Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure (5 page)

Cliff shrugs. “Sometimes you just have to let people
dig themselves into holes. If they really won’t listen to you, then
you just gotta let them figure it out for themselves.”

“I guess. It just seems so mean.”

“You can’t take care of everybody all the time, hon.
But it’s awesome that you try.” He kisses her nose. Then he sees
her laptop screen. “Why are you looking up ... sexy mummy
dresses?”

“I’m gonna be the sexy mummy at the haunted house,”
Kristy says. She doesn’t usually find it so hard to be enthusiastic
about things. “Yaaaaay.”

“But what about your magical ice queen gown?” he
says, dismayed.

This is why she loves him.

“You’re the best ever boyfriend, Reddy,” she says,
kissing him.

“Yeah, well, you know. I got skills.” He waves his
hands in fake modesty, making her laugh.

+

“Well, you have to do it,” Artie Kraft Sr. says.

Arthur has that look on his face. The one that always
comes out to play whenever Howie has seen him with his parents. The
one that says,
My brain kind of wants to explode right now at
your jackassery, but I am so well-mannered that I am straining for
poise at any cost, and may therefore suffer an aneurysm.
“I
do?”

“I don’t understand all this blog business, frankly,
but if this woman is going to get the store some attention, then
why in the world are you hesitating? You always hesitate,
Arthur—you can’t afford to do that.”

“Oh, Art, don’t nag,” says Mrs. Kraft from the other
side of the table. Her first name is Helen, but Howie is totally
incapable of imagining any scenario in which he could actually call
her that. Maybe if she was trapped in a room full of like a hundred
women, all named Mrs. Kraft, and using her first name was the only
way to get her attention. But casually? All
Hey Helen, what’s
up, how’s it hangin’?
Nope. Not happening. “This is our last
family dinner together before we leave.”

The Krafts are off to their condo in Hawaii for the
winter, just like every year. What a pair of snow-fearing
pansies.

At the same time, that means that they’re gone for a
solid four months, and Howie’s not going to hate on that. It does
wonders for Arthur’s sanity.

“I’m not
nagging
, Helen,” Mr. Kraft says
impatiently. “I’m simply telling him the way things are.”

“My concern, Dad, is that some of the demands he made
for the event were a little outlandish. He
is
a child.”

“But he knows what he wants, and he asked for it.
See, that—that’s important. Isn’t that right, Howie?”

Howie usually tries not to talk in front of Arthur’s
parents. Turns out, his particular brand of zany witticisms? Not
really the Krafts’ thing. He’s still haunted by the time he decided
to make fun of Mitt Romney’s hair in an attempt to find some common
ground, thinking,
They’re hella conservative! They’ve definitely
stared at Mitt Romney’s head more than most! They’ll totally know
what I’m talking about!

Turns out: flawed plan.

So now he plays it safe.

“Um,” Howie says, “you betcha!”

‘Safe’ always comes out vaguely Minnesotan for some
reason.

Arthur says, “He wants a girl to dress up like a sexy
mummy. Kristy’s volunteered, but I really feel like she shouldn’t
have to—”

“Oh, what boy doesn’t like pretty girls?” Mr. Kraft
says. Then he considers them awkwardly. “Present company
excluded.”

“Pretty girls,” Howie says. “Pfft.
Gross
,
right?”

Okay. That one definitely didn’t land.

Mr. Kraft decides to ignore that entirely. “Just give
them something nice to look at. There’s no harm in it. Besides,
that’s what this holiday is all about, right? Girls finding the
excuse to look like harlots.”

“Really, Dad?” Arthur says, disgusted. “Harlots?”

“I remember that one year your sister wanted to go
out in the most appalling get-up—frills and bright makeup
everywhere—”

“You mean when she dressed up like Raggedy Ann?”

“Sexy Raggedy Ann?” Howie whispers, for
clarification.

Arthur shakes his head, eyes wide and annoyed.

Mr. Kraft prattles on. “Skirt above her knees; it was
shameless. I told her, ‘Melissa, you’re not leaving this house
until you put on some real clothes, young lady.’ But surely Kristy
won’t mind that sexy mummy business. She’s always been a little
loose with her morals. Who could blame her, really? With all the
freedom that my sister and her numbskull husband have always given
her—”

“Dad, can we not get into that, please?” Arthur
implores.

“Kristy is such a pretty girl,” Mrs. Kraft says
gracefully. “I bet she’ll make an
adorable
sexy mummy.”

“Exactly. There. You see? No problem.”

“I guess,” Arthur says, glaring down into his bowl of
soup.

“Hey. You look up when I’m talking to you, young man.
This is business, Arthur.
My
business, need I remind
you?”

“You really need not,” Arthur says.

“And I say, throw the damn birthday party. It’s a no
brainer.”

“Kristy seems to think that such an ... aggressive
atmosphere of horror won’t necessarily work out.”

“Your cousin is a sweet girl, Arthur, but do you
really think she has the head for business? She wants to be a
kindergarten teacher, for Pete’s sake.”

“Yeah! She just wants to go into working with kids
professionally! What’s relevant about that?” Damn it. Howie really
didn’t mean to say that out loud. To appease his listeners, he
throws in a desperate, “... eh?”

Mr. Kraft snorts. “She wants summers off and a career
where all she does is tie shoes and play with blocks and crayons.
No ambition in that side of the family, I’ve always said—”

“Being a kindergarten teacher is a really demanding
job, Dad.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mr. Kraft waves a hand. “Arthur, let
the little tyke have his party! It’s all in good fun, isn’t
it?”

“Yep,” Arthur says, clearly straining for
patience.

Howie pats his knee under the table.

“What are you doing down there?” Mr. Kraft barks.
“Hands where I can see them.”

Howie brings his hand up so fast that he almost
knocks over his water glass.

“Oh, really, Art,” chides Mrs. Kraft. “Don’t scare
him.”

“It was a joke,” Mr. Kraft protests.

Arthur chugs his water like it’s whisky and he’s a
man who drinks to forget.

“No homo?” Howie says meekly.

+

“So we’re doing this, then,” Howie says, once they’re
out in the car. “Voldie Junior is getting his customized
shindig.”

“Yep,” Arthur says blandly.

There’s a long, grim silence.

“You want to go buy some organic produce?” Howie asks
then. It’s the kind of dorky foodie behavior that always lifts
Arthur’s spirits.

“Okay,” says Arthur.

A butternut squash, a bushel of kale, a bag of
brussels sprouts, and five brightly colored bell peppers later,
Arthur is seeming more cheerful. Mostly because Howie promised to
eat a brussels sprout, which was a total shameless lie, but
still.

You do what you gotta do in this ride or die haunted
house life.

+

If there’s one thing Cora is fucking sick of, it’s
watching Heather Grimsby be Frankenstein’s monster.

Like, watching someone writhe in agony around a stage
dressed in nothing but bandages should not be sexy. Watching
someone teach herself to walk should not be sexy. Watching someone
shake her fists at heaven and curse the stars should not be sexy.
Watching someone murder innocent women and children? Again: no no
on the sexy.

Why the fuck is Heather acting like she’s starring in
50 Shades of Frankenstein??

Meanwhile, Cora just gets to stand up real straight
and monologue about science and despair a lot.

It’s such a drag.

She’s extra sick of the scenes that she and Heather
have together. For some reason, Tasha the director (who Cora has
loved for years, and who might now be dead to her) keeps making
them clasp each other’s faces with tender intensity and shit. She
says it is to convey “the fraught parent-child tension inherent
within the relationship.” Whatever. Cora has been plenty tense with
her own parents, and never once has that involved tender
face-clasping. If Cora bites off Heather’s annoyingly perfect nose
one of these days, it’s not going to be her fault.

Cora doesn’t get what Heather is even doing here.
This isn’t high school drama club, where every once in awhile the
pretty popular girl from the dance team decides she wants even more
attention and hangs out with the nerds so she can show off what a
totally adorable Eliza Doolittle she is or whatever.

In a post-high-school existence, people like Heather
Grimsby shouldn’t even exist. At least not in Cora’s orbit.

And yet.

“I heard you’re having some big freaky haunted house
at your store,” Heather says one evening. Rehearsal’s over and the
two of them are in front of the green room mirror. Heather’s
touching up her blush.

Meanwhile, Cora is drawing a spider on her own cheek
with eyeliner, mostly just to hog mirror space. At this point,
Heather Grimsby needs some thwarting at every turn, god damn
it.

“Yep,” Cora says flatly.

“I could drop by after rehearsal. It’s the first time
we’re practicing with full makeup, so I’ll be hella scary. I’ll
totally be a part of your little thing. I bet it will be really
cute. Like, gross-cute. Whatever. The kids will love it.”

“Yeah, uh, hella no thanks,” Cora deadpans.

Heather starts brushing her hair in silence. Thank
God.

“You know, I think you’re a pretty fierce Dr.
Frankenstein,” Heather says. God, what is up with her? “You do such
a good job with all those boring monologues and stuff.”

“You know, I think you’re, like, really good at
writhing all over the floor like you’re trying to hump it,” Cora
says. Her Heather-mocking cadence is spot on, if she does say so
herself. “Like, who cares about an authentic portrayal of human
suffering when you can sexualize the shit out of it and show
everyone what a total hottie you are, right?”

Cora glances at Heather’s face in the mirror. Heather
looks kind of stricken. Uh oh. Big bad bitchface is gonna throw a
tantrum.

“That is so not what I’m doing,” Heather says
frostily.

“Uh, okay then.”

“I can’t help it if I have a good body or whatever. I
am seriously committed to my yogalates. And I’m sorry that the
script calls for me to be mostly naked at first, but that wasn’t my
decision—”

“Please! It’s not that, and your body isn’t that
great, Miss Humble.” (Kind of a lie, but an extremely necessary lie
considering the circumstances.) “It’s what
you’re
doing.
You’re always all:
uhhh-uhh—UHHHH
—”

Amber looks up from where she’s scribbling notes in a
script on the other side of the room.

What, so a girl can’t just nonchalantly make some
scornful sex noises of mockery without getting everybody’s
attention?

“Because I haven’t acquired the capacity for speech
yet, freak!” Heather cries.

Cora glares at her. “Don’t even worry about it; I
have it on good authority from society that hot naked women are
actually at their best
without
the capacity for speech. Just
keep doing what you’re doing— I bet the guys in the audience will
be whipping it out at the sight of you—”

Heather grabs her backpack off the counter. It knocks
into Cora’s arm, and the eighth leg of her cheek spider winds up
squiggling all the way to her nose.

“Okay, fine!” Heather spits. “I have tried to be nice
to you, but you’re obviously never going to forgive me for doing
better at auditions than you and earning this role fair and square,
so whatever. Whatever. I give up.”

Cora laughs shortly. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Cora says airily. “You just suck at being
nice, if this has been you being nice.”

“Oh, God! Jealous much?”

“Annoying much?”

“Copying me much?”

“Fuck you, Frankenbitch,” Cora snarls. “How’s that
for original?”

“Actually, technically, you’re Frankenbitch,” Heather
says saccharinely, swooshing right into Cora’s personal space. Cora
can smell her peachy lipgloss. “I’m Frankenbitch’s monster. Learn
the play.”

Cora watches her go, her shiny brown hair swishing
with every step.

Fucking fuckity fuck fuck her.

“Jesus Christ,” Cora mutters. “No wonder Howie
fucking forsook the entire female gender after dating
that
.
Like I’d let her come to the haunted house. She is the last person
I would ever invite to fucking
anything
concerning my life
outside of this play.” Amber is staring at her. “What?”