Good Graces (32 page)

I waited for a little bit and then asked him what I really wanted to know. “Could you please, please, please tell me how the questionin’ of Ethel went?”

When he switched off the hose, his eyes looked like he wanted to tell me, but his mouth said, “I know you’re worried, but it’s an ongoing investigation, Sally. I wish I could, but I can’t discuss it.” He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. “Your mother and I are going to pick up your grandmother and uncle and drop them off at the church, and then we’ll swing back to get Nell and the baby at the apartment.” He gave me a couple of dollars. “We’ll see you and Troo up there.”

So, no thanks to Dave, all I know right now for sure about what’s going on with my dear Ethel is that she didn’t come back to Mrs. Galecki’s after they were through questioning her at the station yesterday. And I only know that because I sat and watched the house all afternoon. Mr. Gary came back from the hospital looking glum.

Ethel’s not in jail; Dave would’ve told me that. She musta gone back to the Core to be with Ray Buck, or Reverend Joe Willow, who is also good at making her feel better. She might also be at the Greyhound Bus station. Since she is the smartest woman I know, she has got to have put two and two together by now and figured out that she’s going to get blamed for Mrs. Galecki’s coma. She is the perfect patsy. As much as I’m going to miss her, I wouldn’t blame Ethel for buying a bus ticket for far, far away, maybe all the way back home to Mississippi to go live in a swamp, which sounds like a dangerous place, but has to be a whole lot safer than staying around here. (Alligators with their huge choppers and sharp claws are attempted murderers, too, but at least a person knows to steer clear of them. Not like you-know-who with his black Irish smile and manicured fingernails.)

On the corner of 54th Street, Troo points and says, “There they are. Right on schedule,” and takes off toward Mary Lane and Artie Latour, who are standing out in front of the Sheinners’ waiting for us just like Troo told them to last night.

When I catch up to them, even as nervous as I am, Artie makes me smile. He’s back to his old self, yo-yoing like it’s going out of style. He’s already started practicing for when his best friend gets back. If everything goes the way it’s supposed to tonight, Artie is going to write to Charlie Fitch tomorrow morning and tell him that he can come home to be adopted by the Honeywells.

Troo can tell Artie’s raring to go by how high he’s bouncing on his toes, but she asks Mary Lane, “Ready, Freddy?”

Our other best friend tosses her banana peel down and says, “Ready, Betty.”

Of course she is. She already went over to the rectory to set up what she needs. She found a better concrete block, one that she won’t fall off of this time, and carried it to Father Mickey’s office window. She also hid her Brownie camera in the bushes. Artie doesn’t have anything to do tonight except be a lookout and stick close to Mary Lane to remind her to stay on point. If she starts chowing down, she might forget all about the plan. (Fish fry Friday is her favorite night of the week and she can get carried away.) Artie’s much bigger part will kick in later after all is said and done.

When we round the corner of 58th Street and the church comes into sight, Mary Lane throws down a challenge. “Last one there’s gotta sit next to B.O. Montanazza at church this Sunday.”

Of course, I get there first, but it’s my sister who holds the side door of the school open for us. She says, “Age before beauty,” and gives me a goose when we head down the steps to the cafeteria, which is even louder than usual with gossip and complaints about the weather and more gossip. I hear someone say, “The radio reported there might be rain on the way. Somebody else says, “Did you hear about Jilly Wilton? She got caught in the boathouse with Joe Riordan without her blouse,” and the whole place reeks of just-waxed floors and steam and so many perfumes and sweat.

When it’s our turn to pry apart the sticky trays, the same lunch ladies as always slap limp fish sticks on our plates and a scoop of coleslaw that runs into the rye bread and for dessert there is always fruit cocktail. We’d usually try to find a place at the crowded cafeteria tables, but the cashier told us to go out to the playground. “The janitors set up out there tonight. The heat, ya know,” she says, handing back my change.

When the four of us come out of the cafeteria doors, I can see everybody spread across the playground.

“Thally O’Malley!” Like always, Wendy spots me when we get close to the Latours’ long, long table. After Artie takes a seat on the end next to his sister, she grins up at me with coleslaw lips and gives me one of her super-duper hugs around my waist. Even though I’m standing right next to her, she yells, “Hi. Hi. Hi. Thit. Now,” and tries to pull me down to her lap.

“I can’t, Wendy.” I’m trying to balance my tray so it doesn’t tip over onto her tiara-wearing head. “I gotta go be with my family the same way you’re with yours.”

Letting loose one of her strong arms, she points over to the set on the playground and says, “Thwing. Now. Thally.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll push you later, okay?” I don’t like to fib to her, but I’m sure she’ll forget because of her bad memory and she’s not so good at telling time. Sometimes she shows up in her Sunday clothes on Wednesdays and sometimes she goes to the playground in the middle of the night.

Wendy says, “Yeth, Thally, later,” but Artie’s got to tell her, “Tapioca,” three times before she’ll let the rest of me go.

From behind me, Mary Lane says, “I’ll be over there,” and weaves through the crowd to the table where her family’s camped out.

Across the playground, tall Dave is standing up and whistling with his fingers to make sure Troo and me know that he’s waiting for us with saved seats, but I don’t budge. Because of our mental telepathy, Troo knows I’m petrified in place and that I want to back out of the plan the same way I do every single time I climb the steps up to the high dive over at the pool.

She says, “Geronimo,” and bumps me in the back of the knees to get me unfrozen.

When we set our trays down at the table, Granny in her yellow-and-pink
muu-muu
is quibbling with Mother about something to do with the wedding, so they only give us quick nods.

Uncle Paulie doesn’t lift his mouth up from his plate. He’s shoveling in his food so he’s not late for his job up at Jerbak’s.

Smiling Peggy Sure is on her mother’s hip. Nell looks a lot like the fish fry. Her hair is flat with grease and her skin looks whiter than the tartar sauce and her mind has probably gone fruitier than the dessert. Troo and me haven’t been going over to her apartment much. The way it smells sour and Nell walking around like the star of a zombie movie . . . geez, it’s bad. She’s across the table from me, staring off into the distance like she is waiting for her ship to come in, which it won’t. It already sunk.

Eddie is not here with us because he spends all his time when he’s not working at the cookie factory cruising North Avenue with Melinda Urbanski in his pride and joy—his souped-up Chevy.

Keeping her eyes on the crowd, Troo digs into her food with a lot of gusto. I don’t know how she can. I have no appetite at all.

If I look out at our neighbors sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the table benches, all I see is a flock of bleating lambs that don’t even know they’ve been fleeced.

If I look at the cross high up on the church, I think about how God has let me and everybody else in the neighborhood down.

Positively, I cannot look at Dave, who is next to me at the table with his sleeves rolled up. I know I should say something to him about Troo’s plan, but if I ever tattled on my sister she’d spend the rest of our lives sucking in her breath when she passed me in the hall so her skin didn’t touch mine. She’d treat me forever like I should take the next boat to Molokai, which I gladly would. I’d rather be a leper than not have my sister by my side.

And if I look at Father Mickey, all I can see is exactly what Daddy warned me about. The devil in the details.

“As always, there are a few announcements,” Father says. Our pastor is standing in the middle of everything, turning slowly so all of us can hear what important thing he has to say. He doesn’t have on his regular black dress. He’s being sporty tonight in a short-sleeved black shirt and black pants.

“The Ladies Club has called off its meetings until mid-September,” Father Mickey says, reading from a piece of paper. “Sister Raphael would like to remind all you mothers that school uniforms are available through the J.C. Penney catalog this year.” When he sees what’s next on his list, he puts on a sad face. “Please remember to keep our beloved parishioner, Mrs. Bertha Galecki, in your thoughts and prayers.”

Hearing how concerned he sounds, so caring, so . . . he’s a better actor even than Charlie Fitch. I can barely keep myself from doing the same thing that poor orphan did. I want to grab my sister and run for our lives. We could stop by the Latours’ table and get the address of that family that Charlie went to stay with. Troo and me, we’re farm kids. We know a lot about digging and planting and selling vegetables in a roadside stand, especially corn. We could be a real help.

“And . . . ,” Father Mickey says, brightening back up again, “I’ve saved the best for last.” He points over our heads to the big hole in the ground next to the rectory that’s got the rope around it and the DANGER signs hanging off it. “As a result of your generous contributions and the discounted price we’re receiving from Mr. Fazio’s construction company, I’m happy to announce that bright and early tomorrow morning the foundation will be poured for the new school!”

Everyone just goes nuts, jumping off the benches and slapping each other on their backs. I think because they really are happy that their kids aren’t going to be jammed into the classrooms anymore, but also because they won’t have to drop so much of their paychecks into the collection plate this Sunday.

Somebody yells, “Let’s hear it for Father Mickey,” and starts up, “For he’s a jolly good fellow . . . for he’s a jolly good fellow . . . for . . .”

Next to me, Troo is singing along and just radiating. It’s not the heat tonight that’s making her glow. It’s the revenge plan that’s incubating inside of her, just dying to burst out like an about-to-hatch chick.

She leans over, pinches both of my cheeks and whispers, “You’re looking a little green around the gills. You better go over it all in your head one more time to make sure you don’t forget anything.”

There are a lotta parts to her plan. She added them on to her THINGS TO DO THIS SUMMER list that she made me memorize:

This part will be succesful because there is nobody in the world who is better at getting under somebody’s skin. My sister could make Job blow his stack. She’s going to threaten Father. Warn him that she’s going to tell the police on him for stealing Mrs. Galecki’s emerald necklace, which is what I told her to do in the first place, so when you get down to it, whatever happens tonight is all my fault.

Troo thinks that after our pastor goes crazy with fear over getting sent to prison, he’s gonna wrap his hands around her throat and try to squeeze the life out of her. Only she forgot to wear the turtleneck tonight.

After Father starts choking my sister, that’s when Mary Lane is going to get out her camera and shout, “Big cheese,” so Father will turn her way and that flashbulb will go off in his eyes and he’ll be so shocked and blinded that he’ll let go of Troo and she’ll run outta the front door of the rectory. Troo thinks a snapshot of Father Mickey trying to strangle her will be the very proof we need. Once we show it to Dave and everybody else in the neighborhood, they will see how awful he is and will have to believe the rest of the stuff we tell them. (Priests can smack you whenever they want to, but we’re all fairly sure strangling isn’t allowed.)

I used Daddy’s watch to time Troo when she stood on the rectory porch this morning while Father Mickey was saying his regular eight o’clock Mass. She ran in place to get going and then made a sharp right turn at the new school hole in five seconds and woulda been faster if she didn’t keep getting tangled up in those concrete poles that surround it.

The second Troo comes ripping outta the front door with Father Mickey in hot pursuit, I’m supposed to jump out from a nook in the school where I’ll be waiting. He won’t know it’s me and not her because of the flashbulb spots in front of his eyes and I’ll be so far ahead of him with my fly-like-the-wind speed and by that time, it should be dark.