Short Story: The Hero

 

The Hero

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at the dashboard clock. 

Three minutes until the bell signaling the end of the school day. 

The red light blocking traffic turns languidly to green, and I stomp on the accelerator like a NASCAR driver. 

I pull into the middle school parking lot and park; jumping out the door, running toward the school. I absolutely must be there on time. 

The receptionist greets me and I nod, panting a little, as the Special Education room opens and I see my boy coming out in true Gavin form, his smile reaching from ear to ear. His aide walks along beside him, carrying his lunchbox.

“Gavin is so excited for Halloween!” the aide gushes. She's new to the school, fresh out of college. 

I give a little smile back and make pleasant conversation, but I'm seething. My hands grip each other and I quiet the urge to throttle the poor girl.

As far as I'm concerned, Halloween is dead forever. I hadn't planned to celebrate the holiday at all. No candy, no costumes, no TV specials. Just a quiet, empty place between Labor Day and Thanksgiving.

But now my hand is forced. Gavin had made up his mind about Halloween and getting him to change it would be like squeezing a rock through a garlic press. Therefore, I must remember Halloween. 

Gavin talks all the way to the car and then all the way home. I try to distract him, but he doesn’t want to look at the birds outside, or the tractors. It was How-ween this, How-ween that.

When we get home, I try again to distract.

“Gavin, how about some popcorn?”

“How about some cocoa?”

“Would you like to watch a show?”

Gavin already knows what he wants. He goes up the stairs as fast as his legs can pump and stops under the attic. I wait half-heartedly for a few moments, then sigh and pull down the attic ladder. Gavin waits expectantly while I climb upstairs and dig out the old box of Halloween things.

Gavin opens the box and hands me item after item. I sigh over and over again as I place the plastic pumpkins, the orange tinsel strands, the ceramic haunted house.

Gavin hands me a paper and my heart turns to ice. It is a black and white picture. A photograph from an ultrasound.

The picture snaps me like a rubber band, and suddenly I’m back in the imaging center of the hospital, a year ago on Halloween, hearing the ultrasound tech say that something is wrong, and the doctor who was so young, so young, saying that our perfect, unborn baby has no heartbeat. 

"Maa?" Gavin asks, poking me with a witch figurine. "Maa?"

I struggle back to the present.

“I’m here, sweetie,” I say, blindly taking the decoration and shoving it onto the bookshelf. 

Gavin opens the chest of old costumes and digs around for a while. I see the elephant outfit he’d worn as a toddler, the cowboy hat from age five. 

“Soo-he-wo,” Gavin says. “Soo-he-wo!”

He tugs out the red superhero cape and holds it out to me. I pull it over his shoulders and smooth it straight. 

I sit back on my heels and watch my boy run around the house so his cape will fly out behind him. 

On his third lap, Gavin skids to a stop and looks into my face. 

“Maa?” he asks, looking worried. “Maa?” 

He holds out his arms for a hug. 

I grab my boy and hold him tight. The Down Syndrome makes it so Gavin is unable to read words, but also able to see a person all the way to the heart. He always knows when I’m upset, and so I can’t show that I’m upset. 

Over the next month, Gavin asks about Halloween every few minutes, needing me to answer and reassure.  

“Three weeks, Gavin.”

“Two weeks.” 

“Two days, Gavin.”

“Maa? How oh wee?”

“Yes, Gavin. It’s Halloween today.”

I put the big steel mixing bowl on the couch and pour a bag of Fun Size candy bars inside. I see my favorite kind of chocolate in there, but I don’t indulge. I didn’t have our baby, but I’m still losing the baby weight. 

My mind wanders back to last Halloween, though I cringe away from the memory. 

I went from the hospital straight to Gavin’s school to pick him up. I remember hugging him tight for as long as he’d let me. 

Then it was time for trick-or-treating.

So we put on our coats, Gavin and I, and we walked through the neighborhood. 

It all blurs together except for one house. 

Gavin had rung the bell, and we waited in the cold. A woman then opened the door and looked us up and down. 

“Oh honey, you’re too old for trick or treat.” 

And then she shut the door. 

There were two ringing moments of shocked silence, then Gavin reached out and pressed the doorbell again. 

I grabbed his arm and hustled him off the porch, my cheeks burning red, my eyes stinging, anger burning hot in my blood. 

Maybe I should have gone back. Maybe I should have explained. 

But I never did. I just took vindictive pleasure whenever my dog tagged the corner of her yard. 

Well, Halloween is here again, the sun beginning its descent to the horizon, spilling colors like a melting tropical sorbet. 

Gavin clumps down the stairs, dressed from head to toe in red and blue polyester. He despises wearing anything on his head, so his mask hangs around his neck like an infinity scarf. 

"Ready, Gav?" I ask, forcing a smile so my voice will sound happy.

My boy races into the night, his legs pumping, his pillowcase flapping, and I miserably follow. 

Children run on the sidewalks with their candy and costumes. I smile when I see a little mother with a baby on her back, pushing a double stroller with at least three kids crammed in, but then I look away. 

She has a baby. 

Gavin runs up the first driveway and I follow, waiting just off the porch. 

“Twik twee!” he shouts, and my sweet neighbor cooes over his costume, giving him a double handful of candy. I nod and bare my teeth in a smile as she waves at me, then I follow Gavin to the next house. 

This pattern continues, broken only when I implement a successful stratagem to keep Gavin away from that one neighbor’s place, until Gavin’s pillowcase is two-thirds full and we’re both tired. 

It’s full night now and the air is chilly. I coax Gavin to wear his jacket, hat, and gloves, which I’ve carried all the way just for this moment. Gavin is cold, so he submits to the jacket and even wears the gloves, but the hat goes into his pocket. 

Ah well. I tried. 

Gavin is so happy. I look at my boy while we walk home and feel warmth in my chilly heart. He’s such a good boy, my Gav. 

We get to the house and I see with relief that the living room lights are on. My husband is home a little early so he can be a part of halloween. 

I turn up the walk and go all the way to the front door, lost in my swirl of bitter, sad thoughts. I open the screen door, then realize that Gavin is no longer beside me. 

I turn and see him standing at the bottom of the walk, like some parents do when passing out candy. 

A little girl dressed as a witch comes by with her dad. 

I watch, stunned, as Gavin reaches his fist into his pillowcase and pulls up a handful of bright-wrapped candy. 

The little girl holds out her treat sack with complete trust, and Gavin drops the candy inside. 

“Thank you!” the father says. 

“Tank you!” the little girl peeps. 

They walk down the street. 

Forgetting everything else, I lean against the porch rail and just watch. 

Gavin already has his hands full of candy, waiting for the next trick or treater. 

It’s a firefighter this time, and the little lad shyly hides behind his mother as she smiles and thanks Gavin for the candy. The firefighter waves as they walk to the next house, and Gavin waves back. 

Soon Gavin has a line. He gives huge, indiscriminate handfuls of candy to children dressed as princesses, dinosaurs, and monsters. 

Next comes a group of teenagers. They are big; they are chained and studded and punked. Scared for my boy, I take a step forward. 

But Gavin trots up to them with his hands full of treats. 

The teenagers stop. 

“Woah, thanks, man!”

“Awesome!” 

“Hey, we’ll see you around!” 

The teens walk down the road and I back up again, tears in my eyes. 

My husband has joined me on the porch by this time, his arms around me from behind, and together we watch and wait. 

A little girl comes up, dressed as a bumblebee. She holds out her pumpkin, but Gavin had given the last of his candy to the teens. He kneads his empty pillowcase, then drops it to the ground. 

I look at my husband and together we step off the porch, but before we can reach him, Gavin says something I can’t hear, then tugs off his warm gloves and pops them into her pumpkin bucket.  

The bumblebee’s dad pauses and looks at me. I nod emphatically. 

Take them! I silently beg. Let him have this moment!

Gloves are replaceable. Experiences are not. 

Gavin’s hat goes to the next little boy, and then his new green jacket to another. 

The jacket is harder to watch, since I know how picky Gavin is with his clothes, but I let it go. This is Gavin’s night to be a hero. 

Finally, cold and empty-handed, Gavin turns and finds us right behind him. 

Gavin flings his arms around me and kisses my shoulder. 

“Wuf Ma,” he says. 

“So do I,” says my husband, squeezing me tight. 

Caught there and held between them, my hurting heart shifts. 

I feel the first touch of spring after a terrible winter, the first stitch mending a shredded seam.

In this moment, I glimpse how broken I truly am. But that shift in my heart whispers that I've turned the bend and soon will heal.

By next Halloween, I know that I'll be able to see the sunshine again. 

So I stand there in the cold night, holding my little hero and being held in turn. 

And that's enough. 

--Jenna