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  THE PUMPKIN WAS STUFFED

  Tara Sivec

  Chapter 1: Everyone Loves Clowns

  Noel

  “It was a dark and stormy night . . .” I whisper in a sinister voice, staring with wide eyes at the scene in front of me.

  “No it’s not. It’s actually a very lovely fall evening. Not a cloud in sight.”

  I turn to face my husband, Sam, crossing my arms over my chest and above my giant pregnant stomach, which seems to have grown ten times larger in the last week. I’m thirty-five-years-old, with long, dark-red hair and green eyes. I used to think I was quite pretty, until I turned into a beached whale with swollen ankles. Standing next to my husband, who is a year older than I—with his gorgeous blue-gray eyes; short, dark-brown hair; and fantastic muscular build, thanks to the Marines—it’s hard to remember that I was once skinny and hot and looked like a perfect match for my sexy husband.

  “Work with me here. I’m trying to set the tone for when I tell our child this story. If I don’t inject the right amount of scary details, he or she will never truly understand the horror of what we’re looking at right now.”

  Sam cocks his head to the side, studying the yard we’re currently standing at the edge of while I study his profile. I still can’t believe he’s my husband, even though we’ve been married almost a year and a half. He’s too hot for his own good, and I’m a hot mess with an ass covered in stretch marks.

  “It’s not that bad,” he mutters.

  I shake my head at him and then, adding sociopathic mood swings to my mental list of pregnancy-related problems, fantasize about jamming a knife into his skull and carving it like a pumpkin.

  “Not that bad?!” I argue, my voice rising a few octaves as I fling one arm out, gesturing around my parents’ front yard. “My father decorated his yard with hundreds of clowns. CLOWNS, Sam. Scary, creepy, makeup-wearing, red-nosed, big-shoed CLOWNS. This is the stuff nightmares are made of.”

  I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself, wishing I could unsee this shit. There are clowns cut out of wood and painted; mannequins dressed as clowns; stuffed clowns; blow-up-doll clowns . . . every size you can imagine, from one foot tall to ten feet tall. They’re scattered all around the yard. My dad is slightly obsessed with decorating for every holiday, which makes sense, I guess, since our last name is, literally, Holiday. When I brought Sam home for Christmas the year we met, he thought we were pulling up to an airport runway, with all the bright, flashing lights all over the yard. My father’s Valentine’s Day decorations cover every inch of the yard; all the red hearts make it look like the house is bleeding onto the grass. The entire state of Ohio went through a flag shortage the year he bought all the American flags that hang from the siding and porch railing on the Fourth of July.

  But he has taken this year’s neighborhood Halloween decorating contest to a horrifying level. One I’ll never be able to erase from my mind; I’ll see it every time I close my eyes.

  “It’s about time you got here!”

  I turn to watch my dad jog down the front porch steps—which are littered with giant red clown shoes and jack-o’-lanterns—and hurry across the lawn toward us, dodging all the . . . clowns.

  Jesus. I can’t even THINK that word without getting the chills.

  Dad is practically bouncing with excitement by the time he gets to us, his feet crunching through the fallen leaves as he stands next to me and nods at the two of us with a huge smile on his face. At fifty-seven, my dad is a pretty handsome man, standing at just about my husband’s six-foot stature, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Hello darling Noel, hello Asshole - Who - Defiled - My - Daughter . . . so, what do you think of the yard?”

  I let out a sigh and shake my head at him.

  “Dad, for the hundredth time, Sam is my husband and did not defile me. Can’t you just be happy about being a grandfather again, like a normal human being?” My brother and his wife already had a baby, a girl named Holly, and neither one of them had to suffer through this kind of sarcastic abuse from my father. My poor husband deserves a medal.

  He wraps his arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head.

  “Of course I’m happy about becoming a grandfather again. But you’re my baby girl. And I’d prefer to think of this as an immaculate conception. Otherwise I will have a heart attack and die, picturing how it actually happened. Do you want me to die, Noel?” he demands in his usual, dramatic fashion. “Do you?!”

  “Speaking of heart attacks,” I mutter, changing the subject before my dad really does kill himself thinking about how I got pregnant. “Why, for the love of God, did you decorate the yard with clowns? No one likes clowns, Dad. No one. You’re lucky your neighbors haven’t burned your house down in protest.”

  Dad scoffs and rolls his eyes at me.

  “Don’t be silly. Clowns are fun. Everyone loves clowns.”

  A loud, bloodcurdling scream, followed by the most miserable-sounding wails, makes all three of us turn around to find a woman and a little boy standing a few feet away, on the sidewalk. The boy has his face pressed into the woman’s side as he continues crying, and they rush past my parents’ house.

  “Clowns, Reggie? Really? You should be ashamed of yourself,” the woman mutters, hurrying down the sidewalk with her distraught child.

  “YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS BECAUSE YOUR FRONT YARD LOOKS LIKE A MONKEY TOOK A SHIT ON IT, SUSAN!” my dad yells after her. “EVERYONE LOVES CLOWNS, AND I’M GOING TO PROVE IT WHEN I WIN THIS CONTEST FOR THE TENTH YEAR IN A ROW!”

  I should probably be embarrassed that my dad is screaming at one of his poor neighbors, but I was raised by this man. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him turn into a raging lunatic in public, and it certainly won’t be the last. He takes every holiday decorating contest very seriously. He starts coming up with ideas and building things for his Halloween display in February. With all of the children on the street, he doesn’t like doing anything scary, and usually goes with something fun. One year it was a carnival theme, with a ticket booth and fun carnival games for kids. Another year it was a Charlie Brown theme. Last year, he went with a Mickey Mouse/Disney theme. All sweet and innocent fun. But clowns are anything but sweet and innocent, and clearly he’s lost his mind.

  “I don’t know, Reggie. That house across the street might be giving you a run for your money,” Sam states.

  My dad starts grumbling and cursing under his breath as I look over at the house Sam is talking about. I can’t help the dreamy sigh that escapes me. They’ve decorated in a Nightmare Before Christmas theme. It’s one of my absolute favorite movies, and the display is amazing.

  There’s a huge Jack Skellington and Sally right in the middle of the yard, with a giant light-up moon behind them, and smaller wooden figurines of every other character are scattered all around the grass, from Doctor Finkelstein and the mayor of Halloween Town, to Oogie Boogie and the ghost dog, Zero. There are orange an
d white spotlights on every wooden character, and at least a hundred carved pumpkins distributed around the entire display.

  My dreamy sigh doesn’t only have to do with the decorations, though. It also has to do with the house itself. I’ve loved that house since I was a little girl. It’s just a typical, two-story colonial, but the wraparound front porch, professional landscaping, and huge, fenced-in backyard made it my dream house. I always imagined that someday I’d get married, buy that house, and raise my family there.

  “That yard looks like horseshit,” my father mutters in irritation. “They didn’t even put any work into it. They just went out to the closest Halloween store and bought everything they could find. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into my display.”

  “Clearly. The blood when all those creepy-ass clowns come to life and stab you in your sleep, the sweat when you’re trying to outrun them, and the tears when they murder your entire family,” I inform him.

  My dad ignores me and continues to glare at the yard across the street.

  “Did you know that house sold in less than two weeks? I haven’t even met the new owners yet, and they’ve been there for a month. What kind of people move into a neighborhood, try to end my reign as Halloween Decorator King, and don’t even come over and introduce themselves? Monsters, that’s who,” Dad complains.

  I can’t help the wave of sadness that washes over me when I think about how my dream house went on the market and sold before I even knew it was available. When Sam and I got engaged, we moved into his house, since I was unemployed and living with my parents at the time. Don’t get me wrong, we have a really great house. It’s a ranch, with a big yard. And Sam let me do whatever I wanted with it when I moved in. I do love where we live, out in the middle of nowhere—but it’s thirty minutes away from my family. One would think, as crazy as my family is, that I’d be perfectly fine living far enough away from them that they can’t come over every five minutes and bring their crazy right to my front door. My overprotective father, who still hasn’t adjusted to me being a grown woman with a husband and a baby on the way; my overbearing mother, who talks about sex more than any mother should; and my Aunt Bobbie, who used to be my Uncle Robert, and never leaves home without wearing a sparkling evening gown, a full face of makeup, and a wig, are entirely too much crazy for one family to handle. At least my older brother, Nicholas, and his wife, Casey, help to balance out the normal.

  And while a year ago it might have been true that I’d want to be as far away from them as possible, now that Sam and I are about to have a baby, thirty minutes away seems like thirty hours. What if Sam’s at work and there’s an emergency? And he’s a Marine—what if he gets deployed again? I’ll be a half hour away from my support system.

  “Maybe the new neighbors like to keep to themselves. I’m sure they’re very nice people. They just moved in and they’re already participating in the decorating contest. That’s got to say something,” Sam tells my dad, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  “Yeah, it says they want a war with the official Halloween Decorator King.”

  “Dad, that’s not a real title,” I remind him.

  “It’s a real title if I say it’s a real title!” he argues. “Obviously I need to up my game and prove to those yahoos that they can’t beat me. Sam, make yourself useful: Go find me as many clown costumes as you can.”

  “Where, exactly, am I supposed to find clown costumes?” Sam asks as my father starts walking toward the garage, his current command center for all things Halloween decorations.

  “YOU’RE A CLOWN WHO DEFILED MY DAUGHTER! GO LOOK IN YOUR OWN CLOSET!” Dad shouts back to him, over his shoulder.

  With one last look at the house across the street, Sam grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine. Staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact with any of the creepy, lifelike clowns, we make our way through the yard and up the porch steps, pausing in front of the door.

  Sam lets go of my hand, rests his palms on my huge stomach, and smiles down at me.

  “What are the odds our child will grow up to be completely normal and not at all batshit crazy?” he asks.

  “Slim to none,” I immediately reply, placing my hands on top of his, our smiles broadening when we feel a little kick from inside my belly.

  “At least you’re honest,” Sam laughs.

  “I’m always honest about the craziness of my family. Just remember, you signed up for this shit. You agreed to take me for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, and to protect me from clowns for the rest of your life.”

  “I don’t remember the clown part of our vows,” Sam muses.

  “It’s a recent addendum. So get your ass moving and get me the hell away from these things or I’ll take you with me when I get on the bus to crazy town.”

  Chapter 2: Babies Do Not Go in Ovens

  Sam

  “Everyone, pay attention! I’m bringing this meeting to order, so shut the hell up!”

  “Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” Noel is chanting the creepy theme music from Friday the 13th under her breath when her best friend, Scheva Oliver, yells at everyone.

  Scheva and Noel were best friends in high school, but lost touch when Noel moved away from Ohio to live in Seattle. As soon as Noel moved back home, the Christmas she and I met, her friendship with Scheva picked up right where it left off, and the two became inseparable again. We introduced Scheva to my best friend, Alex Rose, last Valentine’s Day, and what started off as a fling quickly turned into something more. After Scheva announced at Easter that she would be marrying Alex, Noel started humming “here comes the bride” whenever Scheva entered the room. Now, as my wife has become increasingly more miserable and cranky during the last trimester of her pregnancy, and Scheva has turned into a bridezilla on crack, it’s safer for everyone involved if Noel lets out her frustrations by channeling Michael Myers.

  You know, singing his theme song instead of going on a murderous rampage.

  I love my wife more than anything else in this world, but she’s been scaring the shit out of me lately with her mood swings. No one will be happier than me when she finally gives birth. Don’t tell her I said that, though, or she’ll probably stab me in the throat while I sleep.

  “I’ve called everyone here tonight so we can discuss, and make any final changes to, the outfits you’ll be wearing next weekend. At my wedding. The moment I officially become a bride. The one day where everyone will be paying attention to me. And the last perfect, amazing day I’ll ever have for the rest of my life,” Scheva announces, tossing her long blond hair over one shoulder.

  “Um, hello? Married to this guy for the rest of your life,” Alex reminds her, pointing both his thumbs to his chest.

  Noel likes to call Alex and me the yin and yang of hot guys. We’re pretty much the same height and have the same muscular build thanks to the military, but where I have short dark hair, Alex’s is short and blond. I still think I’m better looking than he is, and make sure to tell him that on a regular basis. Alex and I had similar childhoods. We both lost our parents at a young age and were tossed around the system until we turned eighteen, when we joined the Marines. Our similar lives forged a bond that I can’t break, no matter how much he irritates me sometimes. When I introduced Alex to Noel’s family, they immediately welcomed him into the fold and made him one of their own, much like they’d done with Scheva.

  Even though Scheva’s parents are alive, they’ve never really given a shit about her. As soon as she turned eighteen and moved out, they started traveling the world and forgot they had a daughter. Noel’s family may be crazy, but they’ve taken in all of us orphans and made us a part of their family without a second thought.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Scheva sighs with a wave of her hand. “Happily ever after and all that shit. But I’ve been dreaming about being a bride all my life, and it’s almost over. I’ll never have anything to look forward to ever again.”

  “Boy, marriage is going to be fun!�
� Alex replies sarcastically, which earns him a glare from his bride-to-be.

  “Marriage is hard work,” Bev, Noel’s mother, announces from the other side of the room, where she is busily rearranging the orange pumpkin lights hanging across the fireplace mantle. “I hope your ups and downs are only in the bedroom.”

  “Ew, gross,” Noel whispers, her lips curling in disgust.

  “Get it? Ups and downs in the bedroom? Because when you’re having sex your bodies move—”

  “Oh my God, Mom, we get it. Stop. Don’t make me throw up my dinner,” Noel complains.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a healthy sex life, Noel. How many times do we need to have this discussion? If your father weren’t such a tiger in bed, I would have divorced him a long time ago. And he found this new website called Tumbles where he’s gotten a lot of new moves. Have you heard of this Tumbles thing?” Bev lights a votive candle and walks over to the coffee table in front of us, sticking it inside a small, carved pumpkin in the middle of the table. “You should try it.”

  “Bev, my love, it’s called Tumblr, not Tumbles. And now you just ruined my favorite website, picturing you and Reggie looking at porn before you get your nasty on.” Noel’s Aunt Bobbie tosses back her third martini, the short blond wig she’s wearing going all askew when she whips her head back to finish the drink. “Sam, come over here and comfort me,” she continues. “Let me fondle your pumpkins.”

  Noel’s Aunt Bobbie was her Uncle Robert until his wife left him when she caught him trying on her clothes, and he realized he was much happier being a woman. When I first met Aunt Bobbie, she reached out and grabbed my dick instead of shaking my hand. She toned down her flirting and sexual innuendos with me when Noel and I got married, but obviously this wedding is stressing everyone out lately.

  “I’m not wearing what you picked out for me,” Noel suddenly says to Scheva with a huff, crossing her arms and pouting.