Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,68
brown whip twisted around his fist.
“Are you shitting me with that thing?”
“What? It makes the costume more authentic.”
We walk down the center of the street for a while, looking for a house with the lights still on. The pavement is smooth and pale, nothing like the patch-riddled street I grew up on. Every house is huge and hulking, but crammed together with only slivers of plush, green grass between them.
When this place was first being built, my mom and Lucy used to drive through here every few weeks with me in the backseat. We watched as all the houses were built and each street added. I remember being in awe of the new street signs, like some virgin territory had been discovered and we were some of the first to visit it. I had no understanding of how small Clover City was, but, to me, this was where all the glamorous people lived. Movie stars, musicians, models. And back then, my mom was still glamorous to me. I thought the three of us would get our fancy house someday.
The first house we stop at is redbrick, with a huge bay window and a glowing chandelier visible from the street. Mitch rings the doorbell, and I stand half behind him. It’s late and whoever answers isn’t going to be thrilled to have two teenage kids at their doorstep.
No answer. Mitch rings again.
I start walking back down the sidewalk. “No one’s answering. Let’s go.”
“Wait!” says Mitch.
The door creaks open to reveal a woman in a bathrobe, with water dripping down her neck and her hair wrapped in a towel. She’s too old to be my mom, but not old enough to be my grandma. “Can I help you?”
Mitch holds his pillowcase out without hesitation. “Trick or treat!”
The woman looks like she’s woken up in a different time zone. “Oh.” She holds her wrist up to check the time, I guess, but there’s no watch there. “Right.”
She closes the door almost all the way, and returns moments later with a bowl of candy. Without hesitation, she dumps half the bowl into Mitch’s bag.
He nudges me forward, and, despite how foolish I feel, I open my pillowcase.
She pours out the remainder. I guess this lady figures if two high school kids have the balls to go trick-or-treating this late at night in the nicest neighborhood in town, we deserve some candy.
Bathrobe Lady pats her stomach. “I shouldn’t keep all this in the house anyway.”
Mitch tips his hat. “Gracias, señorita.”
As we’re walking down the pathway, he bumps into my shoulder. “See,” he says. “That was fun.”
Most of the houses we visit have reactions like Bathrobe Lady, don’t answer, or turn their lights off when they see us outside.
At one house, an old man in boxer shorts answers. His face is perpetually frowning with wrinkles so thick he could be melting. “Get outta here, ya damn hooligans!” he yells.
“Trick or treat!” says Mitch over the sound of a small dog yelping behind the man.
“Oh, I’ll trick ya.” The man opens the door fully to reveal a shotgun at his side. “I’mma whip y’all’s asses!”
Mitch grabs my hand. “Run, run, run!”
We haul it down the driveway and around the corner as the old man’s heckling laugh echoes behind us.
When we’re a safe distance away, I stop with my hands braced on my knees. We’re both heaving. “That. Crazy. Bastard.” I take a fresh gulp of air. “Could have killed us,” I say.
“Nah,” he says. “He wanted to scare us.”
I stand up straight, letting the muscles in my back stretch. “Mission accomplished.”
I hold up my bag of candy, much heavier than I ever expected it to be. “I think it’s time to call it quits.”
Mitch holds a finger up and winces a little. “One more house,” he says. “Please?”
Beneath the moonlight, he looks different. Almost mysterious. And maybe cute. A small laugh escapes me. “One house,” I say. “Choose wisely.”
He settles on a huge white house with a long driveway down at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Mitch rings the doorbell, and after a few minutes, an exhausted woman in a witch hat and a sweat suit answers the door. “Oh, darn,” she says before Mitch even has a chance to say trick or treat. “We ran out a little while ago.”
“Indiana Jones!” cries a boy in a pirate costume a few feet behind her. It’s a homemade costume. The kind pieced together with great attention to detail. “So cool!”
Mitch beams.
“It’s okay,” I say to the lady. “We’re just