THEATER ON THE AIR
Copyright 2006 Bart Stewart
The great jack-o-lantern sat precariously on the brick chimney top. Weeks of dry-rotting that had curled his fangs into his grinning maw had also curved the top of his head forward, shifting his center of gravity and causing him to rock slightly in the late evening winds. He looked out over a darkening scene of hilly, newly harvested corn and peanut fields, scuppernong vineyards and pumpkin patches, and a simple network of unpaved roads that connected white frame houses, similar to his own. This night had high, thin cloud sheets that hung motionless, aglow with the moon and the Milky Way. It was the night before Halloween, 1938.
A strong, sustained blast of wind nudged him sharply forward, and his softened, top-heavy head folded over, the corners of his smile cracking out rottenly, wider and wider. Over and off his perch he went, landing with a horrific bang on the tin roof, before rolling off and thudding ominously, face up in the shrubbery.
Minutes passed, and the front door of the house eased open. A stout black woman with curlers in her hair and a shotgun in her hands stepped onto the porch. Remaining behind her in the doorway, a rotund white matron stood with fingertips pressed nervously to her lips, her eyes wide with apprehension as she peered out.
“If you want some of this shot, just show yourself ...” Miss Clarice Greene called out into the empty yard, the gun up and at the ready. The two women checked their surroundings thoroughly from the porch, but detected no sound or sign of movement. Neither of them noticed the grinning perpetrator in the hedge.
“All right then!" Clarice yelled, “I got two barrels of this good buckshot here for you. You want some, you just come on back!" She gave the dark yard one more long look, and stepped back inside.
Her employer, Mrs. Ivy Rutherford, had gone to the wall niche that held the family's mammoth nineteenth century Bible. Her pudgy right hand rested here, as her left hand covered her eyes and forehead and her lips fluttered through an inaudible prayer. Some minutes later, when she was finished, she turned away and went to rejoin Clarice in the kitchen.
“This terrible, terrible time of year ...” Ivy said, “Those evil, awful boys are going to be a-throwin’ things at this house and tormenting us all night long, just like last year. I do not know what we're going to do if they break out a window! We absolutely cannot have any extra expenses! Lord, I wish Farrell would get home. What if they break into the shed and bust it up, or start a fire or something? You know they're coming back.”
“They can sure hold some of that shot, too." Clarice stated. She dipped out two big ice cream scoops full of lard, and dropped them into an iron skillet. As it heated she took up her formidable butcher knife and went to work with a special zeal on the puny, forlorn-looking plucked fryer on the cutting board.
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Read the complete story in Tales of Real and Dream Worlds.
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