“Hey, Moose, sweet pea.” He turns to wave at me and my invisible sister Natalie with a warm smile.
Natalie isn’t here. And how’s he know my dad calls her sweet pea anyway? Slowly, it dawns on me, he’s doing an imitation of my dad. It’s pretty good too.
“My dad, right?” I ask.
Buddy smiles, pleased with himself. He clearly enjoys the spotlight.
“Piper?” I call after her. She and Scout are already on their way to the kitchen. “Did you see that? Buddy did a good imitation of my dad.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it. He can do everyone. He’s good.”
We both look back at Buddy Boy, who has followed Piper’s mom to the front door, where he is patiently listening to her instructions on cleaning the balustrade. The smile, the toothpicks, the wave, everything that reminded me of my father has vanished. Buddy sees us looking at him. He winks, just the way my dad would wink.
Scout and Piper are walking with their heads close together. “So wait . . . what am I supposed to call him?”
“Willy One Arm.”
“I call him Willy One Arm?”
“Well, it’s better than Mr. Willy One Arm, isn’t it?” Piper is almost through the dining room.
The kitchen is larger than I remember and there’s a brand-new electric icebox—the kind that doesn’t need ice—and a shiny stove that looks like the pictures in the Sears, Roebuck catalog.
A short wiry man dressed in the same clothes as Buddy Boy stands in the back of the kitchen rolling out dough with his one good arm. The other sleeve hangs down flat and empty.
“Willy One Arm . . . Scout and Moose. Scout and Moose . . . this is Willy One Arm.” Piper introduces us with a proud little smile on her face, like she’s showing off a really great baseball card collection.
Willy One Arm waves his one good arm, then shakes his stump, which makes the empty sleeve jiggle in the air, but it’s the pocket of his shirt that has my attention. There’s something moving inside it. Something alive!
“He does sleeve tricks. Want to see?” Piper asks.
Willy One Arm’s shoulder begins to move in a circular motion, pivoting his sleeve around with it. He gets it going pretty fast, before he catches his empty sleeve with his one hand and slows it to a stop.
“Wow,” Scout says. “That was good.”
My eyes are focused on his pocket. What’s he got in there?
Willy One Arm gives a little bow. He sticks his good hand inside his shirt pocket and takes out a mouse the size of a half-smoked cigar. The mouse is a smoky brown color with dirty bitten-up ears and a twitchy pink nose. Willy One Arm brings the mouse close to his face, as if he’s telling her a secret. “Molly, this here is Moose and Scout,” Willy says.
Piper moves her hand toward Molly, but Molly dives back inside Willy One Arm’s pocket with only her raw, hairless tail showing. Willy One Arm coaxes her out again and begins scratching her head with one yellowing fingernail. Molly clearly loves this.
“How’d you get a mouse?” I ask.
“Found you in the yard, didn’t I?” Willy One Arm’s squeaky voice tells the mouse. Willy One Arm lets Molly climb on his shoulder, then he lifts the wax paper off of a plate of brownies and offers us each one.
“Mom said we could have two, Willy.”
Willy One Arm’s mouth begins to twitch. “Monday ain’t a good day for fifteen,” he mutters in a raspy, rodentlike squeak. He takes a butter knife and cuts three brownies in half. “There,” he says. I watch him with the knife. I can’t believe they let convicts have knives. It’s only a butter knife, but still.
Scout takes two brownies. He’s standing a good distance from Willy One Arm with his nervous foot tapping. As I reach for mine, Willy mutters to Molly, “No nuts for Moose.”
I get a chill like something awful is crawling down my back. My voice falters. “How do you know I don’t like nuts?”
“Piper told us,” Willy One Arm replies.
“You did?” I ask her.
Piper rolls her eyes. “God, Moose. Of course. How else would he know?”
Scout is looking at his brownie like he’s dying to take a bite, only he isn’t quite sure it’s safe. He gives me a sheepish smile.
“That’s poison. It’s a poison brownie. You better give it to me,” I whisper, snatching the brownie right out of his hand.
Scout laughs, grabs it back, and takes a bite.
“He’s cute when he eats,” Piper declares, her eyes on Scout. “He’s cute when he isn’t eating too.”
“Gee thanks, doll,” Scout says, a little grin on his face.
Piper takes a step toward him. “You wouldn’t keep secrets from me, would you?”
“I don’t know any secrets. But if I find out any you’ll be the first doll I’ll tell.” Scout turns to me. “C’mon, let’s find that Jimmy guy and play ball.”
I can hear Piper laugh as we thunder down the switchback.
“Thanks a lot, Scout,” I tell him.
“What?” he asks over the sound of our pounding feet.
“Do you have to be so chummy with her?”
“The girl’s got murderers and madmen living in her house. I’m telling her whatever the heck she wants to hear.” Scout is panting as we slow down.
“They aren’t living there.”
“Close enough, Moose, close enough.”
5.
AUNTIE’S REVENGE
Same day—Monday, August 5, 1935
Scout and I head straight for the Mattamans’ apartment, which smells warm and cinnamony. Big band music plays on the radio as we walk through the living room to Theresa and Jimmy’s room. Jimmy has divided the room in half with a curtain he’s made out of bottle caps. He collected a billion of them, then threaded string through holes he punctured in the caps. But even without the dividing line, it’s easy to see what is Jimmy’s and what is Theresa’s. Jimmy’s side is loaded up with extra parts from a crystal set he’s constructing out of a Quaker oats box, a big pile of paper airplanes all folded together in one neat stack, and a rock-shooting machine he hasn’t gotten to work yet. His head is bent over a book about flies.
On her side, Theresa has two life-size paper men shot up with bullet holes from the firing range, newspaper articles about Al Capone, Bonnie and Clyde, and Baby Face Nelson, and a collection of cat toys she’s knitted just in case the warden changes his mind and says she can get a cat. Theresa is busy writing in her notebook of strange convict occurrences. She keeps a list of stuff she thinks are suspect. She has some odd things on the list too, like a full moon. We can’t seem to get her to understand that full moons happen no matter where you live. Theresa has quite the imagination.
“Hey.” Jimmy smiles up at us. “Want to know the best way to breed flies?”
“Sure,” Scout says.
“They like garbage, feces, cadavers, and carcasses,” Jimmy tells us proudly.
“Cadavers? What are cadavers?” Scout asks.
“Dead bodies,” I explain.
Scout looks at me sideways. “Where do you keep the dead people?” he whispers.
“We don’t have any.” I pull a long face. “There’s a morgue, but it’s empty. I’m very sorry, Scout.”
Scout grins and snaps his fingers. “Darn,” he says.
Jimmy doesn’t smile. He adjusts his glasses. “We need more flies, because so many don’t survive the training,” he explains.
“Fly training?” Scout asks incredulously.
“Uh-huh.” Jimmy’s eyes get bright, but before he can start explaining, Scout jumps up, full of his usual enthusiasm. “You play ball, right, Jim? C’mon, buddy, let’s go.”
Jimmy pushes a clump of dark curly hair off his forehead. He looks at me like he’s expecting me to throw him a life preserver.
“You want to play, Jim?” I ask.
Scout squinches his lips. “Why wouldn’t he want to play?”
Jim ignores this. “Where’s Annie?” he asks.
“She’s mad,”
I tell him.
Theresa looks up from her notebook. “Why’s Annie mad?” she asks from behind the bottle cap curtain.
Scout nods toward Theresa’s side of the room. “Does she play? Because I’ve taught my sisters pretty good. In a pinch they can play outfield. You know, if there aren’t enough fellas.”
Theresa’s head pops through the bottle caps, making them clatter like tiny galloping horses. She waves her arm all around, like she’s raising her hand at school. “Can I? What about me?”
Scout parts the curtain to get a better look. “How old are you?”
“Eight.”“
“She’s seven,” I tell him.
Theresa juts her chin out. “Almost eight, in a couple of days.”
Jimmy rolls his eyes. “A hundred is a couple?”
Scout ignores Jimmy. “You gonna do what we tell you?” he asks.
Theresa’s mouth presses into a hard thinking line. “I’ll get Annie,” she decides.
I’m happy to hear this. If anyone can convince Annie to play, it’s Theresa. “Yeah,” I say, “you do that.”
By the time Jimmy, Scout, and I get to the parade grounds, Annie and Theresa are already there. Annie has her gear too!
“I’m gonna play,” she announces.
“Swell!” I practically shout. I have no idea why she changed her mind, but I never question the peculiar logic of girls.
“You’re on the bench.” She snatches my glove out of my hand and pokes me in the chest.
“Me?” She can’t mean me.
“Yeah, you! Mr. Okey-dokey,” she whispers, her voice scratching like a match against flint.
“What are you . . . out of your mind? Course I’m playing.”
Annie stretches her arm across her body to warm up her arm muscles. “No, you’re not, Humpty Dumpty, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Humpty Dumpty?” Scout’s lips shake like he’s trying not to laugh. “Is that what she calls you?”
“Nice try. Scout is my friend. He came to play with me.” I tap my glove against my chest.
Scout clears his throat. He’ll come to my defense, of course he will. He’s not going to play without me. What does Annie think?
“Moose is playing,” Scout says.
Really, the gall of that girl, thinking she can kick me out of my own game.
“But maybe you could sit out just, you know, the first few pitches. I gotta see if this girl can strike me out. Moose, you understand,” Scout whispers. “Jimmy,” he yells. “First base or catcher?”
My mouth is hanging open. I can’t believe this.
“First,” Annie answers for Jimmy.
“Hey, that’s my position.”
Annie glares at me. “Jimmy does all right.” She scowls. “He just needs practice.”
“You gotta use me. You don’t have enough players without me,” I tell Scout.
Annie throws him the ball, and he catches it.
Back and forth, back and forth it goes. I might as well be a crack in the cement. I climb on top of a wooden crate we call the bench. It won’t be long to wait, I tell myself. Scout will hit and then I’ll play.
“We’ll play with one base. Theresa, you’re batter up,” Annie commands.
“No wait. It has to be Scout,” I insist.
“Nope, Scout’s second. I got to warm up.”
“Forget it, Annie. I’m not going to—”
“She has to warm up her arm, buddy,” Scout shouts. “Otherwise she’ll say it wasn’t fair.”
What is this? How long am I going to have to sit here and just watch?
Theresa is batter up. She’s facing the wrong way and holding the bat cross-handed. Scout calls a halt to the play and runs up to her for coaching.
When he’s finished, Annie spins one to her. Looks like a strike, but it’s a ball.
“Ball one,” I shout. I may be on the bench, but I’m sure as heck going to ref.
Annie squints at me like I made a bad call. She winds up and pitches another. This one splits the plate in half and Theresa hits it, which seems practically impossible given she’s back to holding the bat cross-handed. It’s a wild mis-hit that flies higgledy-piggledy to Jimmy, who watches it go by as if that’s what he’s supposed to do.
“Jim,” Scout yells, “chase it down!”
Jimmy takes off after it.
If I were there, I probably would have caught it on the fly, but no, I’m benched because of Annie. “Okay, Annie, you’ve had your fun. My turn,” I say as Jimmy rolls the ball back to her.
“What was that?” Scout asks Jimmy. “Let’s try that again.” He tosses the ball to Jimmy, who catches it but throws it back his noodley way.
Scout’s mouth hangs open. His face stretches out, then squinches up. “You throw like a girl, Mattaman—a dead girl.” He shakes his head. “Theresa,” he yells, “you take first base.”
“Hey!” Annie shouts. “Who made you coach?”
“Just let me play and we won’t have this problem,” I call out.
But Scout and Annie ignore me. The two of them are staring each other down, the challenge blistering between them. Jimmy is gone. He’s over by 64 building, watching from an angry distance. Theresa is on first base, a sneaky smile on her lips. It’s not often she gets to upstage her brother this way.
“You’re in trouble, buster,” Annie hollers. “I’m going to strike you out, you betcha.”
“In your dreams, doll,” Scout yells back.
“I’m not a doll, I’m an auntie, remember?” Annie snaps.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that. It’s not for delicate ears,” Scout tells her.
“Delicate? You think I’m delicate?” Annie’s jaw moves like she’s grinding her teeth. She shuffles her feet as if she has to have the exact right place to get her pitch just so. “This one is for you, Jimmy!” She waves her glove at Jimmy, now standing by the playground slide that the convicts made for us.
Scout picks up the bat. “I don’t think so, dolly. But hey, you give it all you got, gal.” Scout chews his gum, smacks it, cracks it, rubs his hands on his pants and wraps them around his bat again.
The next pitch catches a corner of the strike zone.
“Strike,” I call.
“I thought you said you could hit anything,” Annie bellows.
Scout glares at me like this is my fault. “That was just lucky,” he mutters. She pitches again. This time it’s solidly in the strike zone, but Scout’s timing is off. He swings and misses.
Annie’s lips quiver with the effort to keep the smile off her face. Now when she winds up, she’s sure of herself. She delivers the pitch. It’s good. But Scout’s mad. He smacks it hard—so hard it flies over 64 building, bounces on the roof, making a tinny sound, then sails over dockside. It’s the best hit I’ve ever seen from him.
I chase after the ball, which is apparently all I’m good for. But it’s my ball, for cripes’ sake. Just my luck it will roll into the bay.
Scout runs too. He makes it to base and back again, while I clatter down the 64 building steps to the dock. I see my ball over by the patch of garden the cons just planted, but it’s still rolling, picking up speed. My eyes are glued to the ball, which seems to be trying to decide which way to go as I thunder after it. I’m just getting close when I notice Seven Fingers and Trixle. Seven Fingers has a shaved bald head. He’s lean but strong and tall. Trixle is much shorter, more compact, and bristling with muscle as if everything inside him is combustible.
It’s Seven Fingers who snags the ball with his three-fingered hand. I wonder what it feels like to catch a ball with three fingers. He switches hands and tosses the ball effortlessly. I catch it barehanded.
“You kids aren’t supposed to be playin’ ball over here,” Trixle barks. “You know that.”
“We weren’t. I mean I’m not. Scout hit a good one. It cleared the building,” I explain.
Trixle nods, but his eyes don’t believe me. He was born suspicious. “On our way to
your place, Moose. You folks got the worst plumbing problems in 64 building, and that’s saying a lot.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” I mutter.
Seven Fingers laughs at this. “Boy can’t help it if his business too big for the crapper.”
“Who the H. asked you?” Trixle growls. He turns to me. “Theresa with you?” he asks, glancing up at his apartment—the biggest in all of 64 building.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“How about my Janet?”
“No, sir.”
“How come you never invite Janet?”
“Uh, sir? I never invite Theresa either. She just comes.”
His eyes narrow as he smacks his chewing tobacco. “Almost time for your buddy to head home.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You talking back to me, boy?”
“No, sir, I’m not, sir. But he’s supposed to eat supper with us.”
“He’s on the three thirty home. That’s what I got. Better get your stuff and skedaddle down there.”
“He’s only been here since one, sir. That’s not right.”
“I don’t make the rules, boy. Just keepin’ ’em is all. And his paperwork says three thirty.”
“Yes, sir,” I grumble through my grinding teeth.
I head back up the 64 building stairs—the fastest way to the parade grounds—Scout has followed me partway down. “Hey,” he says, when I catch up to him. “Was that a convict you were talking to? The guy who threw the ball.”
“Yep, that’s Seven Fingers,” I tell him.
“Seven Fingers? What happened to the other three?” Scout asks as we climb back up to where Annie and Theresa are waiting for us. Jimmy is there too, closer than he was, but still holding himself at a distance.
“That’s the mystery,” I tell him. “We wonder whenever our toilets are stoppered up.”
“Maybe a finger will come floating back up. What did he do?” Scout whispers.
“Ax murderer.”
Scout tries to swallow his gasp. “Wait until I tell my dad.
“So hey . . . Wait! Seven Fingers touched it! This is a convict baseball now?” Scout’s eyes are wide with appreciation.