The Mandylion – Chapter 5
“Cousin Weak Eyes, ready to go fetch?”
I positioned my wax-filled Hoffman Cream Soda bottle cap behind Lenny Spazzolato’s Miss Rheingold beer cap with my thumb and middle finger in flicking position. I intended to blast Lenny’s skelzie token under the pink and white Edsel. Red-headed Gene Kaplan waited his turn to play. At Lenny’s misfortune, he held back a giggle. Gene was my best friend, Jewish, and lived in the brick apartment building. Carl, his dark-hair, pain-in-the-tukus younger brother, frowned as he pulled a wedgie from his butt.
I sent Lenny’s cap flying under the Edsel all the way to the curb, disappearing into a grated sewer drain.
Lenny jumped to his feet with his fists balled.
Carl asked, “Lenny, you gonna take Anthony calling you Cousin Weak Eyes?”
The moniker referenced Lenny’s bulging peepers, like someone squeezed his throat.
“Shut up, Carl,” I said, bracing for a fight with Lenny. An idea bubbled up. “Lenny, sorry. I didn’t intend to hit Miss Rheingold down the sewer. Take this.” I offered him my bottle cap in an open palm.
Lenny’s face evolved from red to pink. He unclenched his fists and accepted my token.
“No hard feelings?” I extended my arm. Lenny hesitated, then shook hands. His grip felt like squeezing pizza dough.
“How are you going trick-or-treating tonight?” I asked.
“My mother bought me a Dracula cape and plastic fangs.”
“Cool.”
“What about you?”
“A clown’s face using my mom’s makeup.”
Lenny pointed his head toward the dark house with the creaky wooden porch. “You gonna trick-or-treat the old witch?”
The old witch was the silver-hair wraith who’d only been a shadow behind a lace curtain window. She objected to us playing skelzie in front of her house. Every night she’d blot out our chalk-marked court with a kettle of water until we incised the thirteen-number square layout into the asphalt with pen knives.
Gene asked, “Trick-or-treat the witch? Are you crazy?”
“Not me,” I said.
Our heads turned toward the sound of “Mack the Knife,” turned up loud on a transistor radio. Teddy Moltman had sauntered out of the corner candy store. He sported a duck’s-ass doo and had a black-tooth comb stuck in his jeans’ back pocket. Teddy wore an “M” belt buckle upside down. I emulated that, and every other of his mannerisms. My mother drew the line at a duck’s-ass haircut.
The four of us ran to him. “Hey, Teddy.”
He gave us some skin.
“What’s happening, punks?”
I said, “We’re going trick-or-treating later.”
“You calling on the witch?”
We shook our heads.
I asked, “Want to come tonight?”
Last Halloween, Teddy put a paper bag filled with dog crap on the witch’s porch and set it afire. He hoped she’d emerge to stomp out the flames. No such luck. The smoldering remains disappeared by morning.
Teddy smirked. “I’m meeting a chick. You’ll be scrounging for candy corn while I’m getting a blow job.”
My eyes widened. “What’s that?”
Teddy shook his head. “Shit. Ask your mother. Later.” Teddy waltzed away.
Overhead, Gene’s mother leaned out of her apartment window. “Gene, Carl, supper’s ready.”
Gene said, “I gotta go. Come on, Carl.”
I said, “Let’s meet at dusk, in costume.”
***
My mother made ravioli in the kitchen. She rolled dough into thin strips on our metal-top table, spooned out a dollop of seasoned ricotta cheese, folded over the dough, and cut the stuffed pasta out with the rim of a water glass. When I walked in, she lifted her head.
“Anthony, your father will be home any minute.” She handed me a platter of ravioli. “Put these by the stove.” A large kettle of water was about to boil beside a pot of meat balls and braciole simmering in red sauce. The aroma made my mouth water.
I asked, “Mama, what’s a blow job?”
Her eyes flickered. She took a few beats before she answered. Her tone was even. “Where did you hear that?”
“Teddy.”
She grimaced. “Teddy Moltman’s a delinquent. I don’t want you hanging around with him.”
“He wouldn’t tell me what it meant.”
She huffed a lock of hair off her forehead. “He must’ve said, ‘blowhard.’ That’s an individual who talks too much, like Teddy. Go wash your hands.”
I knew what Teddy said and understood my mother deflected the question. I resolved to visit the public library at my next opportunity and look blow job up.
After dinner, I painted on my clown face: my mother’s red lipstick in a wide filled-in circle around my mouth, a bit on the nose, and her black mascara to make Groucho Marx eyebrows.
Trick-or-treating was an opportunity to make money. Most neighbors dropped candy into the old pillowcase I used for collection, but we knew the women who gave pennies, sometimes a nickel or a dime. Much of the quarter-a-week allowance my father gave me, plus the money I collected for deposit soda bottles was plowed into my baseball card collection. I’d save up a dollar and splurge for twenty packs, each with five cards plus a stick of pink bubble gum. Sitting cross-leg on my bed, I’d peel open the wrappers. I sorted players by teams inside a shoebox, and I was delighted to discover a new card. Duplicates were valued for trade or to win cards in closest-to-the-wall flipping competitions. I’d chewed enough of the sugary bubble gum to rot a hole in a molar. I figured that’s why God gave me baby teeth.
One of the dangers of trick-or-treating was getting ‘chalked-up.’ During Halloween season, Woolworth’s sold large sticks in various colors. Kids would mark up your coat until you looked like an unclapped school eraser. To avoid that fate, I traveled heavy. I carried an old athletic sock filled with shocking-pink chalk powder. Once a foe imagined being socked into something resembling the Pink Panther, the threat of mutually assured embarrassment held them at bay. Still, I wore my old coat, just in case.
In autumn, Brooklyn’s air chilled a snotty nose and smelled of raked leaves being incinerated. I met the guys outside the candy store just as Kathy Redman turned the corner of our block. Last Valentine’s Day, Miss Seibel, our Public School 53 teacher suggested boys buy a card for the girl we most admired. Kathy was a strawberry blonde I’d steal looks at over my notebook. My mother helped me pick a card from the drug store that I slipped into a pink envelope. I debated with myself what to write and decided that anything other than, ‘From Anthony,’ would risk derision from the guys. When Kathy opened the card, her eyes rose to mine. She smiled, and a cacophonous classroom of kids went silent in my head.
Kathy wore a royal blue jacket. She lived in an apartment over the candy store and wasn’t far from her door.
Lenny spotted her, and his eyes ballooned. He shouted, “I’m gonna chalk you up.”
He sped toward her, chalk-sock cocked and ready. Kathy screamed and backed into a wall. I tackled Lenny from behind like Sam Huff hit Johnny Unitas. We rolled around the concrete, pummeling each other. His nose was bloodied. I took an elbow to the eye. Kathy watched us, face flushed, hand over her mouth. I wanted to beat Lenny, but even more I didn’t want to lose the fight in front of Kathy. After a few minutes, we were exhausted, but we gripped each other like pythons.
I shouted to Kathy, “Go inside.”
Before she disappeared into her doorway, she gave me a look like, come and claim your reward. My heart filled with helium, and I squeezed Lenny’s head tighter. I didn’t know what a blow job was, but I was sure I wanted to do it with Kathy.
Once she was away, I released Lenny, and we struggled to our feet. Our fists were raised. We panted like dogs.
Lenny said, “You’re just a girl-loving sissy.”
Gene and Carl stood by and watched. Gene wore a chief’s headdress, his cheeks striped with yellow war paint.
Carl wore a green zombie mask. He hit on Lenny’s theme. “Sissy Anthony loves Kathy. Sissy Anthony loves Kathy.”
Gene grabbed his brother, trying to silence him.
Carl continued to chant. “Sissy Anthony loves Kathy.”
I wanted to slap Carl all the way to Bensonhurst, but if I hit him, he’d run crying to his mother. She’d press Gene on why he didn’t defend his brother, and he’d be forbidden to hang out with me. Carl was the tariff for my friendship with Gene.
“Lenny’s the sissy,” I countered. “He wanted to chalk-up a defenseless girl.”
Lenny wiped blood and snot on his black cape. His smile with fangs looked eerie. “Oh, yeah? You’re the sissy who won’t trick-or-treat the old witch.”
Carl struggled in Gene’s grasp but didn’t miss a beat. “Scaredy-cat sissy. Anthony’s scared of the witch. Scaredy-cat sissy. Scaredy-cat sissy.”
Lenny put hands on hips.
I straightened. Fighting wouldn’t solve the challenge. I had to confront the issue. “Okay, I’ll trick-or-treat the old witch, but Gene’s coming with me.”
Gene released Carl raising his palms. “I’m not going.”
I edged toward Gene. “Your brother started this. You need to help me finish.”
Gene’s face looked like he’d taken castor oil. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You go first.”
I led Gene onto the witch’s porch. The wooden boards groaned and cracked under our hesitant steps. Sporting huge grins, Lenny and Carl watched us from the street.
The chimes sounded hollow when I rang. We waited. No answer.
Lenny shouted, “Try again.”
Gene’s eyes were the size of hub caps.
I pressed the bell. I heard shuffling feet, and the front door cracked open. I couldn’t make out the face in the darkness.
Gene took a step back.
I cleared my throat. “Trick or treat.”
The responding voice sounded like sanding wood. “Trick or treat? Yes. Come inside.” The door opened. A face as wrinkled as a Shar Pei’s hide looked at me with clear gray eyes. She smelled like a dank basement. I peered over my shoulder. Lenny and Carl stood with chins thrusted and arms crossed. I grabbed Gene by the shoulder, and we stepped inside.
The woman wore a long dull-blue dress that hid her feet. She seemed to float along the carpeted floor and led us to a dimly lit kitchen with an old porcelain sink, a still hot oven, and a heavy wooden table with four straight-back chairs.
“Sit down. Have some gingerbread.”
Sliced brown cake lay on a floral-pattern plate in the middle of the table.
“Some milk?” She didn’t wait for our response. She produced a glass bottle, the type milkmen used to deliver before my mom started shopping at the A&P.
We didn’t touch the cake. She asked, “I thought you said ‘trick-or-treat?’ I made the gingerbread especially for you, Anthony.”
She knew my name. I gulped. Gene squirmed like he sat on tacks.
“All right,” I said. “Thank you.” I took a small chunk and nibbled. Delicious, but I didn’t finish. “This is very good.” I nodded to Gene. He followed my lead.
She said, “I’ll tell you a Halloween story while you eat.”
Gene and I exchanged glances.
She started. “Many years ago, a young woman named Marjorie went to a Halloween party. She was the most beautiful girl there, dressed in a gossamer white gown. A handsome young man named Anthony,” she flashed me a mawkish smile, “introduced himself.”
Gene slurped milk as he ate his second slice of gingerbread. I let mine sit.
“Anthony and Marjorie danced all night. He wanted to know more about her, so the couple walked out onto the balcony where it was quiet, and they could talk. She was chilled, and he put his jacket over her shoulders. He asked about her background, but she was vague. He thought her shy. As the party ended, he asked to walk her home. She agreed but requested he get her a glass of punch before they left. When he returned to the balcony with her drink, she’d disappeared. He searched for her but to no avail. He asked some girls if they knew her and received strange looks in return. They told him a young woman named Marjorie had died in a car accident after the previous year’s Halloween party. A confused Anthony walked home. He passed a cemetery gate, and something drew him inside. A streetlamp highlighted one grave, and he approached the granite stone. The inscription read, ‘Marjorie Madigan. Where you are, I once was. Where I am now, you soon will be.’ His jacket was hung around the grave marker.”
As the old woman spoke the final lines of her story, my sphincter shrank to a pin hole. Gene had nodded off in his chair.
The old lady frowned. “You don’t like your milk and cake?”
I sat up straight. “We need to go.” I shook Gene and he stirred. I dragged him toward the door.
As we sped off the porch, I heard the old woman’s raspy voice. “Trick-or-treat.”
Lenny and Carl were gone. Outside, Gene perked up.
“What did you think of that scary story?” I asked.
“What story?”
“Never mind. Go home.”
When I entered my house, my parents were watching Godzilla with Raymond Burr on Million Dollar Movie. When my father saw my face, he shut the TV.
“Who hit you in the eye?”
“It’s nothing.”
My mother said, “I don’t like it when you fight.”
“Do you know the old lady in the house with the wooden porch?” I asked.
My mother glanced at my father before she responded. “Yes.”
“She gives me the creeps.”
“What do you mean?”
“She told us a ghost story and fed Gene cake and milk that made him sleepy.”
My father asked, “You spoke to the old lady?”
“Yeah. Just now.”
My mother said, “Anthony, there’s some mistake. The old woman’s name was Marjorie Madigan. We didn’t tell you, but she passed away last week. Nobody lives in that house.”
My mouth dropped open. “But I was with her.”
My father said, “Someone played a Halloween prank on you. That’s all.”
As I walked to my room, I shook my head. In bed, the image of a cackling witch who baked children in her oven kept me tossing and turning. I fell asleep just before dawn. I awoke at first light with a start. “Darn,” I said aloud. Halloween had been wasted. I hadn’t collected any trick-or-treat pennies.
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