"Love Your Costume"

“Love Your Costume”

Nancy Brigham

There’s a lot I didn’t know about the afterlife. I mean it’s not like there’s a manual or a video on YouTube to prepare you. Some of it’s pretty strange. For example, we each have to keep a journal. You’re supposed to tell the journal how you feel and if you’re homesick or anything. If you put in your journal anything about being unhappy, you get a visit from a psych angel. I didn’t know exactly what a psych angel did to make things better, because, until today, I have never been really homesick for life on earth.

Did you know that everybody here has their own heaven? It’s a kind of house and you furnish it however way you want to. You are not alone; you always feel as if the people you love are just in the next room. I don’t know how they do that. I decorated my heaven house with cozy things like a rocking chair and a love seat and a bed with all the throw pillows I didn’t have on earth. Heaven is very satisfying that way.

So, everything was going really well and I told my journal happy thoughts. Then, I started to decorate for Halloween. It was my favorite holiday on earth and I was excited to put out pumpkins and witches. No skeletons though. They don’t think skeletons are in good taste here if you know what I mean. I was just putting a broom in the hands of a witch when I realized that this Halloween, I wouldn’t have a costume. I couldn’t dress up and trick or treat from house to house, giving everybody a chance to ooh and ah over my latest costume creation.

My costumes used to be the talk of the town. I spent months constructing them and everybody loved them. Well, a few people thought it was a silly waste of time, but piffle on them. (You can’t curse up here. They take “hell” and “damnation” very seriously.)

It turns out that a psych angel is like a cloak of smoke that hugs you and it feels good once you get over being surprised.  “I want to go trick or treating,” I began, “and I want to have a costume. I always had a costume. Halloween is my favorite holiday.”

The psych angel made little murmurs of understanding and then she spoke and, if you can imagine smoke talking, that’s how she sounded. “Up here?” she asked and I laughed. “You can’t trick or treat up here and we don’t exactly have bodies to put costumes on.”

“Ah,” she said. “I see. You want to wear a costume and trick or trick on earth.”

“In Thornton. That’s where I lived.”

“In Thornton”, she replied thoughtfully.

I was growing impatient. “Yes.  I want to go trick or treating in a fantastic costume in Thornton on Halloween.” She was quiet for so long that I wondered if I had offended her. “Sorry”, I said. “It just seems like a simple request to me.”

“Well, it’s not,” the psych angel puffed, suddenly becoming such dense smoke that I started to cough. I didn’t know I could cough here, but the place is full of surprises.

Then I felt her start to drift away and I grabbed at her but that didn’t work. You try grabbing smoke! “Wait,” I cried, “Where are you going? Aren’t you supposed to make me happy?”

Her voice sounded far away. “I have to take this up with the Managing Psych Angel. the MPA It’s way above my pay grade."

I didn’t expect a visit from the actual MPA; I thought maybe a secretary or an ambassador or something like that. But suddenly a cloud materialized in front of me, sort of a dark, smoky cloud and it spoke with a pronounced British accent.

“You want to go trick or treating, eh what?”  Trick or treating sounds silly when spoken in a British accent but I answered with all the dignity I could muster.

“Yes, In Thornton in a costume on Halloween.” I braced myself for a chilly rejoinder but instead, the voice said, “That hasn’t come up before, No precedent if you will. What would this costume be?”

I’d been thinking about that and I said diffidently “Maybe a ghost?”

“Ah,” the angel said. “A ghost.”

“Yes.”

“As I see it”, he said thoughtfully, “there are three problems we have to face here. One, you will have to materialize. You do not automatically look like a ghost just because you have arrived here. You will need a corpus.”

“I was a corpus. That’s how I came up here. I had a body and arms and legs. What did you do with them? I thought they would be filed away somewhere.”

The MPA sounded horrified. “Where did you think we would keep billions of arms and legs? The filing would take eons. We can fit you out of course. Were you of the feminine or masculine persuasion?”

“Nobody persuaded me; I was a female at birth and I remained one.” (None of that what’s-your-pronouns stuff for me!)

“Good, good. Let’s consider the issue of transportation.”

“Can’t I get back there the same way I got up here?” Whatever that was.

“Er, the trip was one-way. We don’t really offer round trip options.”

The MPA seemed then to be thinking aloud. “Hide her perhaps in a low hanging cloud or ground fog. Yes, it could be done.”

“You wouldn’t get to keep the candy, of course.”

“Of course.” I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe I could stuff a few m and m’s in my mouth when I’m there.

"Don’t think about stuffing any in your mouth. It won’t be a real mouth, more something borrowed for the occasion.”

“Will I have a voice?” I was getting anxious now.

“You will have a voice and a costume and everything else you need. I am tempted to grant your wish but you must understand, it’s a one-time thing. You won’t get to go trick or treating again. Is that clear?”

Well, I heard that but I figured I’d just go back to him next year. "Don’t think about coming back to me next year. You have a ways to go before fitting in up here. Mind your manners now and I will get back to you with your corpus and your costume.”

And, that’s how I found myself at the corner of Main Street and Railroad Ave on Halloween in Thornton. I’m not like that girl in Our Town, crying over every little thing I left behind. This corner, for example, is one that I always avoided and I’m not happy to be here now. It’s dangerous…wait, probably nothing is dangerous if you’re already, um, deceased.

I wanted to be on the corner of Grove and Aspen near where I lived all my life, I started to walk, happy that my corpus seemed to have healthy rather shapely legs. Apparently, I have picked up speed in the afterlife, because no sooner than I moved toward Grove Street than I was there. 

The antique store on the corner has a full-length mirror in the window. OMG. I love my costume. It’s filmy and it trails behind me wispily. It almost swirls around me. Hot Darn, I’d be afraid of me if I met myself on a dark street. Well, actually I am meeting myself on a dark street but fear is an emotion only for the living. My mask is incredible. It’s like a swath of filmy gauze but it hides my face completely.

The most important part of this foray back to earth is to show up at the door of Matilda Sweeney. Tilda, as she likes to call herself, is my competition. Every year we’ve been the finalists in the best Halloween costume contest run by the local paper. It’s such a foregone conclusion we will win that a reporter and a photographer always wait for us on the green, across the street from Tilda’s over-decorated front door.

I ring the bell. I have quite nice fingers with a subdued polish on my nails. Bright red is eschewed up there; they don’t like the association with you-know-who. Tilda opens the door at once and, mercy me, who is she?

She’s dressed as Lucifer. A red jumpsuit shows off her admittedly very toned body with a long curling tail wrapped in those little lights everyone uses these days. She’s carrying a pitchfork covered in silver sequins and, on her hair, a tiara of golden horns. Her mask is a simple black one that covers her nose; her lips are painted fire-engine red.

“Thelma, is that you?” she asks squinting behind her mask. She really needs glasses but she won’t admit it. She laughs a little nervously, “What am I saying? Thelma, poor thing, passed away in August. You must be my new competition.”

Poor thing indeed. If she could see my heaven, she’d be wildly jealous.  I have a dilemma now. I don’t know whose voice I have. I forgot to try it out. What if it’s a man’s voice? The MPA seemed a little shaky on gender. So, instead of speaking, I just nod.

Tilda is annoyed now. She always gives a little sniff when she’s miffed. “I love your costume. Quite unusual. Do you have a name?”

Do I have a name? Well, I did but that one is obviously out. I should have thought of a name. Then genius strikes. “Misty,” I say and my voice is lovely. “My name is Misty.”

Swishing her tail and tapping her pitchfork, Tilda comes out on the porch and looks me up and down. “How do you get that swirly effect? I’m wondering if you cheated somehow and used a professional designer.” The contest, I should mention, is quite firm about allowing only homemade costumes.

Did I cheat? No. I did not have a professional designer. I had an angel, and there’s no law against that. I shake my head, which results in a delightful little twirl of a swirl. Now, Tilda is wielding that sequined pitchfork around like she’s about to strike me with it. I hope I’m impervious. I wouldn’t want to end up in that other place.

She takes off at a good clip to get to the green first. Not so hasty, Tilda. I simply drift over and appear out of the dark right in front of the judges, well before Tilda. It’s the same three judges every year. Ken from the Mobil Station, who is the brother-in-law of the mayor, Adele, the associate editor of the paper, and Ronald, the principal of the high school. Usually, they look bored and cold, but when I (Misty) drift in, their eyes about pop out of their heads.

Then, leave it to Tilda to ruin the best moment of my life – oh, I forgot-- best moment so far in my after-life.

“I hate to do this,” she says (not true) but I must ask that Misty tell us where she got her costume. I can’t believe that anybody could create that at home.” A little sniff before she adds “I’m a skilled seamstress (also not true) and I could not have created that.

“You bet your boots you couldn’t,” I say not quite under my breath.

The photographer murmurs, “Love your costume,” and starts snapping picture after picture of me until Tilda jumps in front, brandishing that stupid pitchfork. I have a suspicion that I may not actually show up in the printed pictures, but I smile and pose and twirl about to set my costume swirling. Tilda may be dressed in red but she is green with envy.

“Where did you get that costume?” asks Adele, the suspicious judge and, I might add, a close friend of Tilda’s. “What fabric is that? It’s so gossamer. Why your mask looks like it’s emerging right out of your hair. I never saw such a thing. I don’t want to cast aspersions (she loves casting aspersions) but I have to wonder…”

Ken, bless his heart, interrupts her. “I think we certainly have a winner,” Ken points to me and starts to clap. He wants to get home to his martinis; I know. I used to share them sometimes, the glasses frosted, the vermouth just waved over the gin, the Spanish olive all plump and green…But I digress.

And then, darn it, the MPA invokes the Cinderella rule. I guess I forgot to mention that, afraid it would ruin the mood, I guess. My trip to earth could only last for two hours and I was getting the five-minute warning. The reporter is waiting to get the particulars, my address (wouldn’t he be surprised!) and my age, which I haven’t disclosed since I hit 39.

“Let’s start with an easy question,” he twinkles. “How did you create that fabulous costume?” Surprisingly, I found an answer. “I just used materials that I had at hand,” I said demurely. I catch Tilda about to grasp my costume and I twirl gracefully out of reach. One-minute warning. Oh, darn. This is the very best moment ever. Can’t I have a little longer?

Faintly, I hear gasps. “Where did she go? What happened?” I look frantically for myself but I’m not there anymore. The place where I was standing is empty. I take comfort from the gaping, open-mouthed fear and shock on Tilda’s face. “Trick or treat,” I yell, but of course she can’t hear me.

Suddenly, my journal pops open in front of me. “We don’t gloat up here” is the message and it’s signed by the MPA. Maybe heaven isn’t quite as much fun as I thought it would be.