cut through a backyard to the street where the big houses were, the ones with yards like parks behind iron fences.
Chuck’s house was on the first block of Maple Street. Omsted’s was at the end of the second, where the road ended in a field of bare, black trees whose thick branches stretched across the sky. The sun was setting and the sky behind the trees was orange, then yellow, then green.
“God, I hate winter,” Omsted said, looking up at the sky, his mouth tight.
Chuck said, “You think what Sister Brigitta said was true? About God remembering when it was our turn to die if we didn’t give up trick-or-treating for Evelyn tonight?”
“By the time I’m ready to die, God ain’t gonna remember who Evelyn was.” They kept walking towards the black trees and the orange-green sky.
When they got to Chuck’s house, Omsted stopped by the mailbox and said, “My brother’s not really gonna kill Putzie Van Vonderan tonight.”
“He’s gonna beat him up though, ain’t he?”
“He might.”
“Did Putzie do something?”
“He’s a farmer. He don’t have to do nothing.”
A crow cawed over their heads, disappeared among branches at the end of the road.
“He tried to say hello to my brother’s girlfriend yesterday.”
The crow cawed at them from the end of the block.
“It’d probably be better if you didn’t tell anybody.”
“What do I care if some farmer gets beat up?”
“You’re all right, squirt.” Omsted punched Chuck on the shoulder, said, “later,” and took off at a run.
Chuck yelled, “What time are you going there?”
Omsted turned around, walking backwards, and said, “Late.”
“I could go there with you.”
“You got trick-or-treating to do.”
“I ain’t going.”
“You better. Next year you’ll be too old.”
“I’m already—”
But Omsted yelled, “Save me some candy,” and ran off down the block.
That night when Chuck came out of his room with his trick-or-treat bag his mother pushed her hair back with a handful of dishwater and asked why he wasn’t wearing his pirate costume.
“It’s in my bag,” Chuck said. I’m putting it on at my friend’s house.”
Lizzie said, “He’s lying. He doesn’t have any friends.” His sister was sitting at the kitchen table gluing pink sparkles to the back of her hands to match her princess dress.
Chuck said, “What are you gonna be? A Christmas cookie?”
Chuck’s sister yelled to her mother that Chuck was making fun of her. Chuck said nobody needed to make fun of her, she was funny enough herself. Their mother told them both to shut up or they’d be doing their trick-or-treating in their rooms.
Chuck said, “I’m going,” but his mother yelled, “Wait a minute” before he got to the back door.
Chuck waited, pushing the door open with his foot.
His mother pulled a plate out of the sink and rinsed it. His sister rubbed glue on her forehead, closed her eyes, and threw sprinkles in her face. His mother put her hands back in the dish water.
“Halloween’s gonna be over in three hours, you know.”
“Stay away from Ontario Street.”
“I will.”
Lizzie said, “He will not. He’s going with Dale Lynkowski.” She closed her eyes and shook some of the sprinkles off her face.
Chuck said, “She’s spilling that stuff on the floor.”
Chuck’s mother turned her head, snapped at his sister that the house wasn’t a pigsty, then turned back to Chuck.
“I promised Dale a long time ago.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“He has to go with Dale,” Lizzie said. “All the guys up here think he’s a baby.”
Chuck said, “I’m going.”
He went out the back door, kicking the storm door open so it would slam behind him. His mother caught it before it closed, and gave him a hard stare.
“What?” Chuck said.
“You stay away from David’s house. His mother’s sick.”
“Like the whole town doesn’t know that.”
“And don’t take any candy from him either.”
“I know what cancer is.”
In the kitchen, his sister said, “He swore.” His mother turned and yelled at her to get the sparkles off the goddamn floor, and Chuck ran for the gate.
The moon was hiding at the edge of the sky when Chuck came out onto Maple Street. By the time he got to Legion Park it had climbed behind the trees, glowing orange, with clouds like black mountains behind it. At a white house with pillars across from the park, a fat guy in a tie was handing out candy to a crowd of kids. Chuck pulled his pirate mask out of his bag and ran up on the porch; the guy threw a purple Dum-Dum into his bag. Chuck ran back to the street, shoved his mask back in the bag, dug the Dum-Dum out, and walked down the hill sucking it.
A block further down, Rusch and Carner were waiting under a street light. Carner was holding onto a street sign with one hand, swinging around it in a slow circle. Rusch spotted Chuck and walked into the middle of the road to block his path. He pulled the Dum-Dum out of Chuck’s mouth by the stick and said, “Look who’s trick-or-treating.”
“I am not.”
Carner said, “Where’d you get the sucker then?”
“My ma’s giving ’em out.”
Carner came out into the road. “What about the trick-or-treat bag? She giving those out, too?”
Chuck said, “It’s a present—for Evelyn.”
Carner stepped behind Rusch.
Rusch said, “Bullshit.”
Carner said, “You don’t give presents to people with cancer.”
A warm hand clamped itself around Chuck’s mouth, and Omsted hollered, “You’re dead!” He spun
