The burnt orange leaf of a sugar maple floated from the sky, randomly spinning in the crisp fall air, until it disappeared into the bell of a tuba. I half expected the foliage to puff back out but that wasn’t the case. Neither did it slow down the high-stepping musician in the University of Michigan marching band. The football game wasn’t until Saturday, but mom liked to bring me to the practice field midweek to catch the halftime rehearsal. The wagon ride was eight blocks and by the time we arrived she had the haggard look of a pioneer braving the Oregon Trail.
I jumped off the Radio Flyer and punched my miniature hands through the diamond-mesh fence. As the drum line boomed, I stood transfixed. The trombone players extended and contracted the brass slide. The conductor, equally mad, stood on a ladder, waving a paintbrush without bristles. Students marched furiously in every direction, pivoting, reversing, sliding, kneeling, and flanking. Mom said they were forming gigantic letters that would be seen from the stands. We watched for an hour then headed home as the brass section belted out the theme from “El Cid.”
Dinner that evening was chicken, as it was every Monday. I was recruited to shake the pouch filled with breadcrumbs and raw parts. The oven light had stopped working, so mom cautiously slid the baking sheet into the range, wearing oversized mitts shaped like roosters. Canned corn and mashed potatoes rounded out the menu. We couldn’t afford a hand mixer so the spuds, drowning in butter and chives, were lumpy. Dad said he liked them that way, or so I was told.
Conversation around the table percolated beyond normal due to the fact tomorrow was Halloween. My costume would be a classic hobo. Torn red flannel pajamas, black mascara beard, and a blanket stick to carry over my shoulder. My older brother, Dan, would be an astronaut, like the ones practicing to go to the moon. Together we would meander up to our neighbor’s porches and point blank demand candy, or so I was told.
“What did you get last year?”
“Sweet Tarts and Tootsie Rolls… and Milk Duds,” Dan said, “and licorice from the witch around the block.” Parents in our neighborhood liked to wear costumes and scare the trick-or-treaters. Mr. Carlisle worked at a funeral home and would spring up from a casket as Dracula, complete with pale foundation, foreboding eyes shadow, and deep red lipstick.
Halloween would begin early for Dan, as he would wear his spacesuit to kindergarten and mingle with ghosts, cowboys, nurses, and robots. Some of the teachers got into the spirit, like Mrs. Kessler who dressed up as Clarabelle Cow and passed out Dum Dums. I wouldn’t get to kindergarten until next year when I’d be five – or so I was told.
My Dad, still wearing his beige, wrinkled work shirt and clip-on tie reached for the last piece of bread. Most people spread butter on their bread, but not my father. He liked it dry. He also didn’t care much for salt or pepper. When I asked him about it once, he pretended not to hear me.
My Dad, still wearing his beige, wrinkled work shirt and clip-on tie reached for the last piece of bread. Most people spread butter on their bread, but not my father. He liked it dry. He also didn’t care much for salt or pepper. When I asked him about it once, he pretended not to hear me.
Clearing his throat, dad opened the local paper, which levitated from his lap. “Let’s see what’s going on in the world,” he said. Dad didn’t read much, so his sudden interest in worldly events piqued our curiosity. He turned the pages with odd deliberation, even snapping the sheets as if to smooth out a wrinkle. On page seven, opposite the advertisement for Fowler’s Pancake House, he paused.
“Boys,” he said, “there’s a monster loose in our neighborhood. Instead of arms the creature has branches – and it’s been breaking into houses. It says it right here.” Dad tapped the paper with his index finger. “And if it gets mad, it unscrews its head and throws it at you.”
Well he had my attention! I hopped off my chair and scurried around to view the rag first hand. Dad removed his tie and finished his milk. Dad always had a glass of milk with dinner, except when we had a barbeque - then he had beer, usually a Budweiser or Blatz, depending on what his sidekick, Big Rich, brought over. I jostled onto his lap.
“There’s no pictures, but we’ll have to be careful, make sure the windows are closed.” Dad tucked the paper under his arm, strolled into the living room, and plopped down on the recliner. Dust billowed from the pea green fabric and disappeared quickly into the air like smoke from a civil war musket. The TV hadn’t worked for months, but Dad stared at the blank screen anyway, hoping magic would fix the vacuum tube.
Mom calmly cleared the table as if she missed the news about the pending attack. This monster, this deadly beastly could break in at any moment and unscrew his head! Didn’t you hear what dad said! Unscrew … his … head.
Mom smiled and asked if I wanted an oatmeal cookie.
Dan was less concerned, even confrontational. He received a bow and arrow set for Christmas and with relentless practice had acquired the aim of an expert marksman. One Sunday morning he haphazardly hit mom’s sewing mannequin with such fury it tumbled to the hardwood and forced several pins into the torso. We set the dummy upright and unanimously agreed to never discuss the crime. I’ll shoot the Tree Monster between the eyes!” Dan yelled, drawing back the bowstring. The sponge-tipped dart sailed through the air, narrowly missing our dog.
Eager to catch a glimpse of the creature, I bolted to window and peered outside. Rain started to fall and drops splattered the glass making vision difficult. I stared in the abyss as the wind howled. Across the street, I faintly made out the neighbor’s flickering pumpkin. Troy’s dad had a penchant for fire and ritually lit their jack-o’-lantern a day early. Last year he placed a top hat on the carved gourd and watched it burst into flames.
The bedtime story featured Curious George. Under a hand-sewn quilt, we huddled on the couch as mom began reading. The plot was typical: while searching for honey, the mischievous monkey caught his noggin in a beehive. Captivated with the adventure, we paid scant attention to dad sneaking out to buy milk for tomorrow’s cereal.
Taking turns with the narration, Dan flawlessly zipped through a few pages, and then slid the paperback in my direction. I stumbled mid-sentence and Mom sounded out the passage. At the time I didn’t realize I had severe astigmatism. Next year I found out I needed glasses, when I was tested in kindergarten.
A boisterous tap on the window broke our attention.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Nothing,” mom responded, “ignore it.”
Tap. Tap! Tap! This time it was louder. I leapt up on the couch.
Mom folded the book in her lap, making sure to keep her place in the story. Dan scurried to the window.
Bang! A large branch crashed on the pane. My brother lurched back as if flung from a Tilt-A-Whirl.
“It’s the Treeeeeeeee Monster!”
In a flash, Dan drew his bow and took aim at the window. The first arrow hit the glass. Doink!
“Don’t shoot at the window!” mom yelled.
With the courage of a Sioux chief, Dan retrieved a tomahawk hidden under the throw rug. I had forgotten about the weapon, which was secured last year on our vacation to Fort Michilimackinac. I thought it had been thrown out after our failed attempt to cut a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in half.
The window opened and a tree limb lurched inside. A terrifying voice grunted as the bough thrashed in a circular motion, whisking leaves about room. Dan swung the souvenir ax again and again, hitting the bark with the velocity of a lumberjack possessed.
Throughout the attack, mom remained calm. “You can stop,” she told Dan, “I’m sure the Tree Monster has had enough.” Sure enough, after a final flurry of activity, the appendage retreated and the Tree Monster disappeared into the night, gently closing the window behind it.
“I scared him off!” Dan said.
Before we could settle back in to Curious George, a commotion was detected at the back door. Expecting to see my dad stroll in with a gallon of milk, we instead got the shock of our young lives. Looming in the doorway of our living room was the Tree Monster.
The creature stood over six-feet tall. Jutting from his pockets were sticks, branches, and leaves. His jacket, zipped all the up, rode unnaturally high about his neck. On top, held in place by his hands, was his head – a white mass resembling a stuffed pillowcase. The face was nondescript, as if drawn on by a magic marker.
My brother froze, unable to reach his frontier weapons. The monster stepped forward, clumsily banging into the doorway. Scared and shivering, I opened my mouth and emitted a terrifying shriek.
What happened next, was something for which I’ll never forget – the Tree Monster unscrewed his head. Twisting counterclockwise, he cranked around and around. Finally uncorked, he lifted the decapitated mass high above his shoulders, flipped his wrist, and tossed the nob into my brother’s lap.
Not wanting to see more, I dove under the blanket. After what seemed like an eternity, mom leaned over toward me, “The Tree Monster is gone,” she whispered.
Peaking from the blanket, I saw my dad holding my brother and realized the ordeal was over. The Tree Monster would not dare show his face with my dad in the room. Mom put “Curious George” back on the bookshelf and began picking up the debris littering the shag rug.
The next morning, I sat eating Frosted Flakes from my favorite red bowl, as mom assisted Dan with his space helmet. The radio was on and I waited intently for the newsbreak. Dad finished a piece of dry toast.
“Are they going to talk about the Tree Monster?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” dad said and then brushed some crumbs on to the floor.
Attacks by the Tree Monster were rarely reported. Doing so would cause widespread panic across the globe. The weak would board themselves in their homes and cower under furniture. The brave would wander outside with rifles and shoot anything that moved – it would be the end of civilization. Or so I was told.
- END -
No comments:
Post a Comment