boiler room was already full of candy.
When Mr. Crabtree cancelled the rest of the Halloween party—before anything else happened, he said—the PTA committee got stuck with fourteen dozen doughnuts, so they blamed Mr. Crabtree for that … and Mrs. Wendleken blamed the Ohio Light and Power Company for what she called Alice’s “brush with death,” but nobody else got blamed for anything.
The police chief took charge of the candy in case it turned out to be stolen, but he said he couldn’t haul it off to the police station, and Mr. Crabtree said he couldn’t leave it in the boiler room, so it all ended up where Halloween candy is supposed to end up—with the kids.
The manager of the supermarket said he would never stock that much candy. “You stock that much candy,” he said, “you’ll have stale candy.”
He was right, because that’s what we had—stale candy. But you can still count stale candy; you can make piles of stale candy and trade for your favorite kinds; you can eat stale candy if you want to and your mother lets you and you don’t have braces.
Stale isn’t very important at Halloween. What’s important at Halloween is amount—how many, how much—and we had more candy that Halloween than ever before … or ever again, probably.
Never again at Woodrow Wilson School, for sure. That’s what Mr. Crabtree said when the PTA committee wanted to store all the cardboard bats and fake cobwebs and witch hats and ghost sheets for next year.
“No next year!” he said. “Never again!”
This meant that we could go back to Halloween as usual, which was what we all really wanted in the first place.
“Why?” my mother said. “Why do you want to run all over the neighborhood in the dark, and try to keep your costume together, and hang on to your trick-or-treat sack and your flashlight, and then, on top of everything else, stay away from the Herdmans… . Why?”
“Yes,” Charlie said, after a second.
“Yes, what?” Mother said.
“All that … even the Herdmans.” He shrugged. “That’s what Halloween is supposed to be.”
Good for you, Charlie, I thought, to know that. After all, once you go down a slide into a room full of candy you might forget what an ordinary Halloween is like.
My father was still trying to get it all straight. “You went down a slide into the boiler room?” he said. “How did you happen to do that?”
“We just followed Boomer,” Charlie said.
>“In his gorilla suit,” Cecil added.
Only I knew it wasn’t Boomer.
13
T here were several clues like that, but I guess Mr. Crabtree never could tie them all together, although he kept calling people into the office to ask what they saw or heard on Halloween night. He mostly asked the wrong people, though—teachers and PTA mothers and a bunch of random kids who honestly couldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.
“Just all the lights went out and you didn’t know where you were and there were a lot of strange noises and spooky stuff and then a whole ton of candy!” Some of those kids also said, “Great Halloween!”
Mrs. Wendleken had a lot to say, but it was all about Alice’s beautiful, but ruined, costume that never got to win a prize, and about the leftover doughnuts that were donated to the Welfare Department, “ … so you know who got them!”
Everybody knew who got them, because the Herdmans showed up with doughnuts every day for a week.
Mr. Crabtree finally quit trying to figure it out and moved on to Thanksgiving—although every now and then you would see him go down to the boiler room and poke around the corners and shake his head.
Danny Filus and Stewart Walker helped the janitor, Mr. Sprague, move the kindergarten slide back to the playground, although Mr. Sprague said he could have done it by himself. “Those boys could have moved it,” he said. “It wasn’t so heavy.”
Boomer’s grandmother’s fur coat turned up, along with my father’s wash-the-car pants, in the
When Mr. Crabtree cancelled the rest of the Halloween party—before anything else happened, he said—the PTA committee got stuck with fourteen dozen doughnuts, so they blamed Mr. Crabtree for that … and Mrs. Wendleken blamed the Ohio Light and Power Company for what she called Alice’s “brush with death,” but nobody else got blamed for anything.
The police chief took charge of the candy in case it turned out to be stolen, but he said he couldn’t haul it off to the police station, and Mr. Crabtree said he couldn’t leave it in the boiler room, so it all ended up where Halloween candy is supposed to end up—with the kids.
The manager of the supermarket said he would never stock that much candy. “You stock that much candy,” he said, “you’ll have stale candy.”
He was right, because that’s what we had—stale candy. But you can still count stale candy; you can make piles of stale candy and trade for your favorite kinds; you can eat stale candy if you want to and your mother lets you and you don’t have braces.
Stale isn’t very important at Halloween. What’s important at Halloween is amount—how many, how much—and we had more candy that Halloween than ever before … or ever again, probably.
Never again at Woodrow Wilson School, for sure. That’s what Mr. Crabtree said when the PTA committee wanted to store all the cardboard bats and fake cobwebs and witch hats and ghost sheets for next year.
“No next year!” he said. “Never again!”
This meant that we could go back to Halloween as usual, which was what we all really wanted in the first place.
“Why?” my mother said. “Why do you want to run all over the neighborhood in the dark, and try to keep your costume together, and hang on to your trick-or-treat sack and your flashlight, and then, on top of everything else, stay away from the Herdmans… . Why?”
“Yes,” Charlie said, after a second.
“Yes, what?” Mother said.
“All that … even the Herdmans.” He shrugged. “That’s what Halloween is supposed to be.”
Good for you, Charlie, I thought, to know that. After all, once you go down a slide into a room full of candy you might forget what an ordinary Halloween is like.
My father was still trying to get it all straight. “You went down a slide into the boiler room?” he said. “How did you happen to do that?”
“We just followed Boomer,” Charlie said.
>“In his gorilla suit,” Cecil added.
Only I knew it wasn’t Boomer.
13
T here were several clues like that, but I guess Mr. Crabtree never could tie them all together, although he kept calling people into the office to ask what they saw or heard on Halloween night. He mostly asked the wrong people, though—teachers and PTA mothers and a bunch of random kids who honestly couldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.
“Just all the lights went out and you didn’t know where you were and there were a lot of strange noises and spooky stuff and then a whole ton of candy!” Some of those kids also said, “Great Halloween!”
Mrs. Wendleken had a lot to say, but it was all about Alice’s beautiful, but ruined, costume that never got to win a prize, and about the leftover doughnuts that were donated to the Welfare Department, “ … so you know who got them!”
Everybody knew who got them, because the Herdmans showed up with doughnuts every day for a week.
Mr. Crabtree finally quit trying to figure it out and moved on to Thanksgiving—although every now and then you would see him go down to the boiler room and poke around the corners and shake his head.
Danny Filus and Stewart Walker helped the janitor, Mr. Sprague, move the kindergarten slide back to the playground, although Mr. Sprague said he could have done it by himself. “Those boys could have moved it,” he said. “It wasn’t so heavy.”
Boomer’s grandmother’s fur coat turned up, along with my father’s wash-the-car pants, in the
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