“Ah, yes, your neon green smock! What every mad scientist’s victim needs.”
Kelly, who directs community programs at Rhett Avenue Christian, appraises me with a nod as I hold up my Krispy Kreme uniform. She calls over her shoulder to Tim and one of many church members setting up long tables in the fellowship hall, “Guys, move it more to the left. That space is reserved for the graveyard walkway and zombie chamber.”
Kelly sets me to work with an older woman stringing cottony spider webs and applying strategic plastic spiders. “All right, everybody!” she calls, an hour before showtime. “Get your rears in gear. We want those kiddos choosing our haunted house over the Baptist’s trick-or-treat ghoulie down the block!”
Face-up on one of the arranged tables, I wear black pants, my smock, and a latex mask with a doltish expression. Kelly in a lab coat and safety goggles cackles above my head, reaching into a bag beneath the table for “brains” every time another burst arrives from the parade of Charleston children enjoying our display.
Through the mask’s eye openings black light and the occasional strobe effect pattern the ceiling. Organ music reams the building – a different sort than on Sunday mornings. I think it might have been more fun jumping out beside Tim from a dark corner whenever kids came through. At least here I can breathe deeply, moaning from time to time as Kelly lifts plastic-wrapped sausages off my gut area and shouts, “We’re dying to operate on you children, too!”
Everything is transformed again for the morning service after Halloween. Tim and I take our places in the choir loft, seats enclosed by a wooden half-partition, across from Reverend Scott’s pulpit. I’m an alto; Tim’s in the bass section. Our director, Mrs. John, gestures vehemently at the men so they’ll remember to sing out and try to match the strength of women’s quavering voices in the front row.
In brilliant sunshine we greet people outside the sanctuary after noon. My stomach is a snare drum reverberating hunger. Mr. Bentier approaches as my dress billows. Smiling, he takes my hand. I smile-grimace at Tim, who reaches out with his. Mr. Bentier gives me a briefer squeeze than his usual at the doughnut shop. He shakes with Tim.
“This woman is special. You need to take good care of her,” he says at high volume.
Tim says, “Yes.” He finishes the pleasantries, doesn’t look my way.
Mr. Bentier shuffles on toward a middle-aged woman, whose hand he grasps, smiling broadly.
“I want to know what you were thinking,” I say at home, after supper. Tim crouches on the carpet, sorting cassette tapes from rectangular cases that hold his music for listening to in the car. I’ve been lying on my stomach near him, reading an article in Cosmopolitan.
“Hn?” Tim’s back is to me.
“What did you think when Mr. Bentier said I’m wonderful, or however he put it.”
Tim continues sorting.
“I mean,” I say, “you sounded like you agreed with him, and I wouldn’t mind hearing it from you once in a while.”
“Oh.” Tim lifts a tall stack of cassettes carefully, almost lovingly, and sets them up on the stereo.
“Well?” I say.
“Well, what?”
I stand up, sighing loudly. “Never mind.” I start for the kitchen, but Tim has his gaze on me at last so I stop.
“What is the problem?” Irritation might lurk at the back of his throat.
“Could we take more time to spend doing things…together?”
Puzzlement is his expression.
“So, I know we’re together right now. But I feel like you’re far away. So many nights you’re really gone, and when you’re around I’d like you to focus on me.”
He sets the cassette holder back on the shelf. “What you need,” Tim says, “is to get out and make girlfriends.”
Emotion jabs, dissecting my midsection like a wafted spear. I sink near the sofa, my face away from this man, this unfathomable creature I’ve joined my life with. He can’t mean what he uttered. If he does, I’m the freak in his mind, a woman who can’t find buddies. I’m a clinging fool to him, a misfit.
He’s noticed the tears spilling over and has moved closer, the stereotypical male confused by a hysterical woman. I jump up, go in the kitchen, and slam dishes. A perfectly domestic response.
“How ‘bout I drive the Mustang tomorrow. Need to change the oil,” Tim tells me later, in bed, where I huddle on a corner of the mattress. He makes eye contact, reaches to caress my shoulder. His apology for the unknown offense.
I recall the Bible verse that says, “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger.” I reacted stupidly, and I wish I could change it. Awkwardly I reach for him, too. “You,” I say. “You’re—so—doggone…” Playfully I poke his chest, clavicle, temple. Oops.
“Ow!”
I’ve poked Tim in the eye. “Sorry, sorry.” I rise to my knees, hover.
He grasps his face, glares at me from the other eye.
“Bleh,” I say, dropping to my pillow, turning my head.
“I think I’ll live,” Tim says. “But could you stop trying to blind me?”
The next day he stops in at Krispy Kreme. I’m surprised to see him; I’m behind with customers. Things might be going south here, like they did at Louie’s restaurant, and now my husband needs to tell me something.
“I was out on North Charleston Avenue, and the engine made a huge CRACK!”
I glance over at customers. The cool-lipped man who drinks black coffee offers a bemused grin. “Hubby’s here,” he remarks to Alice, who’s resetting the coffee pot and jerking her head so I’ll know to get over there quick.
“You’re okay?” I say to Tim.
“Yeah, but I think a valve or something broke in the Mustang. Had to call a tow truck, and now Dillman from the sub is driving me in. They’ll tow the car to the auto hobby shop; I’ll see what I can do with it tomorrow. But you’ll have to pick me up after duty.”
I nod, try to give him an encouraging, sympathetic look, and rush back to hand a woman two chocolate cake doughnuts.
I hate to think what towing costs.
“Young lady, more coffee here!”
Anyway, no time to worry.
After work Alice pauses beside me at the shop exit. “Try to move faster, Deanna.” She’s serious but kind. “You’re holding things up, and starting tomorrow you’ll be out front alone a lot while I work in back with Pat on that huge order.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
My shoulders sag as I trudge from the Falcon up the steps to our door. Fumbling in my purse, the truth dawns. I left my front door key on the Mustang’s keyring, so Tim, on duty in the rear of the submarine, has my way inside tucked snug in his jeans pocket.
Though briefly the notion of tossing my purse over the roof while screeching like an orangutan sounds good, I settle for going next door.
Mrs. Painter, despite her grief-stricken status, is as always willing to help.
I explain. “I have my back door key with me. But our dang alarm is hooked to that door, so I really don’t want to open it. Do you have any ideas as far as breaking in a window goes?”
“Hm, let’s go look,” she says.
Our windows are louvered jobs that open outward as you wind a crank. The two of us examine them. We find no method we can fathom for lifting off a single pane.
“Not even Tina could wriggle through that space,” concludes Mrs. Painter. “And you don’t want to break anything when you don’t ha
ve to. You’re welcome to spend the night with us, of course.”
“Thanks, but I’m a mess. I need my clean smock for the morning. Anyway…” I’m amazed by this woman, in her situation, offering to treat me as a guest. “I just have to open the other door. Go home and plug your ears.”
“Maybe I can help you turn off the alarm.”
We both take deep breaths before I pull the back door toward me. Our fire-siren bell rings out lustily. I dash in and grab the stool from near the washer. Tim hooked this alarm disc above the door; I reach high for it, releasing its chain. “Can’t pull it off the wall,” I shout to Mrs. Painter.
“How long does it run?” she asks.
“Don’t know. Long time.” I twist and strain, attempting to turn back the wound part and reset it. Brrrriiiiiinnnnngggggg. It’s stubborn. The phone rings, a dissonant tone to our main feature.
Tim. He’s called to tell me details about the Mustang’s shattered engine. Regarding the alarm resounding in the background he says, “You should have crawled in a window.”
Now I know why people say damn.
I take pity on Mrs. Painter and follow her suggestion to wait at her house till it’s over. I’d rather keep trying to stop this, flapping my wings and bleating at the ceiling.
Tina arrives from school saying, “Mama, there’s a god awful noise…”
My tears leak. I swipe with my palms, annoyed that I’m becoming a huge baby. As a high-schooler I rarely cried. Maybe it’s hormones—the birth control pills.
But Tina grins. And her mama puts a hand on my shoulder, and suddenly we’re embracing, Tina, too. The alarm keeps ringing next door.
