… Toil and Trouble, aka Hallowe'en 1989

Content: Domestic Violence

Author's Note: Fourth stand-alone story featuring Joan Dark. Chronologically, this one is first (followed by "… So Grows the Tree," "… The Party Will Come to You," and "… Not as I Do"). Written order: "Not," "Grows," "Party," "Toil." Yes, I stretched the prompt here, sorry.

*****

Deborah Dark always hoped the school bus would pick up Joanie and Junior before Steven got home. She would walk them down the mile-long driveway starting at 6:30 every weekday morning, rain or shine, to be ready to be picked up by 7:30. If they missed the bus, they missed school, and that just wouldn’t do, so she made sure they arrived at the roadside with plenty of time. She realized, deep within her thoughts, that taking them down in the station wagon she was allowed to drive would be more sensible, but the gas cost too much. It was better if her husband pulled in after the kids climbed up onto the bus. Much better if he did so as she walked back along the packed-dirt ruts. Then he’d usually give her a ride back to the house.

To make matters worse, this particular Monday morning was Joanie’s birthday. For the previous two months, on other children’s birthdays, Joanie would come home from kindergarten telling Mama about the cupcakes and cookies that her classmates would serve at snack time. Previous years had never been a problem; Joanie only knew that she’d get to pick dinner for the evening—well, for the three of them, as Deborah would still prepare a proper meal for Steven. This year, Joanie learned how the rest of society dealt with such celebrations. Deborah had to decline multiple invitations, most without the little one even knowing about them.

She’d been through similar stuff with Junior when he was in the first grade—Steven hadn’t let him attend kindergarten—but it didn’t feel the same. Junior was his father’s son, and pretty much accepted whatever the old man told him. Joanie, on the other hand? If a question existed somewhere in the universe, doubtlessly Deborah’s dear daughter would ask it. And Deborah didn’t answer any questions for fear that Steven wouldn’t like them, even if she quoted something he’d said before.

To pile on top of Deborah’s turbulent thoughts, as the three of them passed the half-way mark on their morning walk, the next day, Tuesday, was Hallowe’en. Not something Joanie experienced up to now. Again, Junior had accepted his father’s solemn explanations of it being unholy, Devil-worship, and heretical. And Deborah, in doing the shopping, one of the few things she could perform unaccompanied, had often marveled at the cuteness of some of the plastic costumes available in the local stores; but she never, ever, considered getting anything for her children.

Joanie had spent the night before throwing a tantrum about both situations. Fortunately, Steven was at work already. Unfortunately, that meant that her mother didn’t have any answers for the inconsolable child. She wanted to dress up as a cat. She wanted to bring crispy-cakes for her birthday. She wanted to be able to do what the other dozen girls and dozen boys in her class could. She wanted to be normal. And, curiously, she’d begun to rub off on Junior.

So Deborah had gotten up an hour ahead of time. Measured out cereal and marshmallows. Melted the marshmallows with butter, then stirred in the cereal. Spread out the mixture in a dish and set it aside to cool. Cut up the treats, wrapped each in cling wrap, and placed them in a reused paper sack. Washed everything she’d used and put them away, so as to make them seem untouched, while her children dressed.

Junior had glanced at the bag but didn’t ask. Deborah believed that he knew better by now. Joanie vibrated with excitement, a pinball bouncing off wall, counters, and furniture. Deborah had tried to make her understand that this was a one-time thing, and that she could not, under any circumstances, mention it to Papa.

Joanie was a smart girl. Very smart. Part of why Deborah had begged, and Steven had relented, to let her go to the kindergarten class. Junior was Junior and accepted his lot in life since before his birth. But Steven had more than once suggested Joanie’s birth on Devil’s Night to be an omen. And sometimes, Deborah agreed.

This morning, her luck held out; the kids boarded the bus well before her husband came home. In fact, the Garcias—the migrant couple hired the past half-dozen years to help harvest the corn or soybeans—bounced past in their small beaten Chevy pickup. It was in better shape and newer than anything that the Darks owned, but Deborah just stashed that thought away in the never-to-be-noticed-again corner of her brain. She knew better than to catch a ride with them, and they knew better than to offer. In fact, she could just speak with Dolores; just Steven would interact with Martin. That was the way things were.

Steven passed her at eight, when she had a quarter-mile yet to go. The truck didn’t slow down. In all honesty, she didn’t want it to. The drive to and from the jail took twenty minutes each way. Which meant that he’d spent an extra half an hour doing something else. She didn’t want to know what.

When she got to the house, he finished up his conversation with Señor Garcia, his wife trudging toward the fields. The Garcias were a likable enough couple. They didn’t push her husband or cause issues regarding his attitude or behavior. Martin could manage most mechanical repairs that didn’t require parts. His wife, a larger woman, carried herself with confidence and the capability of handling herself; not someone Deborah’s husband would consider approaching. She knew better than to be jealous; envy was a sin. But it still hurt.

Once inside, she found her husband in one of his good moods. Very good. She could smell the corn-whiskey on his breath. Several of the other jail guards owned farms like Steven—no telling which one had a still and shared this fall’s crop. But it helped this morning, soothing his temper and her nerves, so she submitted to his carnal desires and curled up against him afterward, contemplating the answers she could never give her daughter.

She was Steven’s second wife. His first had run away back in ‘75, when Deborah still attended middle school. The kids knew nothing about her. Anything even hinting at the existence of Imogene Dark had been purged from the property, as far as Deborah knew, by the time the divorce—due to abandonment—had been registered. Deborah’s family farm neighbored his, and they all attended the same church. Steven Dark seemed dangerous in the summer of ‘78, and Deborah wasn’t the lone girl in Mocksville to be swayed by his charisma. However, she was the lone girl who got pregnant by him. They married that autumn, their 12-year age difference commented on but not sneered at. Junior arrived the following spring. She never returned to school.

Deborah couldn’t recall when she learned why Imogene left. She dared not think about the alternatives to the former Mrs. Dark’s whereabouts. Again, she knew better than to feel envy. So she wished the vanished woman well, wherever she may be.

Joanie climbed off the bus after lunch, and she and her mother made the trek back to the farmhouse. Junior, in the fifth grade, did so on his own. Deborah liked to use the thirty-to-forty-five minute period as an opportunity to work out any extra energy her daughter might be bringing home from school and her interactions with the other kids. Not that there were many. She’d already gotten calls from the teacher about Joanie’s behavior toward other children. The child would laugh at inappropriate things and get upset when they tried to play with her—well, unless they followed whatever strict rules she’d come up with for the current “game” they played. But she was the sole child in the class who could both read and do simple math, so the teacher gave her some leeway.

This explained why Deborah disobeyed Steven about the birthday snacks. And why she would disobey him about the Halloween costumes. Because, down deep, she knew she couldn’t allow Joanie to be beaten into submission, like Deborah had her whole life.

That evening, supper for the kids and herself consisted of Joanie’s current favorites: bologna sandwiches and mac & cheese. She had no special dessert, no presents, no song. Deborah’s parents had allowed such things, but her husband did not. Even after he had finished his steak and potatoes, told both children good night, and drove off to the jail for that night’s shift, she resisted doing anything out of the ordinary for Joanie’s birthday.

However, after the children went to bed, she began sewing. It didn’t take her very long, as she wasn’t doing anything complicated. But when the kids awoke Hallowe’en morning, she had their costumes ready and gave explicit instructions on how to dress for school. Assertive behavior from their mother was a foreign concept, so they obeyed without comment or question, just to see where it led.

Deborah studied both children. Junior wore blue jeans and a pale blue dress shirt that he’d sometimes worn to Church the past winter. His father’s farming hat sat atop his head, lined with a towel to make it fit well enough, with a star cut from a pie tin pinned to his chest. An empty holster hung from his belt and he wore his work boots. A white cloth mask finished the look, the Lone Ranger smiling shyly back at her.

Her other child had on a long black sweater, as well as tights with black shorts pulled up over them. Felt ears had been bobby-pinned to her hair, and some hose with a run in it had been stuffed and safety-pinned for a tail. Her mother tied a black cloth mask around her head and drew three lines had on each cheek for whiskers, using the single makeup pen that Deborah owned. Joanie meowed and purred like an over-energetic kitten, rubbing up against her mother’s legs.

They walked to the road in a pleasant, almost delightful, atmosphere. All three enjoyed very good moods: the children excited about fitting in with their peers, and Deborah pleased for having completed the task. As the sky lightened, while they waited for the bus, all seemed well.

Steven’s ancient pickup arrived thirty seconds ahead of the school bus, then sat in the driveway, engine idling.

The children climbed aboard the bus, their mother watching from outside the truck, their father from within.

The truck door swung open with the creak of ungreased hinges, a wordless invitation which could not ever be refused.

Deborah nodded once, exhaled, accepted what was to come, and climbed up onto the bench seat.

A few hours later, Joanie came off the bus, giddy at having fit in for once. She asked her mother how she’d managed to blacken both eyes. As per usual, Deborah declined to answer.