Toil & Trouble Read online

  It’s such a calming shade of sage green.

  “That’s ... my bowl,” Arthur whispers as Tyler wanders out of the office.

  “Did you say something?” Annie Fabray asks sharply.

  “Um. No.” Arthur clears his throat. “So, er, Tyler explained to me what he’d like at the party. Would you like me to run it by you as well, or—”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Are you sure?” Arthur says meekly.

  “Mr. Kraft.” Annie Fabray gives him a look that can best be translated into, You simple, pitiful idiot. “Who knows what ten year old children would like more than a ten year old child?”

  It is time, he decides, to reveal to her the full gravity of the situation.

  “Chainsaws were mentioned,” Arthur says.

  It doesn’t have the effect that he had hoped for.

  “It’s Halloween,” she says mercilessly. “Are you some kind of All Hallow’s Puritan?”

  “Okay then,” Arthur says, bested. “The point is, I’m not sure if Tyler’s ... vision will necessarily appeal to all of the local children, and it is open to everyone.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find some way to satisfy everyone,” Annie Fabray answers. After a moment’s ominous pause, she adds, “If that’s really your priority.”

  You simple, pitiful idiot, says the lingering silence.

  “It is,” Arthur says after a moment, a little squeakily. He clears his throat. “Tyler didn’t offer any specific ideas in terms of activities, and I know that these kinds of events usually go smoothest with an agenda, so do you think—”

  “For God’s sake, Mr. Kraft. Do you really expect a ten year old to do everything for you?”

  Fine then.

  This is clearly a fight that can’t be won.

  “Of course not,” Arthur says diplomatically, hoping his tone conveys the proper amount of polite but insistent please go away now vibes. “I’ll take Tyler’s suggestions into account and begin planning.”

  Annie Fabray raises a terrifying eyebrow. “Suggestions?”

  “Specifications,” Arthur corrects. “You have a nice day.”

  “Thank you,” Annie Fabray says.

  Well, Arthur thinks wearily as he watches her go, at least we have a plan.

  +

  “Nope,” Kristy says. “None of that is gonna work. We definitely have to stick with happy haunted ice palace.”

  “I can swear to you,” Arthur says, “that it’s the last thing this boy is interested in.”

  Poor Arthur. This is one of those times, Kristy can tell, where he’s dangerously close to losing all perspective.

  It’s a good thing she’s here to help.

  “But it’s not just for this boy, Arthur,” she reminds him. “This is open to all the local kids, right?”

  Arthur looks torn. “Of course. It’s just—his opinion might matter slightly more than everyone else’s.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Do you want another negative review from Annie Fabray? Because I promise you, that’s what we’ll get if we don’t comply to that child’s every demand.”

  “Well, I promise you.” Kristy crosses her arms stubbornly. “Tyler Fabray loves that movie.”

  “There’s no way,” Arthur says.

  “He loves it,” Kristy says firmly.

  “Did you not hear any of the horrific things I just described to you?”

  “I heard, and they sound horrible.”

  “I think that might be the point.”

  “And shouldn’t the point be to make everybody happy? Because there’s only one thing that every single kid in my classroom loves, and it’s—”

  “Kristy,” Arthur says gently. “Please, please drop it for now. It’s a lovely idea, but it’s just not realistic. I have to figure out how to fill all of these preposterous demands. Starting with ... a sexy mummy.”

  “A what?” Kristy says with a shocked laugh.

  “Oh, Tyler made it very clear that he’ll find some way to claim he suffered grievous bodily harm here if there’s no sexy mummy. He insists that his mom will be all too happy to sue. Funnily enough, I don’t have a hard time believing that.”

  Okay, that is pretty bad. “Yikes.”

  “I suppose Cora might go for it. It seems like her brand of strange, right?”

  But Kristy knows for a fact that Cora has been planning to dress up as a werewolf since like August. (“Not a sexy werewolf. A scare-your-balls-off werewolf.”) There’s an elaborate mask with a snout and bloody fangs and everything. Kristy can’t bear to take that away from her.

  “I’ll do it,” she says abruptly.

  “What?”

  “She really has her heart set on being a werewolf. That’s fine! I don’t mind. I’ll totally be a sexy mummy.”

  Arthur seems tempted to collapse from relief.

  “Bless you, Kristy,” he says, wrapping his arms around her. It’s sweet. He’s not usually a big hugger. “You are the world’s kindest person.”

  “No problem! Some of the costumes must be kind of cute, right?” Kristy lies, and pats his shoulder.

  +

  Kristy doesn’t mean to be upset about this.

  Really she doesn’t.

  She’s the one that said she would dress like a sexy mummy. She didn’t have to. Arthur wouldn’t have forced her. It’s just that keeping people happy feels like an instinct sometimes, and she’s really bad at fighting it.

  So it’s probably a good thing that she agreed to do this.

  But there’s something really depressing, she quickly discovers, about online shopping for a sexy mummy costume.

  She had kind of hoped they wouldn’t exist.

  They exist.

  A lot.

  Kristy sighs and decides to give it a rest.

  She gets that when you act perky and earnest all the time, people are going to start thinking that you’re kind of a fluffbrain, and sometimes that means that they’re not going to listen to you.

  But it’s one thing when it’s just people, and it’s another when it’s your best friends.

  She must be doing a lot of melancholy sighing by accident, because Cliff stops flipping through channels and comes over to where she’s sitting at the kitchen table. “What’s up, Kristybee?”

  “Nothing,” Kristy says. Then she realizes she’s totally not telling the truth. “Just—that haunted house thing at the store is getting a little out of hand. Annie Fabray’s little boy wants it to be all gory and disgusting and horrible, and I know it’s too far for a public family event, but nobody seems to be listening to me. And I know they’re just going to dig themselves into this terrible hole, and it’s really super important that we get this right.”

  Cliff shrugs. “Sometimes you just have to let people dig themselves into holes. If they really won’t listen to you, then you just gotta let them figure it out for themselves.”

  “I guess. It just seems so mean.”

  “You can’t take care of everybody all the time, hon. But it’s awesome that you try.” He kisses her nose. Then he sees her laptop screen. “Why are you looking up ... sexy mummy dresses?”

  “I’m gonna be the sexy mummy at the haunted house,” Kristy says. She doesn’t usually find it so hard to be enthusiastic about things. “Yaaaaay.”

  “But what about your magical ice queen gown?” he says, dismayed.

  This is why she loves him.

  “You’re the best ever boyfriend, Reddy,” she says, kissing him.

  “Yeah, well, you know. I got skills.” He waves his hands in fake modesty, making her laugh.

  +

  “Well, you have to do it,” Artie Kraft Sr. says.

  Arthur has that look on his face. The one that always comes out to play whenever Howie has seen him with his parents. The one that says, My brain kind of wants to explode right now at your jackassery, but I am so well-mannered that I am straining for poise at any cost, and may therefore suffer an aneurysm. “I do
?”

  “I don’t understand all this blog business, frankly, but if this woman is going to get the store some attention, then why in the world are you hesitating? You always hesitate, Arthur—you can’t afford to do that.”

  “Oh, Art, don’t nag,” says Mrs. Kraft from the other side of the table. Her first name is Helen, but Howie is totally incapable of imagining any scenario in which he could actually call her that. Maybe if she was trapped in a room full of like a hundred women, all named Mrs. Kraft, and using her first name was the only way to get her attention. But casually? All Hey Helen, what’s up, how’s it hangin’? Nope. Not happening. “This is our last family dinner together before we leave.”

  The Krafts are off to their condo in Hawaii for the winter, just like every year. What a pair of snow-fearing pansies.

  At the same time, that means that they’re gone for a solid four months, and Howie’s not going to hate on that. It does wonders for Arthur’s sanity.

  “I’m not nagging, Helen,” Mr. Kraft says impatiently. “I’m simply telling him the way things are.”

  “My concern, Dad, is that some of the demands he made for the event were a little outlandish. He is a child.”

  “But he knows what he wants, and he asked for it. See, that—that’s important. Isn’t that right, Howie?”

  Howie usually tries not to talk in front of Arthur’s parents. Turns out, his particular brand of zany witticisms? Not really the Krafts’ thing. He’s still haunted by the time he decided to make fun of Mitt Romney’s hair in an attempt to find some common ground, thinking, They’re hella conservative! They’ve definitely stared at Mitt Romney’s head more than most! They’ll totally know what I’m talking about!

  Turns out: flawed plan.

  So now he plays it safe.

  “Um,” Howie says, “you betcha!”

  ‘Safe’ always comes out vaguely Minnesotan for some reason.

  Arthur says, “He wants a girl to dress up like a sexy mummy. Kristy’s volunteered, but I really feel like she shouldn’t have to—”

  “Oh, what boy doesn’t like pretty girls?” Mr. Kraft says. Then he considers them awkwardly. “Present company excluded.”

  “Pretty girls,” Howie says. “Pfft. Gross, right?”

  Okay. That one definitely didn’t land.

  Mr. Kraft decides to ignore that entirely. “Just give them something nice to look at. There’s no harm in it. Besides, that’s what this holiday is all about, right? Girls finding the excuse to look like harlots.”

  “Really, Dad?” Arthur says, disgusted. “Harlots?”

  “I remember that one year your sister wanted to go out in the most appalling get-up—frills and bright makeup everywhere—”

  “You mean when she dressed up like Raggedy Ann?”

  “Sexy Raggedy Ann?” Howie whispers, for clarification.

  Arthur shakes his head, eyes wide and annoyed.

  Mr. Kraft prattles on. “Skirt above her knees; it was shameless. I told her, ‘Melissa, you’re not leaving this house until you put on some real clothes, young lady.’ But surely Kristy won’t mind that sexy mummy business. She’s always been a little loose with her morals. Who could blame her, really? With all the freedom that my sister and her numbskull husband have always given her—”

  “Dad, can we not get into that, please?” Arthur implores.

  “Kristy is such a pretty girl,” Mrs. Kraft says gracefully. “I bet she’ll make an adorable sexy mummy.”

  “Exactly. There. You see? No problem.”

  “I guess,” Arthur says, glaring down into his bowl of soup.

  “Hey. You look up when I’m talking to you, young man. This is business, Arthur. My business, need I remind you?”

  “You really need not,” Arthur says.

  “And I say, throw the damn birthday party. It’s a no brainer.”

  “Kristy seems to think that such an ... aggressive atmosphere of horror won’t necessarily work out.”

  “Your cousin is a sweet girl, Arthur, but do you really think she has the head for business? She wants to be a kindergarten teacher, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Yeah! She just wants to go into working with kids professionally! What’s relevant about that?” Damn it. Howie really didn’t mean to say that out loud. To appease his listeners, he throws in a desperate, “... eh?”

  Mr. Kraft snorts. “She wants summers off and a career where all she does is tie shoes and play with blocks and crayons. No ambition in that side of the family, I’ve always said—”

  “Being a kindergarten teacher is a really demanding job, Dad.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Mr. Kraft waves a hand. “Arthur, let the little tyke have his party! It’s all in good fun, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” Arthur says, clearly straining for patience.

  Howie pats his knee under the table.

  “What are you doing down there?” Mr. Kraft barks. “Hands where I can see them.”

  Howie brings his hand up so fast that he almost knocks over his water glass.

  “Oh, really, Art,” chides Mrs. Kraft. “Don’t scare him.”

  “It was a joke,” Mr. Kraft protests.

  Arthur chugs his water like it’s whisky and he’s a man who drinks to forget.

  “No homo?” Howie says meekly.

  +

  “So we’re doing this, then,” Howie says, once they’re out in the car. “Voldie Junior is getting his customized shindig.”

  “Yep,” Arthur says blandly.

  There’s a long, grim silence.

  “You want to go buy some organic produce?” Howie asks then. It’s the kind of dorky foodie behavior that always lifts Arthur’s spirits.

  “Okay,” says Arthur.

  A butternut squash, a bushel of kale, a bag of brussels sprouts, and five brightly colored bell peppers later, Arthur is seeming more cheerful. Mostly because Howie promised to eat a brussels sprout, which was a total shameless lie, but still.

  You do what you gotta do in this ride or die haunted house life.

  +

  If there’s one thing Cora is fucking sick of, it’s watching Heather Grimsby be Frankenstein’s monster.

  Like, watching someone writhe in agony around a stage dressed in nothing but bandages should not be sexy. Watching someone teach herself to walk should not be sexy. Watching someone shake her fists at heaven and curse the stars should not be sexy. Watching someone murder innocent women and children? Again: no no on the sexy.