Barbara doesn’t want Donna to come around the houses with them when she and Irene are trick or treating. In fact, she’d prefer Donna to wait at the bottom of the road, as if she wasn’t there at all and the girls were flying solo, like the teens Barbara thinks they are. But Barbara is still only eleven (‘I’ll be twelve in March, actually’) and in any case, there’s Irene to consider. Irene, who competes pretty much at the same level as her elder sister for most of the day (if not remotely interested in boys or babies or the great wide world of sex which Barbara set herself the task of exploring and charting from the precocious age of about six). Irene, who you’d only know was the younger around half nine at night (while Barbara is campaigning to stay up as late as possible, Irene quietly finds her pajamas and curls up in bed, happy another day is done). Irene, who sometimes appears at Donna’s side at five or six in the morning and snuggles in like a toddler with bad dreams, thumb hovering within reach of her mouth, still anxious, still the little pet. Irene would like Donna to come up to the doorsteps with them, just in case.
So the compromise is reached: Donna will wait on the sidewalk or in the driveway of each house, as long as she is in full view.
‘It’s either that or we go home, Barbara,’ Donna says, and after a spasm of eye-rolling, Barbara concedes.
‘All right, fine.’
There has already been sulking because the walk along the lakeside splashed mud all over the girls’ Ugg boots, and while Irene didn’t seem to mind, Barbara was outraged, as if muddy boots were yet another infernal adult scheme to thwart her. Donna is amused to note that they are both now armed with heavy sticks which they found on the walk and refuse to relinquish:
Irene: They’d be good for beating away werewolves, or zombies.
Barbara: Or boys.
The houses in Ripley Fields are mostly basic ranches and split-levels, peppered with a scattering of larger dwellings: Neo-Tudor, Neo-Colonial, Neo-Victorian. ‘A great place to raise the kids’ is what everyone says, and Donna has to agree: tonight, the wide tree-lined streets of the estate are swarming with pint-sized witches and wizards, goblins and ghosts and ghouls, some bustling around like Barbara, some hanging back like Irene, their parents either shadowing them like a security detail or hanging back to give them a taste of freedom. There are only about a thousand people in the entire village, so as aloof as Donna has always tried to hold herself, she is inevitably waylaid by this gallery owner or that hairdresser, keen to know who the vampire and the kitty-kat are.
‘My nieces,’ Donna says, dodging the invitation to explain any further, the girls an excuse to smile and nod and move on. She is spooked a little, by the wolf sighting earlier, by the crackle of fireworks and the piercing squeals of so many jubilant children, high on the prospect of gorging themselves on unfeasible portions of candy. Mostly though, she’s spooked by the news item she saw before they left the house, while the girls pulled their costumes on and jabbered about Halloween, the news item featuring the dead man in Danny and Claire’s backyard, the dead dog, the Be On The Lookout Alert for Danny, the mention of the girls. Donna called Danny’s number immediately and shouted at his voicemail, tried Claire but couldn’t reach her, then had to make a quick decision on whether to rescind trick or treating on security grounds, and found she simply couldn’t.
But she is walking slow and watchful, and if Irene hadn’t insisted, she’d be on the girls anyway, like a whatdoyoucallit, helicopter mom. On the plus side, it’s Cambridge, where the local paper is full of school sports reports and chamber of commerce press releases and sponsored columns from the local dentist and veterinary surgeon and the murder of that real estate agent a few years back was a total one-off. It’s a great place to raise your kids, Donna actually mouths to herself. On the minus side, so is fucking Madison, so what the hell is a dead body doing in the backyard on Arboretum Avenue? Oh my God, little brother, what have you got yourself into?
Yes, Donna is walking slow and watchful, her hands in the pockets of her Patagonia fleece, her glossy red clutch with her glossy black Glock within reach of her left hand, and she clocks each parent with interest: one of the barmen at Andrew’s Bar, the guy from the motor shop, Patricia and Pam from The Gingerbread House. There are some she doesn’t recognize, the bunch of teenage guys who look like they’re looking for trouble but wouldn’t know what to do with it if they found it, or the sexy redhead with the guy in the Badgers hat, who are probably on their way home from work and could care less if it’s Halloween or not. Not everyone has kids, after all.
Donna’s favorite moment of the evening so far:
A huge, gloomy Neo-Tudor other kids have avoided. Barbara, either oblivious, or reckless, possibly (usually) both, forges ahead, Irene, glancing over her shoulder at Donna, follows. The big old door opens, and a grumpy old guy (there’s always one) appears.
‘What are you supposed to be?’ he barks at Barbara.
‘Vampire,’ she says in a low voice, poor Babs knocked off course, suddenly deflated, cowed by the old buzzard, Donna wants to march up and smash his mean old face in.
‘What’s that? Can’t hear ya.’
‘Vampire!’ Barbara yells, irritation conquering her fears. Good girl yourself, a Brogan through and through, Donna grins.
‘All right then,’ the grumpy old guy (GOG) grunts, and tips a bunch of candy into Barbara’s skull and crossbones tote bag. He turns to Irene, and immediately starts to shake his head.
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘No, you’re not even wearing a Halloween costume.’
‘Yes, I am,’ says Irene firmly, who is reluctant to get involved, but committed once she is.
‘You’re wearing cat’s ears and a little mask and a fur suit and a tail,’ the GOG snarls.
‘That’s ’cause I’m a kitty-kat,’ trills Irene.
The GOG, who Donna is beginning to find kind of funny in a weird way, folds his arms above his huge belly and shakes his bearded head.
‘Kitty-kats are not Halloween critters,’ he says, like it’s the verdict in a trial, and Donna nearly giggles.
‘Hey!’ says Barbara, outraged on her sister’s behalf.
‘It’s OK,’ Irene says. ‘Kitty-kats are too. In ancient Egypt, a Roman soldier killed a cat, and the people of the Nile were furious and killed him, because they saw in the cat the Goddess Bast, who is goddess of the moon. And the goddess of the moon is also the goddess of Halloween. And that’s why I’m a kitty-kat.’
The GOG is momentarily silenced by this.
‘So? Trick or Treat? Where’s her stuff?’ Barbara says, and the GOG shrugs and tips candy into Irene’s tote.
‘Hey,’ he says, as the girls are turning to go. ‘Was any of that true?’
‘Some of it,’ Irene says.
‘Which bits?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Barbara says.
‘It’s stuff only we know about,’ Irene says.
‘You? Who are you?’ the GOG says.
Barbara has almost caught up to Donna now. She waits for Irene and then turns back to the GOG, framed in the gloom of his doorway.
‘Who are we?’ Barbara says, as a rocket whooshes through the sky overhead, red sparks trailing in its wake, and Irene turns to her sister, on point.
‘Who are we? We’re the Brogan sisters.’