Treating the Tricksters

by Beth Alexander Walsh

  The first year my brother got to go trick or treating without me, it was 1969 and I was in kindergarten. Barely able to see out of the mask of my Raggedy Ann costume, I ran to keep up with all the hobos and ghosts crisscrossing my street, while trying to carry a plastic bucket. Our mother watched us from the front porch. At the end of the street my brother pushed me around and told me to go home as he joined the pack of kids, giddy with the freedom of roaming the streets without a parent in sight. I was devastated, especially when I saw how much candy he brought home in his pillowcase.

 In second grade it was my turn to join the pack. I listened for weeks about route strategies and other useful tips on the school bus. My mother helped me fashion an Indian costume made from an old brown skirt hiked up to my armpits. She cut fringe into the hem and made sure it would fit over my winter coat. Wearing a coat under the costume was an argument I never won. My hair was braided into pigtails and tied with twine. Some brown cloth scraps turned into a head band. A beaded necklace purchased from Clarks Trading Post during a family vacation completed the look. There was a five minute argument about hats and cold weather and I was finally allowed to leave the house with my  braids unmolested and a Jordan Marsh bag in my hand.

 Several blocks into our candy route, the neighborhood boys declared war on the girls, brandishing cans of shaving cream as weapons. My brother demonstrated his allegiance by smearing a handful of cream down my back and leaving me to fend for myself with the older girls. We continued our trick or treating, taking cover at moving shadows and readying ourselves for the next assault. One of the older girls came up with the brilliant idea of asking for eggs at the next house instead of candy, and it was decided that since I was the youngest and most innocent looking, the job would be mine. I went up to the door and politely asked the man who answered if I could have some eggs instead of candy, regaling my sad story of mean boys and shaving cream. He asked me to wait and I turned back to my friends hiding in the bushes, unsure of what to do next. The man returned with a carton containing half a dozen eggs. He proceeded to instruct me on how to throw them, and that given my size, underhand would be best. He wished me luck and threw candy into my bag for good measure. I ran triumphantly back to the girls and we abandoned our trick or treating in favor of exercising our revenge. We raced the dark streets, eager to play out our dramatic plans of espionage; alternating the eggs from the carton to our hands and back again.

 As we made our way closer to home, we realized that the streets were  empty and the porch lights were out. Halloween was over. We stuffed our egg carton under a neighborhood bush before scattering to our respective houses.

 I joined my brother, already sorting his candy on the living room floor. We negotiated candy trades, casting off our hated Almond Joys into a pile to give to our mother. She came into the room brandishing paper sacks with our names on them and asked us how our night went. We talked about who had the best costume and which house was the scariest as we shoveled our candy into the bags.

 My brother never mentioned his shaving cream

 and I never said anything about my eggs.