There's A Dead Body in the Trunk-or-Treat (Conclusion)

If you missed the beginning of our Halloween adventure, feel free to catch up here.

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“Ma’am, what have I gotta do to get some cupcakes? I’m gonna be honest with you. We were thinking about visiting here Sunday, but if this is how hospitable y’all are, we’ll just watch that fartin’ preacher on the Internet and save the gas money. I’m not askin’ you to walk on water…I’m just asking to buy something sweet. “  I flashed her my best you-think-I’m-nice-but-I’m-secretly-hoping-you-get-run-over-by-a-beer-truck smile.

So this double-friendly woman purses up her mouth like she’s been gnawin’ on a lemon, and stands up so straight I’d swear she sat on her broomstick the wrong way.

 “Ma’am, we would love to see you Sunday morning. But if you want a cake, you’ll have to buy a ticket, walk around the numbers until the music stops, and then pray that I pick your number. If I do call your number, you can pick a cake. If not, then--well, He must not recognize your voice.”

So, let me get this straight. You’re tellin’ me that I have to pay for a chance to win something with no guarantee of a return? Hmmm….last time I did that, the prize was $430 million, not Agnes’s Seven-Up Pound Cake. And then you're gonna call me a heathen on top of it?  Heck to the no!

At this point, I’m willing to go home and bake each kid their own doggone cake just to get out of here.

“Guys, how ‘bout we’ll go to Wal-Mart after we leave here and you can pick out a doughnut or something?” These poor kids have been put through the ringer, and we ain’t even made it to the trunks yet. After mumbling in agreement, we mope around back to the ring of trunkdom.

“Y’all go ahead; I’m gonna stay over here out of the way.” (I am so over this place by now.)

I’m watching my little cross-eyed ninja, Willie Robertson, and Cinderella slowly make their way around the ring of taillights when I see an elderly gentleman come around the side of his car. 

I know we’re at a church, but something’s just not right. This Old-Spice wearin’ grandpa is kneeling down in front of the kids, clearly rehearsed in his lines. He may be handing out tracts, but his smile bears an eerie resemblance to Fire Marshall Bill from ‘In Living Color.’

“AAUGH!! MOMMY! I WANNA GO HOME!”

Not knowing what’s going on, I ran—okay, it was more like 'bouncily trotted like an old mule through sorghum'—over to my frantic kids, but they blew right past me. By the time I caught up to them, they’d pried open the car doors, put on their seat belts, and started reciting the Lord’s prayer. 

“Bubby, what happened? Did that guy scare y’all?”

“Momma, can we just go home? I don’t want anymore candy.”

“Yeah, Mom, I don’t really need a doughnut this close to bedtime.”

 “MOMMY!!!!”  

What have these people done to my children?

As their mother and protector, I do what I think is best.  I channel my inner Bill Elliott, and get us home as fast as I can…with grounds for 17 years of therapy and religious exploration in tow.

 I didn't know there was such a thing as sudden onset Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome, but from the time we leave the church parking lot till we got home, Rae-Rae’s condition has deteriorated greatly. He’s gone from this sweet, cross-eyed ninja to a frantic little boy, licking his seat belt and humming the Oscar Mayer wiener song.

As we walk in the house, I pull Bubby to the side.

“Honey, what in the world happened back there?” I see the tears well up in my son’s eyes as he delves into his recent trauma.

“Momma, that guy was really weird. We walked up and said ‘Trick-Or-Treat’ like you told us to, and he said we ought to be ashamed. He asked Reagan if he wanted to grab some junk in his trunk, and then he said Cinderella was a gold diggin' hussy.”  

I see the first tear slip down his cheek. Sweet baby Jesus, this is the safe and nurturing holiday alternative?! 

Rae-Rae chimed in next. 

“Then he told Emma that there was a body in his trunk, but if she'd come back on Sunday, it’d be gone!”

For the first time in their lives, my children voluntarily went to bed.  Apparently being scarred for life is exhausting. They brushed their teeth and waited to be tucked in. Baby girl was asleep by the time her crown hit the pillow, and Bubby drifted off just as quickly. But poor Reagan just laid on his bed, covers pulled up to his nose, shaking like a leaf.

“Momma,” he finally whispered, “I know Jesus turned back alive on the third day, but they didn’t really bury him in a Buick, did they?!”