Department of First Stories

Head Start
by Kai Lovelace

It’s true, I can show you the newspaper clipping. It happened fall of nineteen seventy-three, fourth grade at Northwood Elementary. It’s funny, my photos of the old house on Camden Road don’t match my memories. The second-floor banister overlooking the stairs stretched to the horizon when I’d balance my G.I. Joes on it, crisp scent of Pine-Sol and Dad’s typewriter clacking away from his study down the hall, but in the faded Polaroid of Mom and Aunt Jenny you can see it’s five, six feet tops. Distances are gargantuan to a kid, of space and time. Eons had passed since the previous year when the cops showed up at the Davidsons’ next door.

The autumn used to grip me in a somber burnt-orange mood with giddy undertones of sinister magic. There were more scary movies on TV that I’d catch on the sly after school and on weekends. But it was Dad’s old comics that really terrified me late at night, under the blankets with a flashlight and a tattered Vault of Horror. One cover is seared into my brain forever: a close-up face of a hanged corpse, double white orbs snaked with red veins rolled up in loose sockets, foam at the mouth and the neck bent wrong, bone pressing against skin like fingers through fabric where the frayed noose cut flesh. Definitely had a nightmare or two from that one, but pretty soon I was desensitized. Then I was the one springing panels on Jake and Edward in the cafeteria, relishing their shock, the same rite of passage I’d gone through.

Dad mentioned it first at the dinner table a few weeks after school started, perusing the sports section and nursing a beer.

“Lord knows what kind of panic the Davidsons are gonna spread this year.”

Mom clucked her tongue, setting down the chipped ceramic salad bowl with the sunflowers. I shot her a question with arched eyebrows, mouth stuffed with sweet potatoes.

“Do you remember that, Jeremy? We only heard about it, but you were there.”

It was hard to think back, the previous summer vast in my memory. Third-graders, those tiny little eight-year-olds, now appeared like infants. Nine was a whole new frontier. I’d been a different person all the way back then. Let’s see, last Christmas had been the archery set, the action figures from Aunt Jenny. Staying up later than ever, watching the swirling curtain of snowflakes obscurely lit by streetlamps, cradled under Mom’s arm. Reaching for her cup of eggnog because I knew it would make her laugh as she cooed, “No, hon, it’s Mommy’s drink.”

Dad murmuring, “It could get him to sleep faster.”

Even before that. Jeez, how could I have thought third grade would be scary when it was fourth that was the real challenge.

Then it came to me: sitting on the lawn last year, arranging the plastic dinosaurs on the rim of my red wagon to jolt across the divots between our clapboard single-story house and the Davidsons’ red-brick Victorian, looming over me like a Gothic tower. The iron spire on the rounded column at the far end of their porch used to appear frequently in my doodles, along with the twisted sycamore whose branches caressed the siding, creaking and whispering after bedtime.

It was just cold enough for Mom to insist on my heavy coat, but I left it open to relish the crisp air flowing through the sleeves, tussling my loosely draped scarf. I wasn’t supposed to play on the Davidsons’ lawn, but found myself creeping across the dividing line, where the neatly mowed grass became wild and scraggly, and my jaw dropped.

The webbing dripping from the porch roof was better than the stuff in my classroom, obscuring the alphabet lining the ceiling like cottony clouds. It was thin and wispy, gently undulating like real cobwebs. Jack-o’-lanterns of various size dotted the balustrade, leering, chuckling, glaring. The wicker rocking chair by the front door held a grimy skeleton in a dirt-streaked wedding dress, reclining with a cigaret tucked between two thin fingers, wrist perched on the arm of the chair and the skull cocked at a sardonic angle.

I gaped as I took it in, before my eye fell on the front lawn, struggling to grasp the full display. A rope hung taut from a limb of the sycamore, tied to a blood-spattered burlap sack, swaying slowly. At the base of the tree a pair of legs in filthy jeans splayed, work boots lying flat, a sprouting mess of guts spilling out of the waist. My knees locked, gorge rising in a tide of nausea.

My nine-year-old brain reveled remembering the tableau of carnage. One final touch gave me a shiver: beside the rocking chair, a scuffed and gouged infant doll thrusting plastic hands through a rusted birdcage.

Then I realized what it was. Loose straw and newspaper stuffed into the jeans, spray-painted deep red. One of those sacks of potatoes they sold at Kroger hanging from the tree.

It was fantastic. I barely registered my own screen door slamming and shuffling footfalls crinkling leaves behind me until Mom clamped a hand on my shoulder and I spun in shock.

“Ralph,” she chuckled nervously, “get out here and look at this!”

Dad in his Saturday loungewear, faded plaid shirt and corduroy pants, treaded carefully to avoid sloshing his coffee as he joined us.

“Jesus, that is certainly . . .” He paused, searching for the word, sipping from his mug. “Macabre.”

“It’s amazing,” I crowed. “They’re really gonna freak people out with that.”

“But not you, huh, Jere?” Dad said, mussing up my hair, which I quickly smoothed down.

The impression it left lent a deeper mystery to that couple next door. We didn’t see them much. Molly was a high-school teacher and Gene worked in the brand-new glass office tower in downtown Cincinnati, but the idea of adults having fun like kids, only with no rules or anyone to answer to, intrigued me.

The next day after school I had stepped off the bus to see a police car parked outside the ornate house. A pair of officers, both tall and lanky, stood conversing with Gene and Molly Davidson on their porch.

I slowed down and stared as I passed, picking up fragments of words drifting on the sweet fall aroma of earthy decay. Gene, broad-shouldered and strapping despite his thinning hair and bulging stomach, had his hands on his hips and feet planted defiantly, while his wife Molly, thin and wispy in a house robe and slippers, lit a cigaret with long, elegant fingers.

“. . . our house and there’s no law against decorating how we want for the holiday . . .”

The blond officer shifted his weight, saying, “I understand, but we’ve gotten three calls this week . . . retired, elderly, and you scared her half to death. She thought she stumbled onto a murder. . . .”

The other cop cut in, “There are kids in this neighborhood, don’t you think . . . to tone it down a bit?”

I hesitated at my door with my palm on the cold knob. Gene’s squinty smirk struck me. To me, the police meant serious business, but he seemed to think it was all funny. Kids on the block were scared of him, a taciturn man forever rushing in and out, driving too fast and blaring his horn as we played in the street or at ice-cream trucks idling near his driveway. Molly gave out trick-or-treat candy last year and I remembered her and Mom chatting several times over the summer.

But now she didn’t seem to find it amusing, chewing her lip and tapping ash as the officer lectured her. I was creaking my screen door open when she caught my eye and gave a tired smile, flicking her eyes up as if asking, Can you believe this? The unexpected private moment of commiseration warmed me and I grinned back, tossing a thumbs-up before I ducked inside.

“Earth to Jeremy,” Dad said to me now, a whole year and half a lifetime later. I blinked at the forkful of salad dripping vinaigrette into my bowl, Mom and Dad mugging at me.

My cheeks flushed. “I remember, it wasn’t that long ago.”

“Chicken’s getting cold,” Mom said. “Eat.”

“Probably traumatized him and he blocked it out,” Dad mumbled.

“That’s not funny, Ralph.”

I sensed that the subject required a light touch, but now I was hooked, fascinated all over again.

“It was so neat,” I said, “like something from—” I stopped short and Mom threw me a look.

“From what?”

Think quick. “This book of scary stories I read at school.” If they’d known Jake’s older brother had let us tag along to watch Two Thousand Maniacs! at the Westfield drive-in there’d be hell to pay.

“Just make sure and stay on our side of the lawn, Jere. I get a weird feeling from them sometimes.”

Dad scoffed and lowered his paper. “Based on what, Judy?”

Mom’s nostrils flared. I straightened in my chair.

“Remember the barbeque when Molly could barely stand straight and Gene kept making those weird mean-spirited jokes about her?”

“Everyone was drunk,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, but you remember what Gene was saying . . .” Mom pantomimed, frustrating because it meant I wasn’t allowed to understand.

Dad raised his eyebrows and compressed his lips. “Right, right. Well, who knows, maybe they’re swingers.”

“Ralph.”

“What?” he said indignantly. “It means they like to play on tire swings, right, Jere?” He threw me a wink and went back to his paper. “They’re harmless kooks, hon. Let them have their fun.”

“I just think there’s something off about them,” Mom said, and Dad grunted. A strained, awkward silence ballooned. “Honey, we talked about you reading at the table like that.”

“Maybe I can help them decorate this year,” I said innocently to Mom, surrendering to an urge to push her buttons.

“No, I don’t want you talking to them.” She glared at me for a moment before slicing a bite of chicken. “And I swear, those decorations better not be too gory or I’ll call the cops.”

A few days later I was strolling home from the bus stop at the corner of Camphor Lane when I saw Gene and Molly bustling around their front porch. Halloween was still almost three weeks off but they were at it already. I gasped and ran up to watch. Neither of them noticed me at first. Molly was stringing red lights along the porch banister and Gene was crouched on the lawn unloading a large paper bag, taking stock of the items as he laid them out. A small burlap sack, a handful of plastic skeletal hands, a container of fake blood, a pair of denim overalls, a watermelon.

Huh? What was that for? I shuffled forward for a closer look and Molly raised her head.

“Careful, Gene, we’re being watched.”

Her husband turned on his haunches and a wry grin spread crow’s-feet at his graying temples. “For once you’re not being paranoid, dear. Afternoon, neighbor.”

“Hi.” I swallowed, nervous with the illicit glee of defying Mom. “Are you setting up for Halloween?”

“You bet,” Molly said. “It’s gonna be a good one this year.”

“Better than last year?” I stammered.

Gene gave a hardy laugh but Molly’s smile was softer, almost sad. I kept my distance but craned my neck, peering at the array of items.

“Want to come see, kid?”

My hesitation lasted half a second. I dropped my book bag on the grass and joined Gene as he pointed to his supplies and explained. “We’ll make little dirt mounds and stick the hands in ’em, coming straight up out of the ground, right?”

“Like Night of the Living Dead.”

Gene tossed his wife an approving glance as she wrapped the string of lights around the end banister. “The kid gets it. This here is the best fake blood you can find, dark and sticky, not like that bright food coloring in those cheap midnight movies.”

“What’s the watermelon for?”

“Ah, that’s part of the main attraction.”

Soft footfalls swishing grass as Molly joined us, hugging herself in a bulky wool sweater against a chill breeze. “You shouldn’t spoil it for him,” she said.

“No, it’s okay,” I protested. “I wanna know. Maybe I can help.”

A twinkle lit Gene’s dark brown eye. “Maybe you can, kid. That gives me an idea. Long as you won’t get too scared.”

“I like being scared.”

“Oh, you do, huh?” Molly said slyly. Her gaze flicked to the back of her husband’s neck and her face clouded.

“We were gonna have these overalls stuffed with straw and newspaper sitting against the tree,” Gene explained, “and the watermelon goes in the burlap sack next to him.”

“Like it’s his head,” I breathed.

“Exactly.” Gene snapped and pointed his forefinger. “Go ahead, try and lift it. Heavy, right?”

“Wow, it is.”

“That’s so it doesn’t roll away in the wind. Also why they call your head your melon,” he chuckled, tapping his temple. “But now I’m thinking of something more interesting.” He lifted a leg of the overalls and chewed his lip. “Roll up the cuffs, fill out the shoulders, I think it would fit.”

Molly crossed her arms and her delicate features brightened as the cloud dissipated. “Honey,” she said quietly, “you’re a genius.”

“You looking forward to trick-or-treating, kid?” Gene asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said, “I got my costume ready and everything.”

“It’s fun getting free candy, all right. But there’s one thing always bothered me about it, when I was your age, you know what it was?”

I shook my head, a fluttering in my stomach.

“You always get the treat!” Gene blurted. “There’s never a trick involved. The only thing better than getting candy is scaring people, right?”

This was a new experience, being invited into the inner circle of adults.

Molly stepped forward and kneeled down next to her husband, who rocked back and sat crisscross at my eye level. “Want to help us make it a really special Halloween this year in exchange for a whole bathtub of candy? Then you can have it both ways.”

Goose pimples tickled my arms.

“But you can’t tell anyone, Jeremy,” Gene whispered. “It is Jeremy, right?”

I nodded, wide-eyed. “What do you want me to do?”

They told me.

Three more weeks till Halloween. It was going to be hard keeping it to myself, but I made a solemn vow then and there.

“Should we talk it over with your parents first?” Molly asked offhandedly.

“Oh, trust me,” I said, thinking about how much trouble I could be in, “they’ll be fine with it.”

Even the fifth graders in the schoolyard didn’t seem as big to me now. Recess was still the focal point of my day, counting the minutes until our little slice of freedom, scarfing lunch to maximize yard time. Dreading the long, dull afternoon.

We were in our quiet corner of the fenced-in tarmac lot, Jake bouncing a blue rubber ball and chasing after it when it leapt from his grip, Edward with a finger tucked into Roald Dahl book, eyes downcast beneath a blond curl. I squinted up at Brian Dunstan’s imposing silhouette against the sun.

“Bullshit,” Brian said. “You don’t know Molly Davidson. I saw her once at the Odeon and my dad said she and her short-ass little husband are creeps.”

Little? Gene had at least a foot on Molly.

Rumor was Brian might not be graduating this year after all.

“They’re my next-door neighbors,” I said casually. “They showed me their Halloween decorations this year. Even grosser than last year.”

Brian folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah? I never saw.”

I gave a chef’s kiss. “Blood everywhere, skeletons, a corpse on the lawn.”

Brian blew a raspberry but I could tell he was impressed. “My dad says they’re weirdo, alcoholic drug addicts who beat each other up.”

Jake laughed at that and screwed up his eyes. “What’s that even mean?” The blue ball escaped again and he trotted after it.

“No, they’re really cool,” I said. “Cooler than my parents, that’s for sure.”

Edward cleared his throat and stared across the yard at the running, jostling, jump-roping crowd. “I heard something from their house one time when my mom was driving me back from chess club.” He was prone to these kinds of cryptic statements. “It was like shouting and laughing at once.”

Brian waggled his hands in the air. “O-o-o-h,” he crooned sarcastically. “They’re Satan worshippers I bet. Or maybe space aliens in disguise. You’re full of shit, Jeremy.”

I shrugged stoically. “Whatever. Just come by their house on Halloween, see for yourself. Unless you’re too scared.”

Brian dismissed us all with a wave and jogged away, but he glanced over his shoulder uneasily.

I only saw the Davidsons once over the next two weeks but I thought about Halloween constantly, seeing craggy, cadaverous faces in every cloud and puddle. I was helping Mom juggle shopping bags as we left Kroger so kept my gaze averted when they passed us going in, relishing a private thrill when Molly’s eyes flicked towards me, though her face remained an impassive frown. Nobody said hi, either not noticing or not caring, like we were living in two different realities. Gene was leading her into the store with his hand on her shoulder, his face alight as he murmured in her ear. Molly stared straight ahead like a statue.

Read the exciting conclusion in this month’s issue on sale now!

Copyright © 2024 Head Start by Kai Lovelace