Al Capone Does My Homework (15 page)

Saturday, February 8, 1936

I can’t get the picture of my dad out of my head. His closed eyes, his purple eyelids,
the red stain the size of a handprint on his shirt. My mom, Doc Ollie, Bo Bomini,
and Mr. Mattaman took him to the city on the Coast Guard cutter. The ferry was at
Fort Mason. The Coast Guard cutter was faster.

I wanted to go with him, but Doc Ollie said no. “They won’t let you in the hospital.
You have to be sixteen,” he said.

I’m old enough to see my father get stabbed, but too young to go to the hospital with
him. This makes no sense.

Mrs. Bomini is out sweeping the balcony. She shakes her head when she sees me. “We’re
praying for you, honey. Your daddy is the cat’s pajamas and we all know it.”

I head up the hill to Piper’s. When she opens the door, I stare at her, speechless.

She nods, as if she’s expecting me. “Come on,” she says. I follow her to the kitchen.

“What do they know?” I ask.

“His name is Lonnie McCrae and he’s from Kokomo, Indiana. They started calling him
Indiana because at his last prison, there were two Lonnies. The name stuck.”

I grind my toe into the rug. “What else do you know?”

“He’s in for armed robbery. Sent to reform school when he was thirteen.”

“Thirteen. That’s how old we are.”

She nods, her face a little paler. She could have been sent to reform school too.
If she’d been anyone else’s daughter, she probably would have been.

“Been in prison off and on since then. He’s twenty-nine today.”

“He tried to kill my dad on his birthday?”

“Yes,” she says.

My head gets woozy. I start sweating all over. My feet pound into Piper’s bathroom.
I hold the cold toilet bowl while my breakfast comes up in a big pink raspberry jam
mess. I wash my face, scrub so hard, the skin is raw, but no amount of soap can make
me feel okay again.

Back in her kitchen, Piper watches me, her brown eyes serious.

But I can’t sit still. I have to leave. Piper calls to me, but I’m already out the
door, half running down the switchback around the bend by the morgue when I come face-to-face
with Warden Williams.

“Mr. Williams, sir, why’d they want to hurt my dad? Was it really for a game?”

He nods, his voice unusually gentle. “Indiana wanted a feather in his cap. That’s
how he thought he’d get it.”

“That’s sick.”

He motions to the cell house. “Some of the men in there are broken in ways that can’t
be fixed.”

“All for a game?”

“A couple of gangs each put a man up. That’s always the way it is. But your dad’s
gonna be all right. He’s tougher than he looks. Can’t think of anyone I’d rather have
my back. Can you?”

“No, sir.”

“Hold a good thought, Moose. We’ll get through this, you and I.”

• • •

I head down to the water. It’s raining now . . . water hits the top of my head and
drips off my nose. I sit with my legs hanging over the dock watching the gray water.
The birds are hunkered down, the distant rush of the rain comes through the gutters
in 64. The bay laps against the rocks, hollow sounding under the wooden planks.

I don’t see Jimmy and Mrs. Mattaman coming, but suddenly they are there. Mrs. Mattaman
shivers under a blue umbrella. Jimmy’s curly hair is so wet, it hangs straight. “Moose,
come on up with us.”

I shake my head.

“It breaks my heart to see you sitting out here,” Mrs. Mattaman says.

I watch the birds ride the choppy waves, a new shower of rain battering them down.

Mrs. Mattaman puts her short arm around me awkwardly. She is warm and dry, which makes
me realize how sopping wet I am. “No rhyme or reason to it,” she says. “There’s no
point in looking for one.”

“I saw it. And I opened my mouth and I tried to yell. But I couldn’t.”

“Moose, now you listen to me. You threw that ball and you hit Indiana. He would have
killed your daddy for sure if not for you. But he didn’t. And now your father has
a fighting chance.”

“It’s because we spent so long watching the cons. You knew how to read them,” Jimmy
says.

“No,” I whisper. “I didn’t figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Jimmy asks.

“Capone warned me.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Mrs. Mattaman says.

“Capone wrote on my homework
state problem.
Indiana is a state.” I am out of breath. I shouldn’t be, but I’m so upset, I can’t
even breathe the right way.

“Nobody in his right mind could have figured that out. Especially given all the craziness
gone on here in the last month. How were you supposed to know what that meant? Jimmy,
did you know anything about this?”

Jim shakes his head.

“But don’t you see? I’m supposed to keep track,” I say.

“Of what?” Mrs. Mattaman asks.

“Of everything,” I tell her. “Natalie needs my help, and my dad, he never thinks anything
bad will happen. Maybe if I’d been a better friend to Piper, she wouldn’t have gotten
in trouble. I messed up.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, you listen to me. You don’t have that much power, Moose.”
She looks at me with her kind brown eyes.

“What happens is in God’s hands. Not yours. We’re all praying. Every one of us. Everybody
loves your father. And he’s gonna pull through because your daddy’s a fighter. And
you? You should feel proud of yourself for thinking quick with that noggin of yours
and throwing that ball with your beautiful throwing arm, do you hear me?”

“But I could have yelled,” I shout.

“You did yell,” Jimmy points out.

“How do you know?”

“I heard you.”

“Not soon enough. Not loud enough,” I say.

The wind whistles up under Mrs. Mattaman’s umbrella, lifting it almost out of her
hands.

“Oh fiddlesticks, Moose—”

“Wait, Mom, let’s test it out,” Jimmy says. “Where were you when you threw the ball?”
he asks.

“On the balcony outside the door to Annie’s,” I say.

“You go to the spot where your father was standing. I’ll run up and I’ll shout like
you did. And then you’ll know if your father could have heard or not,” Jimmy says.

He doesn’t stop to ask if I think this is a good idea. He’s already running up the
steps to the door to Annie’s third-floor apartment, #3H. Mrs. Mattaman stays down
with me.

Jimmy waves when he’s on the balcony. Mrs. Mattaman tilts her umbrella to the side
and jiggles it over her head and Jimmy shouts.

I can see his mouth moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The rain and the water
rushing through the downspouts fill my ears. Mrs. Mattaman turns to me. “You hear
that?” she asks.

“No, but it wasn’t raining.”

“Grant you that, but even so . . . you’re listening for it. You’re trying to hear
it. Your father was not.”

I nod. One tiny corner of the weight on my chest lifts.

“If I’d been smarter and figured it all out sooner . . .”

“What you told me didn’t add up to diddly-squat.”

“But it did.”

“Oh flibbertigibbets, Moose.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ll report that you think Capone
scribbled a note on your homework. Of course we will, but honey, any one of those
cons up there is a murderer. Every five minutes a new plan is hatched. For escape,
for stabbing a warden, and God knows what else. These men are dangerous . . . surely
this isn’t news to you.”

She takes my chin in her hand and looks deeply into my eyes. “You did your best with
that whole big heart of yours and that’s all any of us can do.”

Jimmy is back down now. “You didn’t hear, did you?” He slicks his wet hair back.

“No,” I admit.

“I didn’t think so,” he says.

“There, so now we know. Now, we got other fish to fry.” Mrs. Mattaman wiggles her
umbrella at me. “I need you to go talk to Natalie. Natalie loves her daddy as much
as you do. And she’s awful confused right now. I tried to tell her what was happening,
but she curled up and hasn’t moved since.

“Theresa, bless her heart, has been trying to see to her, but she needs you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“All right then. You march right on up there and go talk to your sister. Jimmy, you
go on up and get on dry clothes.”

Mrs. Mattaman is right about most things. But wrong about Al Capone. He was trying
to warn me.

Still, if Capone really wanted to help, he could have told my dad that day in Doc
Ollie’s kitchen. He could have prevented this, but he wasn’t willing to stick his
neck out. Al Capone isn’t as brave as people think he is. My dad has more courage
than he does.

Saturday, February 8, 1936

When I get up to Mrs. Mattaman’s, Natalie is lying on Theresa’s bed with her face
down, her legs and her arms tucked under her. She’s so quiet, it doesn’t look like
she’s breathing.

“Natalie,” I whisper, “do you understand what’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer but she knows something, or she wouldn’t be frozen like this on
Theresa’s bed.

Usually it ticks me off when she does this, but not today. Today I wish I could shut
the world out just like she does.

“Natalie . . .” My voice trails off.

I listen to the sounds of the Mattamans’ apartment. Theresa and Jimmy’s bottle cap
curtain tinkles in the breeze. Baby Rocky babbles to himself. The teakettle whistles,
the icebox opens and closes.

I put my hand on Nat’s arm, but her skin twitches away. “Daddy got hurt, Natalie.”

Natalie rolls side to side as if to burrow herself more deeply into Theresa’s mattress.

“Mommy and Doc Ollie took him to the hospital.”

“Hospital,” she echoes.

“You know what that is.”

“Where hurt people get better,” she whispers, her face toward the wall.

My eyes focus on the snarl of her hair. What do I say now?

Nat mumbles something I don’t catch.

“What?” I ask.

“Have to see Daddy,” she says, louder this time.

“You can’t,” I tell her. “Like I said, he’s in the hospital.”

“Visit him, visit.” She digs her chin into her collarbone.

“You have to be sixteen or they won’t let you in the hospital,” I tell her.

Nat sits up. She presses her hand against her chest. “Natalie is.
I
am sixteen.”

“Yeah, but I can’t go, and you can’t go by yourself.”

“I AM SIXTEEN,” Nat says, like maybe I’ve lost my hearing. “I can go in by myself.
I am the warden’s daughter.”

Don’t be ridiculous,
I’m about to say. But slowly Natalie’s words seep into my brain.
I am sixteen. I can go in by myself.

I’m not old enough, but she is.

Still, I can’t let her do that. My mother would kill me.

Then I remember what Mrs. Kelly said about my parents being older. About how I will
be taking care of Natalie someday. Natalie’s got to keep trying things, or we’ll never
know what she’s capable of. It’s like in my homework report—after FDR got polio, his
mom wanted him to retire and sit around for the rest of his life.

He wouldn’t be our president if he’d done what his mother said. He’d be a crippled
man sitting all by himself somewhere.

It’s early afternoon, but it’s so stormy and dark outside, the light is on in the
hall. I stare stupidly at the pattern it creates on the wall. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Nat trembles, but she doesn’t get up.

“Nat?” I whisper.

Her trembling gets worse; she’s shaking now like she’s freezing. And then without
a word, she gets up and goes in the bathroom.

When she comes out, she has Theresa’s hairbrush. She heads for the kitchen, where
she hands it to Mrs. Mattaman and stands quietly, with her back to Mrs. Mattaman,
waiting.

Mrs. Mattaman takes the cue and gently begins to brush her way through Nat’s tangled
hair. “What’s up?” she asks me.

“We’re going to the hospital,” I say.

“You aren’t old enough.”

“No, but Natalie is.”

I can almost see the news travel through the presses in Mrs. Mattaman’s brain.

“Moose, honey—” She’s going to tell me no. Her mouth opens, then closes again. She
works through Natalie’s tangles as Nat stands patiently.

Section by section, she brushes her hair until every bit of it hangs straight. Then
she takes a rubber band and puts Nat’s hair in a ponytail and ties it with a ribbon.

“Now let’s have a look.” Mrs. Mattaman turns Natalie around.

“You need a clean blouse. Let me see what I have.” She comes back with a white button-down
shirt and a blue sweater that matches Nat’s skirt. My mother would never suggest this.
It’s not the kind of thing Natalie wears. The stiff fabric will drive her crazy, but
Natalie takes it and right there in the middle of the Mattamans’ living room, begins
to undress.

“Not here, Nat.” Mrs. Mattaman gently pushes her into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Nat’s in there a long time, but just as I get ready to knock, she opens the door.

When she walks out, she looks as grown-up as a teacher in Mrs. Mattaman’s sweater,
with the ribbon and too-high ponytail.

I worry she’ll throw a fit in these unfamiliar clothes, but something about the still
shaky way she’s walking tells me how hard she’s trying.

Mrs. Mattaman sees my concern. She bites her lip and crosses her arms in front of
herself, but she does not tell me we can’t go.

Nat’s all ready now. Mrs. Mattaman hands us umbrellas and gives us detailed instructions
on how to get to the hospital. Nat takes her umbrella into the bathroom and begins
flushing the toilet over and over.

“Nat,” I call through the door. “We have to go.”

She can’t manage this. It’s too hard, I think, but a minute later she’s out of the
bathroom, walking through the Mattamans’ front door.

“Good luck,” Mrs. Mattaman whispers as I scoot after Natalie.

But Nat doesn’t walk down to the ferry. She heads for #2E.

“You need something, Nat?”

She doesn’t answer but goes straight to her room, then comes out again. I’m expecting
her to be carrying her button box, but she doesn’t have it.

“What did you get?” I ask as she brushes past me, headed down to the dock.

She doesn’t answer.

The ferry trip across the water to San Francisco goes smoothly. Nat doesn’t feed the
birds like she usually does. She doesn’t count the boats on the bay either. She just
sits quietly, her eyes on her lap. Even finding the address is no problem with Mrs.
Mattaman’s careful instructions. But when I see the hospital ahead, my feet slow down.

The place is an enormous building with fancy brickwork and a grand entrance. How can
I send Nat in there all by herself? What was I thinking?

“You know, it’s probably better if I go with you, Nat,” I say.

“Moose is thirteen,” Nat mutters.

“Yeah, I know, but . . .”

“I am sixteen.” She points to her chest.

But what if this doesn’t work? What if she pitches a fit? My mom doesn’t need this
on top of what’s happening with my dad.

“I’m big for my age. I can pass for sixteen,” I tell her.

“Moose is thirteen,” Nat says. “Thirteen, thirteen.”

I have to let her do this. I have to let her try. This is her fight, not mine. “Okay,”
I tell Natalie. “Go up to the lady in the front reception desk and ask for Dad’s room
number. You’ll have to look in her eye and ask. Say: ‘I am Cam Flanagan’s daughter.
I’m here to visit him. May I have his room number, please?’”

“I am Cam Flanagan’s daughter. I’m here to visit him. May I have his room number,
please?” Nat echoes.

Nat will have no trouble finding the room number. The hard part is looking normal
to the lady.

“Remember, Nat, look the lady in the eyes. No funny business.”

“Look the lady in the eyes. No funny business,” Nat repeats. “Three.”

The game isn’t working very well. I wonder if she has even made eye contact twice.

“She’s not going to know our game, Nat. You’ll have to count to yourself.”

“Count to yourself.” She rocks wildly from side to side.

Natalie digs a quick jab of her chin on her shoulder. She shakes her head like she’s
getting snow out of her hair. “No funny business. Count to yourself,” she mutters.

“Go on. You can do it.”

Nat’s chin starts to dip down again, but she stops herself midway. She walks forward
flat-footed, as if every part of her foot must make contact with the ground. I’m holding
my breath watching her push through the door and walk up to the reception desk.

Will she stop at the counter? Did I tell her not to repeat what the lady says? I never
realized how many millions of things you have to do to look normal. How confusing
it must be to figure it out.

A man is in line ahead of her. She waits her turn. I see the angle of Nat’s face.
Her head is up. It’s Nat’s turn now. She walks forward and begins talking to the gray-haired
lady behind the desk.

The gray-haired lady nods. She checks her clipboard, then points Natalie down the
corridor.

Natalie hesitates a moment, not sure if she’s missed something. The gray-haired lady
squints at her.

Does she suspect something isn’t right with Natalie?

Maybe. But then Nat moves on and the next person in line goes up to the counter. Nat
keeps walking down the hall. She turns a corner and disappears.