Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

It was the day before Halloween, and there were pumpkins to buy.

Don would have to cut grinning faces into them — how Patrick loved to see the faces appear in the orange globes. And Indian corn, of course, to hang outside the house next to the mailbox. How quickly it was Halloween, how quickly summer had died.

She shuddered.

She did not like the word Halloween. The word to her meant terror, the boy chasing behind her, hitting her with the chalked stick, shouting, “Halloween! Halloween!” and then circling around in front of her, still shouting, the chalked stick pointed and sharp. She could remember it clearly, she had been twelve, two years after her grandfather’s death, could remember running, and then stumbling, and suddenly the sharp penetrating end of the stick hitting her cheek, and the blood, and the boy’s eyes going wide with sudden fright.

They had taken two stitches to close the curiously shaped miniature X on her right cheek. The cross I bear, she mused, but she did not smile. And even the more timid boys on other Halloweens had chased her with stockings full of flour, marking up her clothes. Halloween meant terror to her, huge bonfires in the Manhattan streets, the kids rushing to the leaping flames with their booty; old chairs, crates, bundles of newspapers, signs ripped from grocery stores; dancing around the fire like hobgoblins, their watch caps pulled over their eyes and their ears, or some of the boys wearing their leather pilot’s helmets, the goggles pulled down against the billowing smoke, glowing weirdly in the light of the fire. Terror. She did not like the word Halloween.

Pumpkins, she told herself, and Indian corn. And candy for the kids who come to the front door. And she’d better get some of those little trick-or-treat bags to put the candy in. God, there wasn’t a holiday now that didn’t cost a fortune.

She walked with her head bent, watching the pavement.

There was a wind, and her head was ducked partially in defense against it. But even if it were summertime, she’d have walked with her eyes cast downward. She had grown used to automobiles slowing and offering her rides, had grown used to the whistles from truck drivers, and so she walked now with her own thoughts, erecting the shell of a false indifference around her. She kept one hand in her coat pocket. The other held the flap of her collar against her scarred right cheek. She wore long dangling earrings, and a kerchief of bright blue, and her heels made hurried chatter with the pavement.

When she heard the automobile horn, she did not look up. The car pulled to the curb just as she was about to cross the street. It stopped, and then she heard the horn again. Slowly she raised her eyes.

She recognized the Dodge almost instantly, and she was surprised by the smile which appeared on her mouth. She realized abruptly that she didn’t even know this man’s name, except as “Chris’s father.” He was smiling, and his eyes in the sunlit interior of the car were almost black, and she found herself looking at his face for the first time and thinking it was not a handsome face, except for the eyes. The eyes were a deep, warm brown.

“Hi, Maggie,” he said, and the name stabbed deep within her because no one but her grandfather had ever called her Maggie.

“My name is Margaret,” she said, aware that her voice had trembled a little, unable to hide her resentment, and remembering that he had told her she wasn’t so pretty, allowing the memory to add to her resentment.

“Mine’s Larry,” he said. “Larry Cole. Pleased to meet you. Want to see something terrific?”

She wanted to say, “No, I don’t!” firmly and emphatically. But there was an eager boyishness on his face, shining in his eyes, and she got the feeling that this was very important to him, and she could not for the life of her burst his bubble.

“What is it?” she asked.

“For Allhallows’ Eve,” he told her. He held up a forefinger. “One moment, please,” he said, and then he ducked below the window of the car.

She waited, thinking, Allhallows’ Eve, and suddenly his face appeared at the window, but it wasn’t his face. He was wearing a grotesque rubber mask, an exaggerated Neanderthal man thing that caused her to reel back in shock for a moment. The mask had a massive nose, and thick livery lips, and matted black hair clinging to the forehead. He began laughing behind the mask, and she laughed too, and then he pulled the mask from his face, and his eyes sought hers for approval.

“Isn’t it great?”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Up at the center. I couldn’t resist it.” He was out of breath now. He glanced at the mask and said, “Go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

“Put on the mask again.”

She laughed. “No, don’t. It’s better this way.”

“You walking to the center?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ll freeze. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

“No, I don’t mind walking.”

“Okay,” he said. He turned back to the wheel, seemed about to go, and then came to the window again. “I’m going where it’s warm.”

“Where’s that?”

“Puerto Rico.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Day after tomorrow.” He paused. “Will you miss me?”

She didn’t answer. She felt very warm all at once, and she turned her head from the car.

“Maggie, will you miss me?”

“Don’t call me Maggie!” she snapped.

He smiled, and she detected nervousness in the smile, withdrawal. He sat in seeming indecision for a moment, and then he said, “I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

“What about?”

He grinned uneasily. “Oh, I don’t know. There must be lots of things to talk about.”

“Well, you think of some,” she said. “I’ve got shopping to do.”

She began walking away from the car, and behind her she heard him say, “So long, Maggie,” and then she heard the sound of the gunned engine, and the tires grasping the asphalt. She did not turn to look at the car. She ducked her head against the wind again and continued walking, and, oddly, she could think only, Maggie, Allhallows’ Eve.

“I don’t know why you have to fly,” Mrs. Cole said sweetly. “There are other ways of going places, Lawrence. It’s not necessary to fly.”

“It takes a little longer the other way,” Larry’s father said, “but what’s the big rush?” He puffed on his pipe and then said, “You’d better put the pants on the hanger first, don’t you think, son?”

“Yes, I guess so,” Larry mumbled. He cast an eye about the living room and wondered how in God’s name such a simple thing had been turned into a brawling farce. Eve had arranged to divide the children among their grandparents while they were gone, and that was fine; he had never known Eve to manage badly. Chris would stay with her folks, and David with Larry’s, and that too had been sound judgment since she’d apportioned the kids according to the grandparents they favored. But she’d asked only her dad to drive out to pick up the kids. Instead, both families had driven out en masse in two separate cars so that the living room was filled to brimming while they packed their bags.

“Did you pack your cuff links?” Eve asked.

“Yes.”

“You read about so many plane crashes,” Mrs. Cole said sweetly. “Why do you have to fly, Lawrence?”

“Mom, everybody flies,” Larry said patiently.

“Just catch me in a plane,” Mr. Cole said. He shook the dottle out of his pipe and turned to Mr. Harder. “You ever been in a plane, Alex?”

“They don’t scare me a bit,” Mr. Harder said.

“They don’t scare me, either,” Mr. Cole said. “But have you ever been in one?”