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e was holding a squishy bundle of newspapers. The papers reeked21 sweetly with the smell of pumpkin guts22.
“Yours are far better,” he said.
“You’re wrong. You’ll see when they’re lit,” Allison said.
She went inside and came back with yellow vigil candles. It took her a while to get each candle settled, and then to line up the results in a row on the porch railing. She went along and lit each candle and fixed23 the pumpkin lids over the little flames.
“See?” she said.
They sat together a moment and looked at the orange faces.
“We’re exhausted24. It’s good night time,” Allison said. “Don’t blow out the candles. I’ll put new in tomorrow.”
That night, in their bedroom, a few weeks earlier than had been predicted, Allison began to die. “Don’t look at me if my wig comes off,” she told Clark. “Please.”
Her pulse cords were fluttering under his fingers. She raised her knees and kicked away the comforter. She said something to Clark about the garage being locked.
At the telephone, Clark had a clear view out back and down to the porch. He wanted to get drunk with his wife once more. He wanted to tell her, from the greater perspective he had, that to own only a little talent, like his, was an awful, plaguing thing; that being only a little special meant you expected too much, most of the time, and liked yourself too little. He wanted to assure her that she had missed nothing.
He was speaking into the phone now. He watched the jack-o-lanterns. The jack-o-lanterns watched him.