Star Light

That October, pumpkin carving time, we pick up a perfectly round ten pounder at the farm down the road. Cut triangle eyes, a slit nose and a toothy grin that looks like my husband’s when he’s told a bad joke. We officially name the jack o’lantern Mephistopheles because of this evil grin, but we call him Jack because it’s easier to pronounce. During the day Jack looks out the front window of our condo; at night we move him to the kitchen table where we can see him. We didn’t go through all the work of creating him not to see him. At dinner, we pretend to feed Jack. My husband stuffs a piece of bread between Jack’s teeth and says, Don’t forget to chew. Then we say Jack’s favorite food is macaroni and cheese. His favorite color is green. His favorite word is kitty. We say that he doesn’t like carrots, but will eat them if he’s promised dessert. That he’s most ticklish on the back of his neck. That when he sings, he sounds like a warbly record, and when he cries he sounds like cats fighting. We say that in Little League he will hit the game-winning run. That in the fourth grade spelling bee he will successfully spell rhythm, endeavor and situation, but that he will lose to a girl who spells discomfiture. That the first CD he will buy without us knowing it will be Green Day. We say that in high school, he will get his girlfriend pregnant. That in college, he will cheat on his finals. That on his first job, he will get fired for stealing paper clips. We know these things about Jack as if he were our own, as if we had our own.

Planned road trip to South Carolina a week later, we belt Jack into the back seat. He’s pretty quiet, pretty well behaved, we say. In Pennsylvania, we pick up I81 and watch the road open up and lead us through rolling pasture. And as the sun sets over the land and the first hint of darkness comes, we say, Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. We make our wishes, no matter how fanciful they are. In the morning though, Jack has gotten bad. Slippery lips, looking kind of green. My husband tries to scrape the mold off Jack with a pocket knife, but when he does, Jack’s teeth fall out. The next to go is his nose. And soon he’s nothing more than a caved-in mess that has leaked onto three towels and a motel bedspread. It’s time, we say. So we put him in the middle of the field behind the Super 8. For a few seconds we stare at the cell phone tower that marks where we’ve left Jack. Then we turn to each other. For the best, we say. For the best. Then we get in the car and go because our baby is gone.