Their night is coming

LITTLE ROCK — “Shush! They’ll hear us, you rattlebrain!” whispered Mrs. 1953, who was never one for taking chances.

“Rattlebrain? What brain?” said Ms. 1927, ever the flapper. “I don’t even have a head.”

“Oh, really, dear, none of us do.

We’re just here to show off our inaugural gowns, not our minds. But head or no head, that’s no excuse for making a lot of racket. Remember you’re here for decorative purposes only. Why can’t you learn to just stand there and be admired? I love it when the little girls press their noses up against the glass and try to decide which of our gowns they like best. But all that’ll be over if you don’t keep your voice down. And for goodness sake, stand perfectly still if one of those nosy parkers from the information desk wanders up here.

Or they’ll suspect.’’

“Suspect? Those flibbertigibbets?

Their minds are a million miles away, or at least thinking about some Civil War battlefield in Arkansas and wondering what happened on this date in 1862 or some such. Oh, I’ve heard them talk. When they do hear a rustle up here, even when it’s dark, one of ’em will say, ‘Oh, don’t worry about it, hon. It’s just the wind, or the building settling again. It’s so old, you know. Built in 1836. . . .’’ And then they’ll just go on, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to hear us girls moving about when there’s no one here. And, to think, they call us dummies.”

“Oh, hush, 1927. You know the rules. Article I, Clause 2: ‘When detected, go into Comatose State at once. Do not emerge till dark on pain of being exiled from the Inaugural Ball Gown exhibit and carted off to the Exhibit Room.” And it’s dusty down there, dear. It wouldn’t be good for your allergies. Your head would just swell up like a balloon. That is, if you had one. So just be patient.

Night will come, they’ll all go away, and we’ll have a nice metaphorical cup of tea down in the DAR Room.

I promise. Right under the fancy chandelier. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Till then, don’t move a muscle.” “Oh, you scaredy-cat. What are we supposed to do, just hang around in this dark hallway all day with nothing to do and nobody to listen to except the guides? That’s no fun. I swear, if I hear their routine one more time-‘Welcome to the oldest standing state capitol west of the Mississippi. . . .’ I’ll just scream.

That’d scare ’em right out of their bloomers. If they still wear bloomers in 2011. They probably do, proper as they are. Not like my day, when we did the Charleston. Ain’t we got fun?

Twenty-three skiddoo, pocket flasks and raccoon coats! Boolah boolah and all that. Not like these drab days.

Do they even listen to Rudy Vallee any more? They need to come up with a new routine. Make some stuff up if they have to. Don’t they know that even the exhibits get bored with the same old spiel all day?” “Now, now, Twenty-Seven. What stories could be more fun than all that’s happened here? Inaugurals and duels and pitched battles and even a whole little war out on the lawn. Brooks vs. Baxter, though I can never remember which was which.

Oh, the things I’ve seen! Floods and tornadoes and even the start of a presidential campaign. Calamities galore! Lady Baxter is still out there on the lawn and can make enough noise to please even you, girl, when she goes off. We all have to cover our ears, so to speak. So just settle down and pretend you’re a lady.”

“What an old spoilsport you are, Fifty-Three. Come on, live a little. Why are you wearing that fancy gown if you’re not going to dance even a teensy-weensy bit?

Come on, let’s go visit the ghosts in the east wing, you know, the old medical school. Some of the boys down there are real cute, if a bit cadaverous. At least they have heads-most of ’em, anyway. Don’t you have any interest in science?’’

“I just know my place, that’s all. We all did in my day. Why, I remember when. . . .”

“Oh, you old fussbudget. Can’t you think about anything but the old days? It’s time you kicked up your heels, twirled your beads, got your hair bobbed and took a ride in a rumble seat. There’s nothing like it.

Think ahead! Tomorrow night’s our night to howl, and I intend to do just that. Just let ’em try and stop me. Oh, it’s been so long since I had a good howl. There’s nothing better for the figure, you know. Tell you what, let’s sneak outside this year. Oh, the shrieks we’ll get from the folks walking down Markham. Every girl deserves a little fun on Halloween.

It’s the loveliest night of the year and here you’re squawking. . . .”

“Girls, girls,” piped up old 1889, who had the most seniority of the group. “A little dignity, please.

This is our home, remember?

We’ve all been First Ladies and should have learned to set a good example. There is still such a thing as propriety-even in 2011. And it ill behooves us. . . .”

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” snorted Twenty-Seven. “Stop being such a wet blanket and get into a dry martini. Halloween is coming.

If I had my druthers, I’d trade in these fancy party clothes for a nice broomstick, maybe in red with four on the floor, double exhausts and an extra cab. That baby’d GO!”

For a moment 1927 was lost in rare reverie. But not for long.

“As long as we’re stuck here,’’ she suggested after a pensive pause, “what about a pajama party tomorrow night? Maybe in the old Senate chamber, or is it the old House chamber? They kept changing them around, you know.

Well, we can change a few things around ourselves, you know.

Switch the nameplates on some of the stuffier portraits. We could play poltergeist. Or just get out the old ouija board and put in a long distance call or two to the past.

It’s toll-free. I know we’re state employees, but we’re entitled to a little fun, too, and, next morning, when they see what we’ve done and have to clean up the. . . .”

“What?” cried 1953, “Have you lost your head?”

“Why, yes,” remembered 1927, “I don’t know what happened to it.

My mother always said I’d lose it if it weren’t attached. But I’m in good company. The other night I spotted Ann Boleyn down in that spooky little nook under the stairs looking for hers.”

“Sure you did, Miss La-de-da.

She was probably having a tetea-tete with Mary Queen of Scots, only without their tetes.”

“Make your little jokes, Fifty-Three, but there’s nothing wrong with losing your head. It was quite the rage in Paris, at least during the Revolution. All the crowned heads lost theirs. Everybody got their hair done at M. Guillotine’s. Why, just last week, I was telling Marie Antoinette. . . .”

“Oh, please, 1927. Just because we’re headless doesn’t mean we’ll believe anything you say. I haven’t heard such nonsense since. . . .”

An unghostly presence was felt.

A shadow moved.

A strange whistling noise approached.

Everyone froze.

It was one of Them.

A guard. He was whistling something. The St. Louis Blues? Ms.

1927 suppressed a shimmy. The guard hadn’t noticed the slight movement when she’d resumed her post-as smoothly as if she’d never left it.

All stood perfectly still. Patient.

Waiting. ’Twas the night before Halloween and all through the old State House not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The only thing that could be heard was the tick-tock of the old clock downstairs. But the night air was heavy with anticipation. Like the moment before a scream.

Paul Greenberg is editorial page editor of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. E-mail him at: pgreenberg@arkansasonline.com