The porch light and the pillowcase

On Halloween the porch light comes on early. The houses that are taking part switch it on while the sky at the end of the street is still pale gold, and by full dark the block has divided itself into lit porches and dark porches.

It is cold enough that the costume goes on over a coat. The princess gown has a puffy jacket underneath, so the small back stands out at odd angles and the gown sleeves end where the coat sleeves begin. The mask is pushed up onto the forehead at the bottom of the steps, pulled down at the porch light, and pushed up again on the way down. The superhero cape stays home because it catches on branches, and the crown waits in the coat pocket until the first porch light.

The pillowcase comes from the linen closet. No one planned it; at some point a pillowcase was what the child picked up, and now it is the rule. It is heavier than a plastic bucket and easier to carry over one arm, and by the third house it already has a swing to it.

The route

The sidewalk does the work. Children move from porch to porch in a loose pack, one doing the knocking while the others wait at the bottom, and the adults follow along the walk, hands in coat pockets, stopping at the edge of the porch light. The child calls out the greeting and sometimes forgets the second half and sometimes announces the costume instead. The woman at the door holds the bowl out with one hand and keeps the door open with the other, so the light spills across the steps and the candy is gone before the child finishes the turn.

Some houses have turned the porch light off. From the sidewalk, a dark porch reads the same whether the people inside are out of candy, not home, or home and not answering. The children do not slow down for these. They have already learned that the light is the whole answer, and they move on.

A house with the light on but no bowl at the door gets a knock anyway. A house with the light off and a pumpkin still on the step is a small tragedy. A house that answers with full-size bars becomes news on the sidewalk and gets talked about for the next three blocks, and the pillowcase carries the fact home.

It is October, so the cold is part of the ritual. Breath appears at the porch light. The cloak that was decorative at the first house is necessary by the sixth. The child's hands are red by the halfway point, and the pillowcase changes hands as a way of not complaining.

Halfway down the block, a parent carries the empty jacket. The child has come out of a warm porch and shed the coat somewhere between steps, and it hangs over one arm, ready for the walk back. No one argues. The cold will find the child again before the last porch.

The porch light can also run out. A house with the light on and an empty bowl still gets a knock, once, because children are willing to try. The children have already learned that the bowl can be refilled, and sometimes it is, with two pieces saved from the bottom of a bag. When the bowl is empty and the light goes off, the porch goes back to being just a porch.

The sorting

At the end, the pillowcase is emptied onto the living room floor. The candy rolls out in a heap, and then it is sorted, because the floor will stay a mess until the sorting is done. The chocolate goes in one pile, the fruit chews in another, the lollipops and hard candy in a third. The waxy wafers no one in the house will eat are set aside in their own pile for trading. The full-size bars are claimed quickly and kept apart.

The parent sits cross-legged among the piles. There is the smell of cold rubber from the pillowcase, and the wrappers are cold at first and then turn warm in the hands. The child negotiates every trade with the seriousness of someone handling currency. Any candy with a torn wrapper goes to the parent. The parent's pile is small, mostly broken things, and no one counts it.

The sorting has rules. The orange wrapper is not the same as the red wrapper, even when the shape is the same. This matters more than the candy itself, and the parent does not interfere.

Somewhere on the floor is one apple. It was placed in the pillowcase by an older woman who still remembers what the porch light used to mean, and it has survived the walk home. It is the only apple on the floor. It will be eaten in the kitchen, not the living room.

By the time the sorting is done, the pillowcase is back in the linen closet, empty but still carrying the smell of wrapper wax and cold air. The costume is on a chair. The block looks like any other late-October night except for the cellophane under the sofa.

One by one, the porch lights go dark.