his chance. He darted away toward the forest.
Aloysius dashed after him a short distance—but the agile mastiff burrowed into the dense brush and disappeared.
Aloysius caught his breath and bellowed, “Get back here, you bastard!” He hurled the chain at the woods.
He knew that Bravo would not return, probably not ever. And how could anyone blame him? Aloysius would go and hunt for him later, with a helping of leftover roast as a peace offering. He needed to calm himself.
With a huff, he picked up the tray. He tromped to Everett’s shed, entering the tiny vestibule he had built onto the structure. He closed the exterior door behind him and knocked on the inner door. “Everett! Lunch!”
Scratchy notes from Bert Convy’s 1958 hit “Monster Hop” wafted at Aloysius under the door.
Aloysius became angry. “Everett! I have much to do!”
The door creaked open—another assault on Aloysius’s patience.
Everett stood there, a crisp, new, black construction paper eye mask stapled to his face, the heavy Dracula cape draped over his shoulders.
“Damn it!” Aloysius said. “You’ve stapled yourself again. You’re going to get another infection.” Aloysius reached to tear the mask away, but Everett took a quick step back.
Aloysius regarded him reproachfully. “You’re in costume a day early, I’m afraid.”
“So happy!” Everett croaked.
Aloysius would not break eye contact—though he wanted to. “You haven’t packed at all!”
“So happy!” answered Everett.
Aloysius grunted. “Come and take the food, boy.”
Everett took a step forward, but did not take the tray.
“Don’t try me today, Everett.”
Everett took the tray—then dropped it, his smile never wavering as it clattered and splattered food, startling Aloysius backward.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” bellowed the big patriarch. “Clumsy fool! Pick it up!”
Everett crouched, as if to obey. Aloysius did not see him draw from his waistband, hidden under the cape, a knife-shaped sliver of hard black vinyl—the once-beloved record of children’s Halloween favorites Everett had broken earlier that day.
With a huff, Aloysius smacked Everett on the top of the head. “I’m losing my pa—”
Everett rose to a stand, raising the black knife over his head.
Aloysius lunged for the doorknob. His hand was on it and turning—just as Everett drove the vinyl shard between his ribs.
Aloysius pushed the door open as he stumbled out face forward. “Leelee!” he cried. “Run away!”
Everett sliced through the flesh between the ribs of his father’s back, carving a slit all the way to his spine. He pulled the weapon out and stood over Aloysius, watching with fascination as blood dripped from the tip of the black knife.
As Aloysius rolled onto his back with an agonized moan, Everett snickered down at him. The demented man-child held up his finger, as if to say, Wait here, please, and went back into his shed.
Aloysius coughed blood, his punctured lungs failing him when he tried to scream another warning to Mamalee.
Everett returned, smiling as he showed his father a hand-sized construction paper crescent. Aloysius saw the vertical lines drawn on it and realized it was an oversized cartoon smile. In Everett’s other hand was his stapler.
Everett knelt and positioned the mask on Aloysius’s face, then mashed the stapler into it repeatedly. Aloysius’s weak efforts to stop him meant nothing to the strong, adrenaline-fueled teenager. Everett seemed to take pleasure in the paper smile, perhaps the only smile he had ever seen on his father’s face. “So happy!”
Satisfied, Everett stepped over his father, and left his shed.
Blood streamed from the edges of the mask to mingle with the growing puddle under Aloysius’s head.