Lettie
Mom came back with Zoe cradled in her arms. I’m beside myself with relief. I was expecting the same from my mom, but instead there’s a weightiness to her.
We check Zoe over, tail to nose. She’s perfectly fine, no injuries, no need for the vet, but Mom’s still not relaxed. Instead, she goes outside to speak with a police officer who’s been patrolling our street in preparation for the Halloween mayhem. After words are exchanged, the officer leaves his patrol car, heading for the woods behind Brooke’s house where Mom found Zoe.
Strange.
A few minutes later, the police officer emerges from the woods. He and Mom talk some more before he gets back in his patrol car and drives away.
“What’s going on?” I ask when Mom returns.
“Nothing,” she says. “I just thought I heard somebody in the woods, that’s all.”
“And? Was anybody there? Did someone try to dognap Zoe?”
“No … it’s fine,” Mom says, not sounding fine at all. “But I want you to stay out of those woods, okay?”
“Sure. Hanging out in the woods isn’t really my thing, anyway,” I say.
Mom goes up to her room, telling me she has to lie down. These days that usually means “pass out,” but she doesn’t seem even a little tipsy.
I haven’t said anything to my mother about her drinking. Usually it’s the other way around—parents lecturing their teens—so I’m not really sure how to broach the subject. I haven’t talked to my father about Mom’s “Wine Time,” either. We barely speak as it is.
All those cute Wine Mom memes littering the internet don’t help.
Wine—Because Yoga Can’t Fix Everything.
A Day Without Wine Is Like … I Have No Idea.
I get that drinking makes things seem better, but maybe it’s not so great for a marriage. Even from downstairs, I can hear Mom talking to Dad on the phone. Her tone is tense. Maybe Dad’s blaming Mom’s drinking for losing Zoe. Maybe they’re headed for divorce. I’ve been preparing for that possibility for the past year now. She and Dad aren’t fighting, at least not the screaming kind of fights you see in movies that feature drunken moms, but there’s clearly tension between them. Divorce would suck for sure, but then again, I’ll be gone and it will be their problem more than mine.
Two minutes after six o’clock, the official start of the trick-or-treating window, the first batch of kids arrive dressed as Spider-Man and Harry Potter. Mom is still upstairs, so I have to dole out the candy. Cars ferrying the costumed rug rats to Alton Road line our street like a funeral procession.
An hour of Halloween passes uneventfully until, through the open door, I hear an angry shout. The cry shatters the night’s relative quiet.
Mom comes downstairs, looking startled. “Did you hear that?” she asks.
I step outside into the crisp fall night. Mom follows.
It’s too dark to see much beyond our front walk. I search for the patrol car, but go figure—when you need help, it’s not around. And the loud shout we hear sounds like trouble.
“Get the hell out of here!” The voice belongs to my uncle Ken.
My mom races ahead. There’s a mob of people, maybe ten in total, gathered at the end of Uncle Ken’s driveway.
A wall of bodies blocks my view, but I can hear Ken shouting angrily at someone who’s shouting back. I don’t recognize the other man’s high-pitched, nasal voice.
“It’s a free country, dude,” this mystery person says.
Mom’s peering over someone’s shoulder to get a better look.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
A glow of blinking lights rises up from the center of the circle.
“I told you to get off my property,” Ken demands.
“Technically, I’m not on your property,” replies the man with the nasally voice. “I’m on a public road, paid for by tax dollars.”
I finally break through the group of onlookers to get my first good look at the individual confronting my uncle. He’s tall and thin, dressed in what I initially think is a green costume, but it’s really a jumpsuit, a work uniform. He’s decorated his uniform with all sorts of LED lights and glow sticks. The lights blink at a variety of speeds, and with different colors, too, mostly reds and blues. He looks like he dressed as a police car for Halloween.
“Oh my god,” groans Mom. “It’s the Bug Man.”
Inwardly, I groan, too.
Everyone in Meadowbrook knows the Bug Man, and pretty much everyone can’t stand him. I’m on the community page, so I’ve seen the complaints. Some of them are pretty damn funny, but apparently they weren’t exaggerations. The Bug Man really is a pest.
The neon-lit Bug Man says, “Why don’t you kick these people off your street, too? I’m dressed for Halloween like they are. I’m handing out candy, too. Here you go, kids. Have some candy!”
Bug Man stuffs flyers from the stack of papers he’s holding into the candy bags of the children who are surrounding him. It looks like there’s a Tootsie Roll Mini taped to each flyer, and now I get that this whole thing is a super lame promotional stunt.
I don’t know why parents and kids are sticking around. Perhaps they think it’s a silly Halloween skit, and the candy flyers and angry Ken are part of the routine, and they just want to know how it’s going to play out.
Judging by the look on my uncle’s face, I’d say it’s not going to end well at all.
“You need to take your obnoxious sales tactics somewhere else,” Ken insists.
Bug Man pretends to check a watch he’s not wearing. “There’s at least another hour of trick-or-treating,” he says. “This street is fair game, so mind your own business, man.”
“Fair game, my ass!” Uncle Ken yells.
The parents finally snap to their senses and pull their children away. Smart move.
“Tonight is for kids to trick-or-treat, not market your damn DDT services.”
“DDT is a banned pesticide,” Bug Man says calmly. “We use all-natural insecticide oils. I have literature on it if you’d like to know more.” He offers Uncle Ken one of his candy flyers.
Ken snatches it from Bug Man, crumpling the paper into a little ball that he then tosses onto the ground.
Looking quite pleased with himself, Bug Man turns his back to Ken and waits for more trick-or-treaters to come by—which they do in short order because this is Alton Road, the greatest street in Meadowbrook for snagging candy. Soon enough, glowing Bug Man places his flyers into bags belonging to a lion, a witch, and maybe a zombie (kind of hard to tell, but definitely a gory outfit).
“Happy Halloween,” Bug Man says loudly.
“Thank you,” say the kids, and off they go, up Ken’s driveway to get even more candy.
Uncle Ken storms into his house, and Mom follows. They’re talking, but I stay back, mesmerized by the blinking Bug Man.
“Want a flyer?” he asks me. “Tell your parents about our winter special. Twenty percent off with the purchase of four or more treatments.”
“Sure,” I say.
He hands me the flyer.
I peel off the Tootsie Roll and pop the candy into my mouth. “Not sure this is the best way to get business,” I suggest while chewing.
He smiles at me like he knows I’m right.
“The flyers get tossed out, but the parents remember the company name. Happy Halloween from D&M Pest!”
Bug Man stuffs a flyer into the orange plastic pumpkin of a passing three-year-old dressed as a bumblebee. The bee’s mom reminds her daughter to say thank you.
Movement behind Bug Man catches my eye. Uncle Ken is flying down his driveway, with Mom and Aunt Emily trailing close behind. Mom looks anxious and Aunt Emily appears downright panicked.
“Ken, please, stop,” Aunt Emily pleads. She grabs hold of Ken’s shirt from behind, but he yanks himself free.
When he reaches the end of the driveway, I see the source of everyone’s distress.
Uncle Ken has strapped a handgun to his waist. He goes right over to Bug Man with his hands on his hips, like an Old West sheriff.
Bug Man notices the weapon. “Whoa, packing heat for the kids?” he says. “That’s quite the treat, man.”
“Get out of here,” Ken says.
Aunt Emily tries again to pull Ken away. At least he’s keeping his gun in its holster.
“Ken, stop it. You shouldn’t bring your handgun out here,” Emily scolds him, and rightly so.
“Why?” Ken keeps his eyes locked on Bug Man, sending him a hard stare designed to intimidate. “I have a license to open carry. I’m not breaking the law.”
“Neither am I,” says Bug Man.
“I’m calling the police,” I hear my mom say.
“Don’t bother.”
The voice, a new one, low and menacing, comes out of the dark. A moment later, I see Evan Thompson step into the glow of Bug Man’s blinking lights. Willow’s there, too, but keeping her distance.
Evan stands tall. His hair is a little disheveled, muscles of his face tight. He approaches with a confident swagger, getting right into Bug Man’s personal space.
Aunt Emily stops protesting. Everything becomes quiet and still. The parents know to redirect their kids away from us. Ken may have the gun, but it’s Evan who has command.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Evan tells Bug Man. His words come out in a growl.
“I’ll tell you what I told Wyatt Earp,” says Bug Man, pointing at Ken. “It’s a free country, so I’m staying put.” He places his hands on his hips in a defiant pose.
Evan moves closer to Bug Man. His gaze burns a hole into me, and I’m not the one he’s staring down. I’ve never seen this side of Riley’s dad before. There’s something quite intimidating about him. He’s like a human Jenga tower—just barely keeping it together. If one critical block is moved out of place, I can see him coming down with a crash.
“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear,” Evan says in his most threatening voice yet. “We’re all sick of you. So I’ll say it again—get out of here. Now.”
Behind us a new crowd has formed. Once again, curiosity has overruled better judgment, and people can’t help but watch.
“I don’t think I’ll go,” Bug Man says, looking rather smug.
Evan gets close enough to kiss Bug Man, but obviously that’s not what he has in mind.
“Do you know what it’s like to snap?” Evan asks. “I mean, when you just lose it? Go nuts? I’m talking a temporary insanity kind of snap?”
Bug Man says nothing.
“Well, I do,” continues Evan. “It’s happened to me before. Your mind goes kinda blank. Suddenly you don’t care about anything. You just let it all go. Everything you’ve been bottling up, out it comes in one violent action. And when it’s happening, you feel nothing but … euphoria. You’ve been desperate for this kind of release for so long. Then … the fog lifts, and that’s when the regret kicks in. You see the damage you’ve caused, how you left the other person a bloody mess, like … roadkill. Unrecognizable. You feel sick to your stomach, but you can’t do anything about it. You can’t change the past. So you live with the consequences, and life goes on.”
My jaw hangs open during this monologue. I’ve never heard anyone speak this way.
Bug Man must think the same, because he doesn’t have that cocky look in his eyes anymore. It’s so quiet we can hear wind rustling the leaves of nearby trees.
“Are you threatening me?” asks Bug Man, finding his voice.
“No,” Evan says, dead calm. “At this point I’m begging you to stay right where you are and try, just try, to stick another one of your stupid-ass flyers in some kid’s candy bag. Go for it.”
Bug Man shifts his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He gives Evan an appraising look, making his final judgment.
“Okay, okay, man,” says Bug Man. “I get you. I’m going. No need to get all wacko on me.” He picks up his satchel full of flyers, slings it over his shoulder.
We watch him walk away, blinking as he goes.
Evan says nothing. His expression remains fierce. Looking at him, I feel a chill that makes my heart beat faster. In a night full of spooks, there’s no question he’s scariest of them all.