One More House, One Block Over

“Epilogue” by Meg Walker

Eventually, Vickie stopped pretending: she was too sick to go. All week, David had held out hope. Halloween was his wife’s favorite holiday, and Roberta, his stepdaughter, was almost too old to enjoy it. But Vickie was six weeks into chemotherapy, the other breast this time, so when she announced she’d stay back for trick-or-treaters, David reassured her they’d have fun “no matter what.” This was Vickie’s favorite line, an incantation against heartache. Roberta, thirteen, had predicted her mother’s choice: “Call it spectral inclination.” She was dressed as a fortune teller. As David and Roberta were preparing to head out, Vickie told them, for the third time that day, how she’d dressed up in college as an extra from The Birds, Styrofoam pigeons circling her blood-streaked hair. Roberta, fastening her seer’s cloak, said, “Maybe this year you could dress as the Dalai Lama.”

At her mother’s bewilderment, she added, “Because you don’t have hair at all.”   

And David, finally, had lost it. 

He’d shouted that she shouldn’t joke about something so severe—certain things were just off limits, why the hell couldn’t she see that? It was about time, in her life for once, to take things seriously. The outburst, which he sensed had been building, still erupted as if from nowhere, and his stepdaughter’s surprised indifference and Vickie’s tired disappointment made him feel like a tantruming toddler. Besides: if anything, Roberta was too serious; despite her mother’s having divorced, remarried, gotten sick, gone into remission, and gotten sick again, Roberta was a teenage Girl Scout who designed eco-friendly fashion shows for merit badges and helped calm Vickie when the cancer meds amped her up. She wanted to start babysitting soon; today she’d memorized Halloween trivia to entertain David’s six-year-old son from his previous marriage, who was on his way—with the ex- wife, her new husband, and their nine-month-old—for last-minute trick-or-treating. Now, rage subsided, David and Roberta sat on their front porch, staring at passing Spidermen and Elsas. And before David could take a stab at fixing things, his other family pulled up.

Alex rushed out of the minivan, plastic pumpkin already full of candy from other homes. Bandages were wrapped around his legs, hips, arms, and torso. David lifted his son to his hip in a burst of joy and longing. “What happened to your Transformers costume, buddy? I thought you’d be Bumblebee.” 

Anna the Ex, cardigan adorned with smiling ghosts, waited on the sidewalk.

“Last-minute switch,” she called.

“I got that outfit for your birthday, pal.” 

“Well, he wanted to be a mummy.” 

“Brains,” Alex rasped. “Want Braaaiiiins.” 

“He’s unclear on the premise,” Anna admitted. 

The new husband, Warren, settled their nine-month-old baby in a collapsible stroller, greeting Roberta and fist-bumping David. Warren, whose personality could be worryingly jolly, had slicked his thinning hair back and put on a black tuxedo, either a vampire or magician. The baby, recognizably, was a sloth. David thought of Vickie’s recent chemo, when he'd used a picture of a baby dressed as the Pope to help her stay amused. His high-chaired holiness, he’d said. A pacifiered pontiff. “The Rattling Roman Catholic,” Vickie offered. Hers wasn’t funny, but he’d chuckled anyway.

When David put Alex down, some bandages snagged his buckle. He repositioned them, but they unraveled. “Jeez, sorry pal.”  

“Ta-da!” Warren exclaimed. He unveiled a stapler hidden in his tuxedo. Magician it was, then. Warren the Magnificent.

While Warren sutured, David texted Vickie. He didn’t mean what he’d said to Roberta; he didn’t want to ruin the evening.

Vickie texted, Just make it up to her.

The kid’s dressed like a sloth.

She replied with a gif of a cartoon monkey dangling from a tree. 

Couldn’t find a SLOTH, she wrote. Or maybe I’m just LAZY.

Christ, he loved this woman. 

“You’ve checked these houses?” asked Anna the Ex. “We’re visiting people you know?” 

“Yeah,” David said. “But I thought you were hanging back?”

“Oh, we’ll come with,” Anna replied. “Halloween’s a lot to deal with.”

“A lot to deal with?” David chuckled, “It’s less than most days, tell you that.”

“We’ll tag along anyway.”

They set off to the first house, 487.

For the first few houses, everything was peaceful. Roberta told the tiny mummy Halloween could ward off evil spirits, and the solitude of walking steadied David. Then, behind him, Warren clapped.

“Davey! A house a few blocks thatta way is giving parents beer. Up for a hike?” 

David muttered, “We probably don’t need that,” so Warren tried again. “Look at all these pumpkin baskets! We used pillowcases. More fits in a pillowcase.” 

Anna the Ex said, “When I was a kid, my mother made me a gown. With a hand-sewn white cape. I even wore it after Halloween. Then a friend spilled red nail polish on it. Mom was furious.” 

David smirked. Earlier that day, he’d bet Vickie all their leftover candy that Anna would tell this story. Anna had grown up in 1980s Chicago. The Tylenol killer. X-Rayed candy. She’d never shaken it. He’d knocked her up in his late middle twenties after barely a flirtation, but they’d given it a go. Parts of early parenthood were fun—without trying, David could sense what Alex would enjoy. He’d quit his job to stay home; as a paralegal, she made more money anyway. But most days he’d play Call of Duty, surprised how quickly diapers filled. Meanwhile, Anna came home every day and pointed out that he’d missed. He’d laugh it off, but soon his jokes were just insulting. Still, when she left, it took years to shake the shock. He’d gotten a job selling appliances and then met Vickie, her joy outshining Anna’s disappointment. To Vickie, the world could always be better; to Anna it was never good enough. When he and Vickie got engaged, he promised himself he’d be different. He’d gone to Roberta’s Girl Scout meetings, read The Doubtful Daughter, but it was like he’d skipped years three through ten, so both kids were mysterious. Still, for a few months, it was all trending towards great.

And then—knock-knock—came cancer number one.

But he’d promised not to think of that. No. Fun no matter what. David watched Roberta coach Alex to ring the doorbell boldly and pull out trivia if anyone asked for tricks. David felt brave, lonely affection. At 497, he tapped Alex on the shoulder.

“She treating you all right, buddy?”

Roberta glared. In the living room, a horror movie showed a ripped and bloody teenager. Roberta positioned herself between Alex and the TV. Heading back, David tugged her seer’s cloak. “That was clever. Like you saw it coming.”

“So we’re moving on?” Roberta said. “Like nothing ever happened?”

David was startled. “I’m sorry I lost it. You’re doing great with him.”

“I know what I’m doing.” Roberta said. “We earned childrearing badges a few weeks ago, remember?”

“Yeah, but watching a kid in the moment is different from listening to some leader.”

At her expression, David wished he could try again.

“Well, you know me,” Roberta said, “I don’t take things seriously.”

Ahead, Alex tripped on his bandages. Roberta stalked off, and as she lifted him off the sidewalk David’s mind careened again. A few days before, he’d discovered Vickie passed out in the garage. She’d been heaving Christmas decorations from the loft but couldn’t remember why. He’d shouted she had to take it easier; she’d shouted he should shut his stupid face. Later, her gaunt body curled against his, Vickie promised she’d be more careful. David promised to believe her.

Are you able to get up okay? He texted Dizzy? You can always put the candy on the porch. 

She texted, Get me pictures of the costumes.

With Roberta still angry, David fell back to walk with the parents of the sloth. Warren grinned (“You get some candy?”) and David sighed. Such friendliness. At 493, Warren took the baby, walking towards the children. Anna rolled her shoulders.

David said, “He sure pitches in, huh?”

“Yup. The enlightened male.”

David nodded. “We’re a vanishing breed. Not like that asshole in California.” Vickie squinted, suspicious. David smirked. “What we call Roberta’s Dad. That asshole in California hasn’t sent a check this month. That asshole in California thinks she still wears size ten clothes. Just simpler.”

“Oh. Well, we just call you David.”

Anna paused.

“It’s good of you to take this time for Alex. I know you’re busy. That’s why you’ve missed some meetings.”

“I know and I’m sorry. But with Vickie, just…it’s like seven appointments a week.”

“How’s she holding up?”

“Okay. I keep her in good spirits.”

Another pause. “I’m sure you do.”

David couldn’t tell if Anna was being sincere or cutting—it was like being married again. He wanted to assert that he’d changed. He could manage trick-or-treating, you know, and anyway he was here. But for Alex, he kept his mouth shut. At 503, Warren cried at Alex to please hold Roberta’s hand and Alex stumbled again. Impulsively, David grabbed Warren’s stapler. Tickling Alex till he giggled, David stapled bandages till the sagging and fraying stopped. Together, they dashed to Roberta, who smiled.

David flipped the stapler, caught it, and returned to Anna the Ex.

“All better. Though that costume seems unstable.” 

“Well, I’m sorry it annoys you.”

That’s it, David thought. Screw it. He was batting oh for two. He buried his hands in his pockets. Last night’s rain had made the temperature plunge, and the crabapple trees drop berries. Halloween weather, Vickie had observed, but damp leaves weren’t soaking her shoes. At 519, Anna nuzzled her fussing sloth. A girl Roberta’s age walked by dressed as sexy Red Riding Hood and Anna the Ex shook her head. It was good, she said, that Vickie raised her daughter to avoid revealing outfits.

David said, “I raise her too.”

She feigned surprise. “I’m not saying you don’t.”

“And I raise Alex. So, lighten up? Once? You didn’t need to come.”

He splashed off. Anna followed.

“I don’t think you appreciate the risks when trick-or-treating.”

“If you see a spider on Halloween, a loved one’s watching you.” 

“Oh, you want trivia?” Anna barked. “Crime spikes each Halloween. Not vandalism. Violent crime. Hospitals are overrun.”

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled for marauders.”

Warren muttered. “Guys. One night. Is that too much to ask?” 

“Dad!” shouted Alex. Both men turned. “Check it out! Full candy bars!” 

Roberta glanced over the scene. “Everyone playing nice?”

As the kids dashed off towards 527, Warren shot Anna a look.

“She should babysit,” Anna said. “After all, she sees the future.” Anna laughed, a descending laugh, starting at upper registers then losing enthusiasm. Vickie’s laugh was heaves and bellows. He could make it ricochet.

That asshole in California didn’t know how tiring it all could get. 

I wish you were here, David texted. 

No reply.

It was starting to get darker now; cars heading home sprayed water. Groups dispersed and reassembled. Warren chattered about his neighbor’s haunted house garage. At 557, Anna scrutinized an overfed woman in a sleeveless flannel nightgown.

“These really are fine people,” David said. “That one throws some ragers but I don’t find too many needles.”

Warren hollered, once again, to stay off stranger’s lawns, hold Roberta’s hand, and God don’t swing his pumpkin, huh? He was going to hit somebody. The woman waved, arms wobbling. 

“What’s her name?” Anna asked him. 

“Edith.” 

“Is it?” 

“Dunno. Could be.”

“Dammit, David. These are actual concerns.”

Warren bellowed, “Seriously! STOP RUNNING!” 

To win points with Anna, David called, “Buddy! You should stop running.” 

Alex turned toward his father’s voice. Then he fell down. Hard. 

It happened quickly. His foot snagged a bandage, and his little face smacked concrete. Anna screamed; blood drained from Alex’s mouth. Anna thrust her sloth-baby at David, and broke into a trained, parental sprint. The sloth-baby grabbed David’s beard. 

Anna cried out, “Why did you distract him?” 

“Why did you dress him as a walking tripping hazard?” 

“Because,” Anna bellowed. “He wanted to be a mummy.” 

“We better take him to the ER,” Warren said.  

They hustled back past an infinity of homes, with Anna pushing bits of costume into Alex’s mouth. Anna produced a water bottle, had him swish and spit. David said, “Good thing your costume has bandages, eh buddy?” Anna told him to shut the fuck up. She wiggled Alex’s permanent teeth. “They don’t seem loose. But they still need to be checked. A girl at work had her son fall like this, and they discovered a tooth was abscessed two weeks later.” She scooped up Alex. “We need to get him checked.” 

“Easy, honey,” Warren replied. “No need to freak him out.” 

At the van, she instructed Alex to keep pressure on his mouth. She took the sloth-baby from David and a fierce pause hung between them.

“Be honest with me,” Anna said. “You would have just taken him home.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” He replied.

“You haven’t changed at all.”

She slammed the door before he could respond, and David felt white-hot denial. His whole life was foreseeing problems, crisis after crisis. He could have handled a couple spots of blood. But as David’s not-quite family sped off, tight adrenaline loosened to shame. Abscessed teeth. Who thought like that? But he knew she was right. He would have taken Alex home. Just let him eat candy. Giggle through the pain. He imagined caramel yanking a molar. Permanent damage done.

Down the street, a father and kids filled the air with silly string.

“California made that stuff illegal,” said Roberta. “That asshole told me.” 

David jumped. He’d forgotten she was there.

She said, “Let’s take a walk.” 

The chaos around Alex’s fall seemed to win Roberta back. To distract him, she asked about childhood costumes; he had trouble remembering. It was nothing clever like Vickie’s costumes, like the lady from The Birds. Or Clippy from MS WORD. Or when Vickie cut a head hole in a delivery box, fastened a tablecloth and alarm clock and went out as a One Night Stand. Roberta, when they reached a playground, moved on to her Peace Badge work, and when she started using phrases like “a brokered reconciliation” David’s mind drifted again. Last week, with Vickie down on her back, he’d chaperoned Roberta’s Girl Scout trip to a farm dressed up like the 1850s. Bonnets and skimmer hats. One boy, an edgy frontiersman who’d clearly taken out his eyebrow ring, helped Scouts make cider and slopped pigs with leftover cores. Afterwards, he led them to a coop, releasing hens that plucked giggling Roberta’s shoelace, and Vickie and cancer and California felt centuries away. When Alex was born, David never believed he could love someone else’s kid. But he’d been wrong. This wasn’t instinctive love, though. It was more like gentle longing, faint nostalgia for something unlived. Even at their best they remained suspicious, hopeful strangers. But that afternoon, they walked forward in a line, frightening chickens back into the coop. 

The Edgy Frontiersman wordlessly barred the door. 

“Why do they put them in a house?” a brownie scout had asked. 

“To protect them,” Roberta answered wisely. “From predators like coyotes.” 

Heading back, the Edgy Frontiersman walked beside Roberta. “It’s not coyotes,” he sulkily smirked. “The problem is raccoons.” Raccoons, he said, can smell eggs in a chicken and will rip them from her stomach. She’ll bleed out in the coop. Roberta laughed, pushed him away, and told him he was gross. But her eyes sparkled, compelled, and David knew the frontiersman’s look. He’d wanted to shake those scrawny shoulders. Roberta was a child. He suddenly felt his ex-wife’s mood, a world of threats and missed precautions, and this time David couldn’t even joke, one more thing he couldn’t handle. He went home wanting to talk through this with Vickie. She was having a good night, though, so he pretended none of it mattered. But as she slept, his greatest fear loomed: It might soon be him and Roberta and, after, another empty house. Alex would have Warren, Anna, and a new brother dressed like a sloth, while Roberta was stuck with a slacker jokester who froze up at horny frontiersmen. There’d be legal battles, custody challenges, and this time David wasn’t even a real father, just a dumb guy who’d muscled into her life when mom found him kind of funny. And you know who’d beat that guy, every day? An asshole in California.

David’s phone buzzed. No broken teeth. It’s going to be fine. 

He told Roberta, “I’m sorry I snapped. Back at the house, you didn’t—" 

“Forget it. She’d make a scrawny Dalai Lama.” 

He mumbled, “Well,” but couldn’t manage more. He found himself searching for something trite and teenage level, like, Your mother loves you or We’ll get through this one, kiddo. But images of Alex’s bloody mouth kept swapping out with Vickie in a hospital bed.  

Roberta, abruptly, grabbed his hand and traced her fingers on his palm.  

“I see dark paths for you,” she whispered ominously, and giggled. 

Back at the house, the candy bowl was sitting on the bench, the porch dim. When they entered, the living room was dark, but light streamed from the dining room.  

Roberta shouted, “Mom? You there?”  

He told her to hush; she was probably asleep. But then he remembered, shamefully, the unanswered texts he’d sent her. Panic gripped him.

Vickie yelled, “Boo!” and leapt from behind a doorframe. 

Roberta screamed, a youthful shriek, and David drew his fist. When the light turned on, he saw Vickie draped in a pair of bright red curtains, one wrapping her waist, the other one her torso. She was naked underneath. She’d taken off her wig but put on bulky reading glasses, thin skin waxy, mouth pinched in an enlightened smile. “Happy Halloween!” she cried. She bowed unsteadily, almost toppling, then righted and showered bite-sized candy hidden in her folds.  “Have blessings! Rebirth! Blessings!” Roberta heaved it back, guffawing, then launched a piece at David that he swatted out of the air, a chuckle catching. When Vickie gestured that he should join them, the curtain slipped her shoulder, revealing the port in her upper chest where doctors pumped the poison. David froze. Then Roberta stepped away from her mother, reaching out to draw him in, her seer’s robes and her mother’s drapes a whirling final costume. She took his hand and he thought he might weep. But he laughed, laughed desperately.

About the Author

Alan Ackmann has an MFA in fiction from the University of Arkansas and teaches writing at DePaul University. His fiction has appeared in Third Coast, Ontario Review, McSweeney's Quarterly, and elsewhere.

about the artist

Meg Walker (they/them) is a student at Smith College who is pursuing an English and Study of Women and Gender Degree while exploring all the opportunities in the Arts while in school.