Stories of Halloween: I Was Your Daddy Once

It was Halloween night and my five year old son and I had just gotten home from trick-or-treating. I got him out of his circus clown costume, washed him up and had him brush his teeth and then we were off to bed.

"I sure am glad that you're my son," I told Jace after we had finished reading his storybook for the night.

"I'm glad you're my daddy, too," he replied.

I leaned in and snuggled him against me, "Alright," I said, "It's hug time and then sleepy time."

Jace gave me a tight hug and laid up against me until he was in the verge of sleep.  "I used to be your daddy," he said in a dreamy, half conscious manner. The look on his five year old face was dead serious.

Raising my eyebrow I said, "No, silly boy. I've always been your daddy."

"Nuh uh," he quickly responded. "I used to be your daddy and you used to be my daughter."

"What are you talking about, crazy butt?" I asked him.

"Back when we lived in Minnesota," he said.

"Minnesota?" I said. "We've always lived right here."

"Nuh uh," he said again. "First we lived in the homeland and then we comed to America on a ship. It was stinky and made mama's tummy hurt. She was glad when we got off it."

"Have you been learning about immigrants at school?" I asked him with half a smile on my face.

A puzzled look swept across his face. "What's an injagrent?" he asked.

"An immigrant," I answered. "A person who came here from another country."

"Like we did?"

"Not like we did. We have always lived here."

"Daaaaaaad," Jace responded, "I tolded you! We used to live in Minnesota!"

"You're telling stories, sir," I said to him and gave him a quick tickle.

He laughed. "No I'm not!" he said.

"Well if we came over on a ship," I said, "then how did we get to Minnesota?"

"Mama didn't like the town we were in, so she said that we needed to go somewhere else," he responded. "She said it was too crowded and people were mean."

My half smile turned into a look of pure curiosity. Where had he heard these things? Had he maybe seen a documentary on tv? Where was he getting this information?

"How did we get to Minnisota?" I asked him.

"Me and mama workded until we could buy a two horses and a wagon. Then we rode and walked. It was a long way."

"A very long way," I said.

"But we gotted there after a while," he said. "And then we made a farm."

"We were farmers?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't easy. Mama cried a lot."

"Why did mama cry?"

"Cuz she missed the homeland and her little sister."

I was taken back by the conversation my five year old son and I were having. He had never told me a story like the one he was telling me. It was unnerving listening to him to provide answers with such clarity.

"Well," I asked, "were we good farmers?"

Shaking his head he said, "No. The dirt wasn't very good and I didn't really know how to do it good. You and mama had to get jobs in town. That's where you met him."

The way he had said "him" was curious. He said it with no small amount of bitterness. "Who did I meet?"

"The red headed boy from the farm next door," he answered without pause.

"Was he a nice boy?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "He took you away from your chores and you wanted to spend all your time with him."

"Was he a boyfriend?" I questioned.

"No. I told you no daughter of mine is going to be married to a spud eater," he said.

"A spud eater?" I asked. "What's that?"

"I can't remember," he said. "It was cuz he was innish I think."

"Innish?" I inquired.

"Yeah, innish," he answered. "His family comed over on a boat, too."

"Irish?" I asked. "Do you mean he was Irish?"

"Yes," he said sleepily. "Irish. That was it."

I became very concerned. Where had he heard this? Had someone been been using racial slurs around my son? Maybe someone at school?

"You didn't like him because he was Irish?"

"Yeah," he responded immediately. "I told him to stay away, but you kept sneaking out to see him."

"Did mama care that I was visiting the Irish boy?"

"No. She said he made you happy, so we should be happy, too."

"Were you happy?"

He got quiet.

"Well?" I said.

"No," he answered. "I told you you couldn't visit him no more and you runned away with him."

"I ran away?"

"Yeah. But you didn't get very far."

"I didn't?" I asked. "Did you bring me home to be with you and mama?"

"No. When I founded you you said you weren't coming home and the red headed  boy told me to go away," he said. "But I told him you was my daughter and you was coming home with me."

"Was he very happy about that?" I asked; not really wanting to know the answer.

"He weren't happy at all," Jace responded. "He tried to whack me."

"He tried to whack you?" I said.

"Yeah," Jace replied, "But I whopped him with a wood chopper and he falled down."

I sat in a stunned silence for a moment. I couldn't believe the words that were coming out of my son's mouth. I didn't want to know,  but I had to ask. "A wood chopper?"

"I whopped him with one," he said. "He didn't try to whack me no more."

"So what did I do?" I cautiously asked him.

"You comed out and told me you was gonna to go tell everyone in town," he said in a tired voice. He was on the verge of sleep. "So I whopped you with the wood chopper, too," he said dreamily.

"What?" I said as other words escaped me.

"I whopped you, too," he said. "And I digged a hole in the ground and put you two in it."

He turned onto his side and started to close his eyes. Sleep was beginning to set in. A chill crawled up my spine and my arm and neck hair was literally standing on end. This couldn't have come from the mind of my five year old.

"What did mama say?" I whispered.

There was silence. I thought he had fallen asleep, but as soon as I sat up and put my feet over the edge of his bed he said in the sleepy voice, "She asked if I found you and I said no. But I knowed where you was. I knowed where you would be forever."

And with that the heavy, steady breathing of sleep sat in. I stood up and stared at my sleeping son for I don't know how long. I was shaken. It took me a long time to get to sleep that night.