When my father first heard my act, he didn't respond as kindly. "Where did you pick that up? One
day you can't carry a tune, now you sing like a lark."
"I dunno. Maybe I wasn't listening before."
"You're kidding me? She has that racket on day and night with your Nat Cole King and all that
jazz, and 'Can you take me dancin' sometime?' As if a mother of twins .. .What do you mean, you
weren't listening?"
"Concentrating, I mean."
"You should be concentrating on your homework and helping your mother with the chores."
"If you pay attention and listen instead of merely hearing the song, you can pick up the tune in no
time."
He shook his head and lit another Camel. "Mind your elders, if you please, Caruso."
I took care not to be such a perfect mimic around my dad.
Mary and Elizabeth, on the other hand, were too young to know any better, and they accepted
without question my budding talent for imperson-ation. Indeed, they begged for songs all the time,
especially in their cribs, where I'd trot out all the novelty tunes like "Mairzy Doats" or "Three Little
Fishies." Without fail, however, they fell asleep as if knocked unconscious every time I sang "Over the
Rainbow." I did a mean Judy Garland.
My days with the Days quickly fell into a comfortable routine, and as long as I stayed inside the
house or inside the classroom, all went well. The weather suddenly grew cooler, and almost at once the
leaves turned garish shades of yellow and red, so bold that the mere sight of trees hurt my eyes. I hated
those bright reminders of life in the forest. October proved a riot to the senses and climaxed those giddy
last weeks before Halloween. I knew that parties were involved, begging for nuts and candies, bonfires
in the square, and playing tricks on the townsfolk. Believe me, we hobgoblins did our share of
mischief—unhinging gates, smashing pumpkins, soaping the library windows with cartoon demons. What
I had not experienced was the folderol among the children and the way that even the schools had gotten
into the act. Two weeks before the big day, the nuns began planning a classroom party with
entertainment and refreshments. They hung orange and black crepe paper along the tops of the
chalkboards, pasted paper pumpkins and black cats on the walls. We dutifully cut out scary things from
construction paper and glued together our own artistic efforts, pitiable though they were. Mothers were
enlisted to bake cookies and brownies, make popcorn balls and candy apples. Costumes were
allowed—indeed, expected. I remember exactly my conversa-tion on the matter with my mother.
"We're having a party for Halloween at school, and teacher says we come dressed in our
trick-or-treat outfits instead of our uniforms. I want to be a hobgoblin."
"What was that?"
"You know, a hobgoblin."
"I'm not sure what that is. Is it anything like a monster?"
"No."
"Or a ghost? Or a ghoul?"
"Not those."
"Perhaps a little vampire?"
"I'm no bloodsucker, Mother."
"Perhaps it's a fairy?"
I howled. For the first time in nearly two months, I lost my temper and screamed in my natural wild
voice. The sound startled her.
"For the love of God, Henry. You scared the wits out of me, raising the dead and howling like a
banshee. There'll be no Halloweenin' for you."
Banshee keen, I wanted to tell her, they wail and weep, but they never howl. Instead, I turned on
the tears, bawling like the twins. She drew me to her and hugged me against her stomach.
"There now, I was only kidding." She lifted my chin and gazed into my eyes. "I just don't know
what a hobgoblin is. Listen, how about going as a pirate, you'd like that now, wouldn't you?"
And that's how I ended up dressed in pantaloons and a shirt with puffed sleeves, a scarf tied
around my skull, and wearing an earring like Errol Flynn. On Halloween day, I stood before a class of
ghosts, witches, and hoboes, the only pirate in the school, probably the whole county. Teacher had
tapped me to sing "The Teddy Bears' Picnic" as part of the scary entertainment for our party. My normal
speaking voice was a squeak like Henry Day's, but when I sang "If you go out in the woods tonight," I
sounded exactly like the sonorous bass of Frank DeVol on the record. The imitation shocked nearly
everybody. In a back corner, Caroline Hines sobbed in fear through the whole song. Most of the
slack-jawed kids gaped through their masks and makeup, not quite knowing what to believe. I
remember that Tess Wodehouse sat and stared without blinking, as if she realized a fundamental
deception but could not unravel the trick. But the nuns knew better. At the end of the song, they