Every year around Halloween I think of Frank.

We were newish to the neighborhood, and I’d taken the kids trick-or-treating. His home was beautifully decorated with pumpkins on the stairs, flickering lights, and a high-end corpse dummy propped up in a rocker on the front porch.

I scooted my son higher on my hip and nudged my daughters up the sidewalk. “Ring the doorbell! They probably have king-sized candy bars.”

They hesitated, so I led them up the steps and rang it myself.

“See? There’s nothing to be—”

“Boo,” the corpse whispered behind me.

I yelped and spun around. The girls screamed. It felt like my son shit his pants, but I couldn’t blame him because the dummy wasn’t a dummy at all. He wasn’t even in costume; he was just old as fuck.

“I’m Frank.” The old man shook with laughter. “Happy Halloween.”

I grinned at him. “You got me good, Frank.” I shifted my son to the other hip and extended my right hand to introduce myself. “We just bought the house on the hill.”

His skeletal fingers were cold, but he smiled warmly.

“LT’s family?”

I froze momentarily. I hadn’t heard someone call my husband that since he was a platoon commander, so it took me a second to put it together. “That’s right.”

“Well.” He chuckled. “You’re a hell of a lot prettier than he let on.”

I laughed politely like we all do with ancient flirts—grateful I’d decided against dressing up as Bad Sandy. Frank produced three Reese’s cups from under his blanket and dropped them into the kids’ buckets.

“How old are you?” asked my daughter. It was rude, but I let it slide because I also wanted to know.

He prompted her to guess and she shrugged like it might’ve been thousands.

The old man’s eyes twinkled in the flickering porch light. “One hundred and two.”

She adjusted her mask and reached for my hand. “That’s very old.”

I caught a whiff of my son and wrinkled my nose at him. “I think we need to stop at home for a costume change,” I told Frank. The kids mumbled their thanks and I steered them toward the stairs. “It was nice to meet you, sir.”

He rocked back in his chair. “Bye now.”

On my way home from skipping All Saints’ Day Mass the following afternoon, I spotted Frank in his church clothes, carrying groceries into his house. He seemed liable to tip over from the weight of them.

“Can I help you?” I called out the window, practically jumping the curb to park in his driveway.

He turned slowly as I moved toward him with my hands out, like dancing figures in a music box.

“Here,” we said at the same time. He dumped his bag into my arms. I buzzed in and out and around like a chatty fly as he slowly made his way up the porch stairs, but he never waved me off.

“Is that the original woodwork in your home?” I asked, taking the hand he held out for the last step up.

His knuckles went white as he gripped my fingers and grunted, “As far as I know.”

Even though he was breathing hard, Frank insisted upon holding the front door open for me. “I’m going to take a rest. Get me a glass of water before you go.” He shuffled toward his recliner.

I flitted off to the kitchen, opening cabinets and putting his groceries away quickly—old people food like tins of anchovies and canned soup. A leek.

Then, staring at the small plate and fork drying on a dish towel, I filled a glass with water from the tap.

“There’s cake on top of the microwave,” he called out. “Don’t eat it all.”

I snorted, setting the glass down and grabbing the plate. The cake was wrapped in a Halloween tea towel and only about the size of my fist. It had orange and black sprinkles inside but was bone dry. He’d probably been eating slivers of it for a week. I cut a thick slice for him, wincing at the loud tink of the butter knife on porcelain in the silence of his house.

I rewrapped the rest and carried his snack into the living room, passing a set of recognizable medals on the bookshelf.

“Were you in the Marine Corps, Frank?” I set the cake down next to him.

No books on his side table. No TV in the room.

“In the Pacific,” he said, one shaky hand sliding a coaster my way. “Okinawa.”

I nodded and set the glass on top of the coaster. “My husband was a Marine, too.”

“Once a Marine, always a Marine,” he corrected, pointing to a framed photo on the shelf.

Half a dozen old men laughed at the camera from what looked to be a nineties chain restaurant, arms slung loosely over each other’s shoulders.

“I was a radioman.”

I glanced over at him.

“An LT’s right hand,” he said, taking a bite of his cake and brushing crumbs off his pants.

My throat tightened. I looked away and lifted a shoulder, feigning lightness. “Or his better half.”

The old man chuckled. “Not if he’s anything like your husband, my dear.”

I swallowed and nodded with a closed-mouth smile. I’d probably heard that a thousand times since I pounded butter bars into his shoulders when he commissioned.

Those days were over now.

“How do you know him?” I asked, turning back to the bookshelf.

“Boy’s been mowing my lawn since y’all moved in.”

I smirked. “Boy’s got gray hair, Frank.”

“Fair enough.” He laughed until it turned into a quiet cough. Then he gestured to the matching recliner beside him, his voice coming out like a croak. “My Laura’s seat is still the best in the house.” Frank brought his water glass to his lips and leaned forward slightly to drink.

Her recliner had a lace doily spread on top. Dust on the table beside it.

“How long were you married?” I asked him, perching on the end of the cushioned seat as if it were sacred.

“It’s been eighty-one years.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed—eyes closed, a soft smile on his face. “Though she went home to the Lord after sixty.”

Suddenly, I wished I’d taken him up on the cake. Sliding back in the chair, I busied my hands by resetting the covers on the armrests.

“I hope we can pull that off. It’s impressive.”

He groaned and reclined abruptly, startling me.

“You have to wake up every morning, look at him snoring with his mouth wide open, and decide ‘I’ll go on choosing you,’” he said, turning in my direction.

I giggled and reclined in his wife’s chair, curling up so we were face-to-face. Frank’s skin was pallid, but his breathing had calmed. His eyes were magnified by his glasses.

“And then…” He cleared his throat and pulled a crocheted blanket over his lap, trying to hide his amusement. “He has to watch you putting on your stockings or flossing your teeth…”

His voice trailed off and we smiled at each other. His lids fluttered closed again as he faced forward.

“Seems improbable when you put it like that, Frank.”

“Ha!” He took a shallow breath. “It’s no different than war or raising kids.”

I reached over to help him adjust his blanket.

“Love ain’t enough.” His voice slowed and he yawned. “You need luck, too, you know.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear and settled back into the recliner. “We’ve had more than our fair share already.”

“Mmm.” He coughed a few times. “I thought as much.”

Light from the window silhouetted his profile, and I wondered how much my husband shared with the old devil next to me.

“So what do we do if the luck runs out?” I whispered.

Frank took his glasses off, folding and setting them gently on the table beside him.

“Ahh, Laura,” he said, rubbing his face with both hands. “We grin and bear it.”

For a pre-commissioning love story between a ceramicist and a Marine, check out my novel. And thank you for subscribing.

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