Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

The children all shrieked with joy, savoring the delight on this night when it was okay to be scared, then bustled off the porch toward more shivers and shakes.

“ How did that man make such a neat costume, Daddy?” “I don’t know but it sure was spooky, wasn’t it?” “Can we go to the bonfire later? Can we, huh?”

Jack Pumpkinhead closed the door, then turned to face Alan and Marian. His eyes, nose, and mouth glowed a deep, deep red now. A trickle of blood spilled over the jagged bottom of his mouth and spattered over the collar of Dad’s shirt. He stood there, branch-arms crossed in front of him, long twig-fingers pressed against his shoulders; the sentinel.

... A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house ...

Alan released Marian and she collapsed onto the couch, her heart hammering against her chest.

Alan adjusted his baseball cap once more, then knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “There are some Eastern religions that believe a person’s final thought before dying stays in the spot where that person dies, just sort of hanging in the air, waiting for someone to claim it. But the thing is, that final thought contains everything that ever went through that person’s mind while they were alive, so whoever”— he looked at Jack and smiled— “or whatever claims that final thought has the power to bring that person back to life in some form.”

Jack gave a nod of his head.

“For years I’ve been asking myself if I was my own man or just the sum of my family’s parts,” said Alan. “Now I know.” He pointed at Jack.

“People die, Alan,” said Marian. “Maybe some of them don’t die pleasantly but they do die and there’s nothing we can do about it except let them go.” God, was this real?

Alan glared at her. “You’re goddamned right some of them don’t die pleasantly. Would you like to know about Dad’s last night on this earth?”

“I don’t see what that would accom—”

“The thing that’s always pissed me off at you, Sis, is that you passionately avoid anything even remotely unpleasant— and I’m well aware of how you can let people go, thank you very much.”

“That’s not fair.”

“ Not fair?” He pulled away from her and began pacing the room. “Dad weighed ninety-one pounds when he bought it. He laid right there on the couch, in these pajamas, watching your tape over and over again, all the time hoping you’d show up to see him. He wanted to set things straight with you, wanted to let you know how much he loved you and how proud it made him that you were the first person in this family who didn’t have to wash the stink of blue collar labor off your hands at the end of the day. You were the one who was going to keep the family name alive long after the rest of us lived, died, and were buried in this fucking town!

“The man couldn’t even get up to pee he was so eaten alive. I had to help him. I took a cup and opened the fly of his pajamas and took…took him out down there and put him in the cup and...and it hurt him so much , I saw the pain in his face as he tried to force the piss out of his bladder, he tried so hard, and when it finally came out”— he looked down at the stained pajama crotch— “it was more blood than piss. Then he thanked me, for chrissakes! Told me what a good boy I’d been and asked me to tell Mom to buy a real good pumpkin so he could carve it up nice and scary for you . How the hell could I remind him that Mom’s been dead for four years?” He cast a pleading glance at Jack, who nodded, then gestured him Continue.

“So I went out and bought some pumpkins. He was bound and determined to build you a ‘real’ Jack Pumpkinhead for Hallowe’en. ‘This’ll show her how much I love her, how proud I am.’ Christ! You’d’ve thought he was finally getting to build his own Sagrada Familia , his own little masterpiece, like Mom’s unfinished quilt.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself down, then started banging a fist against the side of his leg.

“He dragged out that old Oz collection that Mom used to read to you just so he’d make sure to get Jack’s face exactly right. I lost count of how many times he cut himself while carving. He stopped worrying about it after a while and let himself bleed into the pumpkin, all over the seeds...”

Marian thought about the third bowl of treats: Be sure to bring your magic seeds.

“...but he couldn’t finish,” continued Alan, “the effort got to be too much. He made me promise I’d finish building Jack for you. Then he just ...laid there. He was minutes away from dying and all he cared about was making you happy. He stared at the shadows and mumbled about Gaudi, coughed up a wad of something I don’t even want to think about, and died. No wailing, no wringing of the hands, no sackcloth and ashes. Just sickness and pain and sadness, memories of mopping up the vomit in the middle of the floor because he couldn’t get to the bathroom in time, or wiping his ass when he shit himself because he was too weak to get off the couch, or cleaning the blood from his face and nose after a violent coughing fit, all the time having to look in his eyes and see the regret and fear and loneliness in them— that’s how his existence culminated; in a series of sputtering little agonies to signal the end of a decent man’s life. And he never stopped hoping that you’d come see him.”

Marian felt the heat brewing in her eyes, reached up to wipe away the first of the tears, and swallowed back the rest as best she could. She would not give in, would not feel bad, would not show weakness. “I’m sorry it was so hard on you, but people die and there’s nothing—”

“— we can do about it except let go, yeah, yeah, yeah— you played that scene earlier, remember?”

The doorbell rang again: Trick or treat, smell my feet ...

Jack opened the door. The children gasped in awe.

“Well, lookee here. Is that a mummy before me? And Spider-Man— I take it that the Green Goblin and Doc Oc are otherwise engaged?— how good of you to come!”

The giggles again, the whispers and aaaah s.

“So,” said Alan, “what do you think?”

She was surprised at how steady her voice was. “I think that Aunt Boots told me you haven’t been sleeping well, and you know what happens when a person doesn’t get enough sleep? They start having waking dreams.”

“That’s my Marian, always the rational one. Okay, fine— if I’m having waking dreams, then explain Mr. Pumpkinhead over here.”

“Come to the shortcut in the cemetery tonight,” called Jack as he began closing the door, “and be sure to bring your pumpkins and your magic seeds.”

She didn’t have an answer. Alan was throwing too much at her too fast, she needed time to sort this out, she needed order and calm, needed .

“Alan, look, I ...” She had to buy some time. She was letting herself be drawn into his world of grief and dementia. How romantic and seductive it seemed when one was this close. “I couldn’t bring myself to come here any sooner. I couldn’t just sit around here waiting for Dad to die. I can’t stand anything like that, I never could. I need to be where everything is vibrant, healthy, alive ...goddammit, I was too scared, I admit it, it’s just that...I didn’t know Dad wanted me here so much.” “Would it have made any difference?” A beat, a breath. “No.” Jack poked his head around the corner. “Good girl.”

Alan said, “Jack told me something about Mom. Did you know she always thought you didn’t love her? She told Dad she thought you were embarrassed to have her for a mother because she was just an ignorant factory gal.”