The First Part Christopher is content inside his costume. The cufflinks are a bit heavy and the hat a tad large, but the weather outside is friendly. Some years, he waddles around entombed in a sauna, sure that when he disrobes, he will be mummified, and his internal organs, dust. Other years he freezes harder than a Minnesota “R”. “Da weather can change in a heartbeat ‘round here” the salesperson, Mr. McCafferty, had said, adding “Any part left to the elements is fair game. Yer ma ‘n da know best. Listen to ‘em”. McCafferty speaks with a thick Northern Irish dialect. When Christopher and his parents visit the rented space each year, his parents chat briefly with McCafferty, occasionally having to lean in, as though the proximity makes the brogue thinner to the ear. He then goes in the back and returns with a plastic garbage bag containing the costume. When Christopher was 8, he asked his parents “Why don’t I get to choose what I wear?” “Is there something about the costumes we choose that upsets you? If so, how then can we make things better for you?” they responded. They had a point, because, truth be told, aside from an occasional poor fit, the costumes are imaginative. This year Christopher is wearing a baggy, Tennessee Williams get-up. This past July he had seen the DVD of Blythe Danner in “Eccentricities of a Nightingale” and he became enchanted with her. “She has a quality that caresses my spirit with alabaster smoke” Christopher told his parents. He began to read Williams’ work. When he wrote an essay on “Tennessee Williams and The Blythe Danner Effect” for his 8th grade literature class, the instructor, Mr. Lundquist, gave him high marks. So the William’s ensemble comes as no surprise. He had recognized a pattern in his parents Halloween choices at an early age. When he was 7, he saw a picture of the Himalayas in a gas station. He asked Dotty how tall they were. When she told him, he said “Wow! I bet it would be neat to be on top of that.” He spent the better part of that summer online and in the library doing research about the Himalayas, mountain climbing, and the dietary necessities of scaling massive peaks. His interest dissipated gradually, as young lads interests are want to do, but it still intrigued him. Just enough, it seems, that when the time came for Halloween costuming, his parents presented him with a credible recreation of the clothing worn by Tenzig Norgay when he first conquered Mt. Everest. Wally explained the rationale thusly: “Tenzing aspired to the highest point in his world. As he himself said ‘For in my heart I needed to go. The pull of Everest was stronger for me than any force on earth.’ He had a spiritual bond with the mountain. Edmund Hillary was a tourist.” When he was age 8, he hung around the kitchen, watching his parents cook. That Halloween, he went as Escoffier. Age 9, when he experimented with his Dad’s old Stratocaster, Stevie Ray Vaughn. Yes, his parents wanted what was best for him, but they had... “Are you ready to go, honey?” Dotty asks, rousing Christopher from his wool-gathering as he walks down the stairs of his two-story house into the parlor off the entry way. He stops on the bottom step and says “Why, I believe I have never been more ready for one thing in my whole life as for this precise moment in history.” He and his Mother laugh. Wally comes in from the kitchen where he is making his famous caramel apples. They are very popular and this popularity rubs off on Christopher for weeks afterward at school. “Would you care for a preview?” Wally says, holding out an apple. “Why, your kindness is as sweet as your offering, kind friend, but these, why, these gems, should be savored by others less fortunate. By that, I mean those not blessed with such a Father as you.” Christopher says. Dotty and Wally glance at one another. They think “Maybe this is the year. Please let it be this year. Only one more year, then the crapshoot begins.” Wally says “Sir, the hour grows dark, and others are about, gathering all the very best confections offered by our neighbors. We should away.” “I’ll get my wrap” Dotty says “You boys tend to last minute details.” Dotty goes to the closet to get her shawl. As she passes by an open window, she is met by a smell: the moist, autumnal odor of earth preparing to sleep. She smiles because it means they’re active tonight. She and Wally have plotted out a route to maximize contact with them. Other parents have done the same and Dotty looks forward to the meeting afterward at the Perkins Steak and Cake to talk about everyone’s encounters, and did they think a “meeting” took place. She decides that regardless of the outcome of tonight’s wanderings, she is going to have a cheeseburger. With onion and that spicy mustard. Wally and Christopher come back from the kitchen with two trays of caramel apples. “Do you think we should just keep them on the tray, or... should we do what we did last year?” Wally asks them. “I think we can go one more year with it” Dotty says, “But just the once more.” “I’ll set Cromwell up” Christopher says as he runs out the door to the porch. He grabs the scarecrow mannequin and bends him into a position on his hands and knees, his back arched up. He opens Cromwell’s mouth into an oval shape, and pinches his eyes so that they look squinty. When he is done, it appears he is, as Dotty so quaintly calls it, “losing his lunch” onto the rocking chair. Wally and Dotty place the apples in a large Tupperware bowl on the seat of the chair in front of Cromwell. They scatter a few around the bowl, and some on the porch, knowing that rarely does the term “nothing but net” apply to vomiting. “Next year, we should have him crap the apples. What do you guys think?” says Wally. “Father, I believe the citizens hereabouts would be honored to consume one of your auburn treasures even if said treasures were shat by lepers.” Christopher says. Turning to Dotty, he says “Mother, I believe you would agree with that summation.” “I would, and do” she says, “Let us away.” She takes Wally’s hand tightly. He squeezes hers. They make a silent prayer and walk down the stairs of the porch. Christopher trails behind them. On the sidewalk are other children followed by other parents. Christopher sees a group of friends in front of his neighbor’s house. “Mother? Father? May I greet my companions before we embark?” Christopher says gesturing with his cigarette holder. “Go then, child, see to your little friends. Your Father and I have matters to discuss” says Dotty. Christopher strolls over to the group. Dotty and Wally make note of their costumes: a Daniel Webster, four Jim Thorpe’s, two Voltaire’s, a Nureyev, a Thelonius Monk, an Einstein (“God, could you be more cliché?” whispers Wally), and a Julia Child, which Dotty sees as an unfortunate but pleasant addition. “No Ghandi’s this year” says Wally. “The weather reports didn’t bode well for the scantily- clad, or the underfed.” says Dotty. They move closer together. Dotty takes a piece of paper out of her fanny-pack. “Well, I guess we should start with the library. Then the Vroman’s, Barnes and Nobles, The Read It And...,” “Let’s go by the gun store. Southerners like hunting, don’t they? And maybe the gift store? They have an excellent collection of glass objects. Also, let’s try the shoe store, the pen store, and the psychiatric hospital. It never hurts to expand one’s parameters, especially where children are concerned.” Wally says. “Okay, Mr. Cover-His-Bases,” Dotty chuckles, “We can go by the shoe store and the drug store, just in case. I’m not so sure about the gun store though. Southerners do like to hunt, but they also like fishing, driving in circles, alcohol,...” “Yes. That’s it! That’s where we have to go as well. The liquor store. We’ll do that instead of the gun store, okay? Okay?” Wally sort of pleads. “Not the aspect I was looking for, but you’re probably right.” Dotty folds up the paper and puts it back in the pack. “Let’s get going. The longer we’re out the better our chances. Christopher? Honey, let’s go. We have miles to go before we sleep.” Wally puts his hands on her shoulders. “Whatever happens tonight, we are still a family.” “That goes without saying, but thank you for saying it anyway.” Christopher walks back. “‘Miles to go’? Robert Frost? Mother, please.” The three of them hold hands and begin walking. The Second Part Four hours later, Christopher is in the middle of the town square, sitting on the bench where his Uncle used to sit before he was sent to prison. He stands up. There is no one in sight. The night is perfectly clear. “Is there room next to you for a tired man?” The voice comes from Christopher’s left. He turns to see...wait, this isn’t right. He looks again. “What is happening here?” he thinks, “That is not the one my parents wanted. I gave that McCafferty bastard $200.00 on top of my parent’s offer just so something like this wouldn’t happen.” “I’ll take year money, young Jack, but I’ll not guarantee the result” McCafferty had said, “I can only say that I’ll try a wee bit harder to sew a wee bit better.”. “You’ll take my money and you’ll sew like the stitches are the only thing holding your soul above the bowels of Hell” Christopher warned “or I will return and claim it myself.” “Listen here, young Ja...” “My name is Christopher, potato-fucker, and for 6 years my parents have been buying into you and your bullshit Irish Samhain stories. ‘Oh, the souls of the departed wander the earth, looking for another soul to touch, another home in which to find safe harbor” Christopher says in a “Lucky Charms” Irish dialect, further irritating McCafferty, “All their skills and gifts will dwell therein as long as breath is drawn.’.” Christopher moved in closer, “This year it works or we have a problem, you and I. Understood?” Christopher spoke with a conviction far beyond his years. He loves his parents. Their happiness is important. More important than the life of some bog-slogging, rheumy-eyed charlatan preying on the hopes of pathetically desperate parents. That’s why when Christopher turned around on the park bench and saw a silvery wisp that resembled not Tennessee Williams, but Ernest Hemingway, he saw the resolution to the “McCafferty Equation” as he and the other children called it. No more “creative costume optioning”. No more “wee lads and ladies makin’ the most of middling lives”. They could get back to a normal Halloween: candy, spooks, black cats, and, oh yeah, the fucking candy. “There is always room for you” says Christopher, “Come sit down.” “I’m a spirit, boy, we don’t sit. We...kind of float.” the spirit says. They are silent for a small time. Then: “My parents wanted Tennessee Williams for me. My Mother, actually.” “Good writer for a queer. His woman had balls.” Another silence then: “How does this work?” Christopher says, “Do you touch me? What?” “I’m not Jesus, boy, and you’re not a leper. We pass by each other, and there you go. Whatever it is that happens, happens.” “What happens to you then?” I get some “young”, stay around a while. Eventually I get to dissipate into...ah, fuck all if I know.” “The shortest answer is doing the thing.” Christopher says, quoting Papa. “Thanks for that. Let’s ‘do the thing’ then.” Christopher stands and moves away from the bench. The incorporeal thing that was Ernest Hemingway crosses in front. Then... The Third and Final Thing McCafferty is never heard from again. Christopher becomes adept at hunting, fishing, and wins a few state sponsored writing contests. “He shows a maturity for his age” was the common phrase from the judges. Years later someone finds McCafferty’s wallet in a bundle of rags, under a rock, along with some bones that the authorities assumed were McCafferty’s remains. The back of the neck had been severed. The pathologist, a well-traveled woman who gives great Halloween treats every year, says it looks like “the type of wound found on bulls after the matador ‘introduces’ the sword for the kill. Odd.” And the children again enjoy a choice of costume.