Halloween along Grove Avenue, Patchogue, New York haunted each small footstep. Cold October night air greeted warm breath with a balloon cloud of dissipating fog. Enough early evening moonlight shivered through the bare branches that we believed our costumes were more real than imagined. I the cowboy, my sister the Indian princess slowly worked the streets calling Trick of Treat, not really understanding the implied consequences of the phrase.We were young, filled with wonder that so many adults willingly opened their homes and showered us with gifts of candy, coins, and fruit.
Of course, we knew that our father manned the front door to greet the children who would visit our house while we were away. All lights except one table lamp and the porch light were off, and the door remained closed until someone knocked or called out Trick or Treat. He would protect our home.
By the time we walked several blocks--our mother not far behind--with other kids from the neighborhood, our sacks, used pillowcases, were laden with treasure. We were anxious to return home to examine our spoils, and exhaustion brought on by both excitement and exertion, added to our desire.
As we plodded up the front sidewalk, which led to our small stoop overhung with leafless vines, our mother called out, "Let's go in the back door and surprise your father."
The idea lit a spark of excitement that we consumed with glee. My sister led the way, as she often did being the oldest, and we rounded the driveway side of the house. Suddenly the darkness seemed more oppressive, and our steps faltered. We peered into the night and wondered that moonlight failed to illuminate the space between our house and the neighbor's home.
But our mother was not far behind and we had a mission. Sneak up on dad.
Then, as we rounded the house's back corner a tall and menacing figure emerged from the rear yard. Its huge arms lifted to the sky, its claws scrapped the air, and from its long snout, filled with rows of sharp dagger teeth a growl rocked us both. The wolf that ate Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother was about to eat us too.
My legs felt like rubber as my feet scrabbled to grip the driveway, a surface that moments earlier was concrete not Jell-O. The scream that ripped from my sister's throat became mine and together we alerted the entire town that a wolf was on the loose.
We dropped our well-earned loot and bolted back the way we came, past my stunned mother, and into the house, not stopping to realize that the front door was now open, that the lights were now on and didn't slow until we reached the safety of our rooms.
It was decades before I finally realized who wore that mask, and when I confronted my father the delight that filled his eyes, and the laugh he could no longer hold back, told me I was correct.
So dad, Happy Halloween! Now the world knows that my father was the wolf!
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