Please, Leave One

Please, Leave One

by Michael Shimek

Every autumn, little demons run the streets with pitchforks and sacks of candy. Ghosts, witches, and pretty princesses ring doorbells in the hopes of receiving a tasty treat and not a nasty trick. Mothers and fathers wrangle these creatures in a tradition that lasts a single night.

Francis Baker loved traditions; he was all about watching fireworks every summer, he never forgot a loved one's birthday, and since the age of seven, he and his father would fish on January 1^st to ring in the New Year (preserved even after George S. Baker's death several years back). When Francis' only son had reached the age of understanding what it meant to dress up and travel door-to-door, Francis and Ely's mother had taken the child out for an adventure chronicled through forty-five pictures. The father and son had never skipped a year since.

Some traditions don't last.

"This might be my last Halloween with him, Sheryl. I don't care how late he stays out."

Francis huffed as he paced back and forth in the living room. The smell of old leaves and crisp air drafted through open windows, a nice reprieve from the lingering leather of newly purchased furniture. Ely's head hung propped on a windowsill, ears perked at the hoots and giggles of neighborhood children; a dragon's tail of green horns wagged with excitement.

"If you're going to steal my child away from me, then I'm going to make our last Halloween together a night he won't forget! I don't care if he has school in the morning!"

Francis wished he had a landline; hitting a button to end a call didn't calm the anger like a slammed phone into its cradle. Instead, he cursed under his breath and shoved the phone into tightening jeans that fit loose only a month ago--keeping weight after a divorce was hard, but losing custody of a child was harder. He shoved his wife from his mind and focused on what mattered.

"Say, little man, you about ready to go trick or treating?"

Ely's head swiveled and his eyes lit up. "Yeah!" A bucket in the shape of an orange pumpkin dangled from a wrist.

"Excellent! Let's practice the routine. You walk up to a house, knock or ring the doorbell, and someone answers. What do you say?"

"Trick or treat. Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care. I'll pull down your pants!" The five-year-old burst into a laughing fit, never-minding the failure to rhyme.

"That's my ferocious little dragon." Francis tucked back the patch of blond hair sticking out from under the green hoodie that was made to look like a dragon snout. "Now, remember to stay close tonight. This is a new neighborhood for Daddy, and I don't want you getting lost."

"I know." A chubby hand wrapped around Francis's hand. Just about out the door, Ely stopped and said, "Is this our last Halloween?"

Francis knelt by his child and stared deep into brown eyes as rich as the soil. "I will always take you trick or treating, even when you're an old man."

The little boy smiled. "That's silly. You're silly." He paused. "But you'll always take me trick or treating?"

"Always." Francis held back the waterworks. He stood back up. "Okay, little dude. You ready?"

"Yeah!"

Together, hand in hand, father and son continued a tradition

#

Francis wasn't sure if he was amused, frightened, or angered by the sign; he was leaning toward angry—the incessant buzzing in his pants from his wife did not help.

"Daddy, why is there a bowl of candy on that chair?"

"Well, Ely, sometimes when a person isn't home on Halloween, they leave out a bowl of candy for the trick-or-treaters."

"Is that what the sign says?"

He frowned at his son. "No. No, it's not."

Not a moment ago, Francis and Ely had strolled up to the lit house expecting the same routine they had repeated all night. Ely's bucket hung lower and lower as their adventure dragged on, and Francis knew they only had a couple of more homes before the plastic pumpkin overflowed with the five-year-old's ambrosia. The bowl of candy that greeted the two suggested the owners were not around but were kind enough to leave some treats for those who partook in the holiday. He was a bit surprised by how late it was and the amount of candy still in the porcelain dish, but he was even more surprised by the sign and writing scrawled in black marker.

Please,

leave one.

Perplexed, Francis wasn't sure if the owners had made a mistake, or if it was a crude joke to try and collect people's candy. The arrival of a woman and a little mermaid told him his answer.

Even before walking up to the house, Francis could hear the urgency and fright in their exchanged whispers. The mother pulled a candy bar from the little girl's pink pillow sack and left her daughter standing alone at the end of the sidewalk. Urgent legs pumped an attractive, yet slightly older (for Francis' tastes), woman to the house. She made an invisible cross with the candy bar and placed it among the others. About to head back to her daughter without even the slightest acknowledgement of the father and son standing on the front porch, Francis stopped her with his confusion.

"Wait! Hold on!"

The woman jumped and whipped around. Her frantic hands moved black hair out of her view, her face calming once she saw who had halted her escape. She tilted her head and looked at him. "Yes?"

"Sorry, I'm a little new around here." He stepped forward and produced a hand. "Francis Baker. I just moved in down the block, over on Eddison Street."

Although cold, a sweating hand (but also soft and delicate, he noticed) grabbed his and pumped it up and down. "Oh, right. Janet told me about you; she said she met you the other day, the one who brought you a salad. I'm Tricia." She gave a glance around his shoulder and at the house and said, "Why don't you come out onto the street sidewalk."

"Uh, sure." He grabbed his son's hand. "Come on, Ely."

"But my candy."

"Just grab a piece and let's go."

The child reached for the bowl, but a stifled scream from the woman made him jump and freeze; Francis about jumped himself.

"Don't!" She reached out an arm, as if touching a piece of candy would cause harm.

"Excuse me?" he said, making sure to stay a little closer to his son.

Her eyes darted back and forth. "I'd rather not discuss it this close to the house. Over here," she said, tilting her head toward the street, "and I'll tell you why."

Francis frowned but followed the woman. She looked decent enough, but sometimes crazy can hide under a thick disguise. His grip was firm around Ely's hand.

"So, that candy back there isn't poisonous or anything, is it?" he said with an uneasy chuckle.

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. It’s just...no one told you when you moved in?"

He was a bit fed up with the woman's stubbornness. "Nope, and now I don't care. Come on, Ely, let's move on to another house."

A vice-like grip reached out and latched onto Francis' arm. "No! If you've been trick-or-treating in this neighborhood, or if you live around here, you need to place a piece of candy into the bowl."

"And why is that?" he said, pulling away from her invading touch.

Brown, sad eyes blinked at him. "It's the rule."

"What rule? Who lives there?"

Padded shoulders shrugged. "No one knows. Feel free to ask anyone, though. They'll all say the same thing. You leave a piece of candy, or else."

"Okay," he said, keeping Ely behind his legs. "You're crazy, and I'm leaving now with my son."

He began to walk away when she tried to grab his arm again; he dodged out of the way and she almost tumbled into the street. Francis held tight to Ely as he hurried down the sidewalk; the insane lady's pleas faded into the night.

"No, please! If you love your child, you'll leave one! Please, listen to me!"

After a moment of pulling his son along, Ely spoke up. "Daddy, what was that lady saying? Why didn't I get my candy? Can we still go trick or treating?"

"No, we're going home."

"But, Daddy—"

"I said we're going home!"

He didn't mean to raise his voice, but the night was not turning out how Francis had envisioned. The nagging of his ex, a crazy woman trying to scare him and his son, the whiney voice of a complaining child (even if it was his own): something in his brain had snapped.

Expecting sobs to follow his yelling, he was instead treated with a guilty silence.

A group of about eight to ten children rounded the corner. Pirates, fairies, and monsters all laughed and giggled with glee as they bumped their way by Francis and Ely. A larger gentleman huffed and puffed behind the little mob, struggling to keep up. The two fathers exchanged a glance of mutual understanding before passing each other.

"Those were some pretty neat costumes, huh?" Francis said, feeling bad for being short with his only child a few seconds ago.

He looked down, and Ely wasn't there. A plastic, orange pumpkin hung from his hand in Ely's place.

"Ely?" His head darted around. Ghosts ran and giggled alongside superheroes, but the small, green dragon that he called his son was nowhere. "Ely? Where are you? Ely!"

His pants buzzed, and even though he had ignored Sheryl for most of the night, an absentminded daze answered his phone. There was no need to say hello; the voice on the other end was instant. "Francis? Francis, are you there? Are you still out with Ely? If you two are still trick or treating..." She yammered on and on, but he was oblivious to whatever she had to say.

He stood alone on the sidewalk, a chill, a knowing, running down his spine that he would never see his son again.

END