I shrug. “I guess so.”
“Can I have it? Can I?” Scout asks me.
Annie and Theresa are all crowded around. “You can have mine,” Scout says. “We could trade.”
I don’t like the feel of Scout’s ball. The stitches are too high. I shrug. “I guess so.”
“So you’re just going to give him your baseball?” Jimmy mumbles, his eyes focused on the cement.
I’m not sure what to say to this. “He’s my friend.”
“Your best friend,” Scout adds.
“And what am I?” Jimmy asks.
“You’re my best friend too, but look, Jimmy, you live here. You could just get Seven Fingers to throw you a baseball whenever you want,” I tell him. “And besides, I thought you had one.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“I dunno.”
“That’s not a real convict baseball anyway.” Jimmy points at the ball. “You’re supposed to find it when the cons hit it over the rec yard wall.”
“It’s close enough.” I shrug. “Anyway, Trixle said you have to go, Scout. I’m sorry.”
Annie’s shoulders move down a notch. Theresa stamps her foot. “I’m gonna go give him a piece of my mind.”
“No, you’re not,” Annie tells her. “You can’t get in hot water with Trixle and you know it.”
Scout nods. “Trixle . . . he’s the muscled-up officer gave me grief this morning? The one with the little girl follows him around?”
“Yep,” I tell him.
Scout nods, holding the ball carefully in his glove. He looks over at Annie. “Didn’t strike me out, but you did all right.”
“For a girl?” she asks.
Scout thinks about this. “For a pitcher,” he says.
She smiles a tiny smile, packed solid with joy. She takes a deep breath. “Good enough to play on your team?”
Scout’s forehead creases with all the thinking he’s doing about this. He gives his gum an extra-loud smack. “You bet, doll. You bet.”
6.
WHAT CAPONE WANTS
Monday, August 12, 1935
My mom goes to San Francisco to visit Natalie today, and when she gets home, her step is light and hopeful. “Went well.” She takes off her hat. “Natalie acted like she’s been going there her whole life. She settled in just fine. Made a friend of the head lady, a tiny woman named Sadie.”
My dad puts his arm around my mom’s shoulder. Her knees bend as she snuggles into my father. She is taller than he is without her shoes. In her high heels she towers over him.
“She’s going to be all right, Cam.” My mom’s voice is husky. She pats her pockets in search of a hanky.
“We’ve been around the world a few times on this one,” my dad murmurs. “But we made it, honey. We did.”
My mom smiles. Her knees sag and she collapses onto the couch as if she simply can’t take one more step.
“You look beat,” my dad tells her. “Why don’t you lie down.”
She nods and goes into their room.
My father picks up his darts. “I don’t suppose you’d like to play your old man, would you?”
“You promise to lose?”
“Me?” He pretends innocence. “You’re the one who needs to go easy. I’m not as young as I once was.” He lets a dart fly. It hits the bull’s-eye from ten feet back.
“Good day today, Moose. Red-letter day. Nothing can go wrong today. Even Seven Fingers got the plumbing working, you see that?” My dad nods toward the bathroom.
“For now anyway,” I say.
“Don’t know what the problem is with our plumbing. Trixle thinks it’s you, you know.” My father jabs me in the ribs.
“Me?” I poke my own chest. “How could it be me?”
My father laughs as he organizes the feathers of a rumpled dart.
“Why do you believe everything Darby Trixle says?” I ask.
“Oh Moose, don’t tell me you’re still mad about that tire?”
“Trixle sent Scout home because he was on the wrong ferry.”
My dad’s head wags one way then the other as he draws score columns with a pencil. He puts an M with antlers for me. “Darby thinks rules are important.”
“Okay, I understand that with Scout, maybe. But what about Natalie? He knew it would upset her if he had the guard tower shoot.”
“Could be,” he admits. He aims a dart carefully and methodically, then lets it rip. A bull’s-eye. “Guess I’d rather look for the good in people.”
“What about the cons? You look for the good in them too?”
My father shrugs. He nods toward the cell house. “Just a bunch of big kids up there. Chuckleheads every one.”“
“Yeah, but do you believe they’re good guys?”
“Nope. And don’t you believe it either.”
I’m concentrating on the bull’s-eye. I feel the dart between my fingers.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t treat them with respect. Treat a man like a dog, he’ll act like a dog. Treat a man with respect, he’ll remember that too. But trust them? Not on your life.”
“What about the passmen?” I ask. “The warden has to trust them, right?”
My dad watches me as I move the dart back and forth in the air but don’t let go.
“You gonna throw that dart or just play with it?”
“Don’t rush me,” I say.
I take a deep breath and let it go. The dart zings through the air and lands three rings from the center.
“Not bad.” My father nods, looking carefully as if he is contemplating the exact angle of the dart. “I’ll tell you the truth here, son, if you keep it between us. Can you do that?” He measures my response with his eyes.
“Course,” I tell him, straightening up to my full height.
He takes a dart in each hand. “The warden likes the help—two full-time servants he doesn’t have to pay for . . . who wouldn’t like that?” He throws first one dart, then the other. “There’s no incentive for them to escape on account of they’re a few months from release. Plus, he doesn’t think they’ll fool with him. Him being the warden and all. But I don’t buy it. The way I see it, you never get something for nothing.” He pulls the darts out, eyeing the line.
“On the other hand, the man knows his business. He ran San Quentin for ten years. I been at the prison business for what, eight months?” He shrugs. “I’m gonna keep my mouth shut on this one, Moose.”
I think about this. “So, I’m supposed to treat the cons with respect but not trust them.”
“I don’t imagine you kids have much occasion to interact with the convicts. But yes, that’s the general idea.”
“Okay, Dad, I have another question for you. Have you ever done the wrong thing for the right reason?”
He stops what he’s doing and looks over at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” I say.
He nods. “You want to play again?”
“You gonna lose this time?”
“Oh definitely.” He picks up a dart. “I ever tell you about when I met your mother?” He smiles. “She was going out with my cousin Harold at the time. I took one look at her and I thought, Holy mackerel, there’s the girl I’m gonna marry, Harold or no Harold. I’m not proud of that, but I’ll tell you what, I sure wouldn’t trade your mom for any woman on this planet.”
I’ve heard this story before and it doesn’t make me feel any better. I mean, he loved my mom. That’s the worst thing he can dredge up from his whole thirty-nine years?
Almost on cue, my mom comes out from her room looking perkier. She gives me a surprisingly radiant smile as she nods to the dartboard. “Let me guess, you got drubbed?”
“Pretends he can’t play,” I tell her.
“Gotta watch him. He’s up to his old tricks again.” She gathers up her sheet music.
“You’ve got a lesson?” I ask.
She blushes. “Thought I might play a bit.”
My father and I look at
each other. She teaches piano, but she hardly ever plays herself.
“Really? Well, well, well . . . up at the Officers’ Club?” my dad asks.
“You see a piano here?”
“No, but maybe we’ll need to get one,” my father offers.
My mother smiles, her whole face shining like a schoolgirl’s.
That night when I climb into bed I feel great for the first time in a long while. My parents are happy. My sister has her chance. I might need to patch things up with Jim, but Scout doesn’t come to Alcatraz that often. This isn’t going to be a big problem. And Annie will come around. She loves to play ball. She’s not going to hold out for long.
My head sinks into my pillow. My chest eases down into the mattress. I’m even getting used to this squeaky old bed and the way the light shines in the doorway.
Life is good, I decide as I stick my arm under the pillow to prop my head up. My fingers graze the pillow label. Strange . . . this is the pillow I’ve always had. I never noticed a label before. I turn over the pillow. A slip of paper with green lines flutters in the air. My heart jams up in my throat, cutting off my air supply.
This can’t be another note.
But it is.
Inside the now familiar folds the handwriting looks the same as before:
My Mae loves yellow roses. She’ll be on the Sunday 2:00.
Then we’re square.
7.
ITCHY ALL OVER
Tuesday, August 13, 1935
In my dreams Natalie is encased in ice. It’s inexplicably hot, hotter than the hottest spot on the equator, hotter than it’s ever been before, but the ice won’t melt. She is frozen solid in her ice rectangle and nothing I can do will melt it. Annie’s big face peers down from the sky. “I told ya so, so, so . . .”
All night I toss and turn. No matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable. Every time the sheets touch my skin, I scratch, itch, burn. When I finally get out of bed, I have raised welts in wild irregular shapes all over my body.
“Mommy?”
My mom sticks her head in my room. “Hey there, sleepy-head. It’s half past nine already.”
“My skin looks funny.” I show her the welts all along my belly, my neck, my arms, my back.
She runs her finger over one of them, lightly, carefully. “Hives,” she concludes. “You used to get them when you were little.”
“What causes them?”
“Could be something you ate. Could be your clothes . . . the detergent.”
“The laundry?” My voice squeaks.
“Could be they changed the soap up top.”
Suddenly I wonder if this is intentional. What if Al Capone targeted me with itchy soap?
“You ought to take a walk up to Doc Ollie’s. See what he has to say about this. Do they itch?”
“Like crazy.”
She sits down on my bed and runs her hand over my hair, like I am six instead of twelve. “When you were little, I used to stick you in an oatmeal bath. Did you a world of good. I’ll go down to Mrs. Caconi’s now, give Ollie a call, see if he has a minute to look at this. You want me to start your breakfast?”
I can’t remember the last time my mom made me breakfast. Usually, I just pour my own self some cereal: the cold kind. I’m not going to let this opportunity slide by. “Blueberry pancakes, bacon, hash browns, toast, and some juice and ham too, if you have it,” I tell her. “Oh and maybe some scrambled eggs.”
She laughs. “That’s my Moose. Doesn’t let anything get in the way of his appetite. I’ll see what I can do.”
When she gets back, I hear her banging pans around in the kitchen and then the smell of sizzling bacon.
I hate to admit it, but it’s nice having my mother to myself this way. We’ve been three people and an octopus all of my life, and now the octopus is gone. It’s not Natalie that’s missing so much as the hubbub around her. The wild-goose chase of what to do and how to help her—one heartbreak chasing another.
What’s left now is just my mother and me. How strange this is. How quiet.
But realizing this makes my hives itch all the worse. If I tell my dad what’s happening, he’ll tell the warden and Natalie could get kicked out of the Esther P. Marinoff School and then the craziness will be back again.
It’s up to me to keep her safe.
My blanket is pulled over my head. I breathe in this dark, gray hot itchy space and scratch my skin raw and red.
My mom sticks her head in the door again. “Go on and get dressed, Moose. I want you to get some food in your belly before you go up and see Ollie. He’s got time for you at ten.”
At the table, she sits with me while I eat, as if she has nothing better to do. “You’re a good son, Moose,” she says as I help myself to another pancake. “A good brother too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
She averts her eyes when she says this, as if she has suddenly revealed too much and embarrassed us both. This is not how my mother usually behaves. She doesn’t notice me except in relation to Natalie.
“You want me to go up to Ollie’s with you?” she asks.
This is a ridiculous question. I’m almost thirteen. What if Jimmy or Piper sees me walking up with my mommy. But suddenly my head is nodding yes instead of shaking no.
“You do?” Even she is surprised.
“No, of course not,” I mumble, my mouth full of pancakes.
She nods, slowly taking this all in. “I wonder if you’ll forgive me,” she says in a voice barely audible.
“For what?” I manage to say.
Again her eyes search my face. “For being so wrapped up with Natalie,” she whispers.
I stuff my mouth full of more pancake to push the unexpected feelings down.
She picks up my empty milk glass and puts it in the sink, making movements that fill the kitchen with sound. She seems to know I’m not going to answer.
“Go on now. Ollie’s expecting you.”
Doc Ollie is a stout man with double-thick soled shoes and big deft hands that can thread needles, rock newborns, and gut fish. Doc Ollie can do anything. He’s a great whistler to boot, always starts his visits by taking requests.
“ ‘All of Me,’ ” I tell him today, and he whistles two verses.
When I show him my hives, he chuckles. “They certainly do have all of you,” he says, making sympathetic clucking noises as he questions me on what I might be allergic to.
“Far as I know, I’m not allergic to anything.”
“You doing some worrying?”
I shake my head. “Nope,” I say, sucking the inside of my cheek. He is a nice man, Doc Ollie, and I wish I could tell him everything I’m worrying about—give it all to him so it wouldn’t be my problem anymore. For a second that almost seems like a good idea. But then I imagine trying to explain to my father how in the world I got our family into this mess.
He nods again. “You nervous about school starting?”
“No, sir.”
“Everything okay with your folks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All righty then. I’ll get you some salve. Fix you right up. Be all gone in a few days, but keep it handy because they’ll be back. Might take a few weeks ’fore you’re good as new.”
The salve helps a little, or maybe it’s the fresh air. On the way home I start thinking more clearly. Capone must have decided not to send a note in the laundry because of the timing. The boat is coming this Sunday, the laundry doesn’t come back until Monday.
It had to have been Seven Fingers who left the note. Trixle is supposed to watch him when he works on the plumbing, but sometimes he and my dad get to talking.
What I don’t know is why. Why would Seven Fingers leave a note from Capone? Are they friends? Piper once told me every con is either a friend of Capone’s or his enemy. People love him or they hate him. That’s the kind of man he is.
But the note has made me wonder if Capone is crazy. Does he really expect me to buy a dozen yellow roses and hand them
to Mae? If I did that, I would get my family kicked off the island in about thirty seconds. Maybe forty-five. He has to know that, doesn’t he?
Why didn’t he tell me the name of the hotel where she’ll be staying? Then I could have left the roses for her at the front desk. No one would have to know about it. And what did he mean by Then we’re square? Will I really be off the hook if I do this?
All of this thinking has me back to scratching again. I don’t think the salve is working so well now. It’s no match for Al Capone.
The thing I keep coming back to is this: If Capone was a regular person and he asked for a couple of lousy flowers to get Natalie in school, I’d think nothing of giving them to him. I’d give a person all the roses in the world for that.
I owe the man. I do.
8.
ICEBOX FLY
Thursday, August 15, 1935
My hives are breeding with each other, merging, enlarging, engorging.
The salve is no help. It may even make them worse. The ones on my ankle are driving me nuts. I’ve scratched right through my socks. I have them on my neck too, creeping closer to my face.
By the time Mae visits there will be no me left. Just one big hive.
What will happen if I get caught? What will Capone do to me if I refuse? Does he still command his own army of hit men? And if I decide to do this, how will I get the roses? The garden behind the warden’s house has flowers, but no roses. I checked. These are the questions that chase around inside my head.
My dad says when you worry too hard, it makes your mind cramp up into a little ball. The best thing is to forget about it. Get some exercise, give your brain a little breathing space.
What I need is baseball . . . and that means Annie.
On the way up to her apartment I plan what to say to convince her to play. But when I get to the Bominis’, she isn’t even there. “Moose.” Mrs. Bomini’s blue eyes are round like Annie’s, but in a smaller, older face. She leans out the door and practically sucks me into her apartment. “Come on in. I have two new needlepoint books. I know how you love to see my needlepoint. You’re the only boy I know who likes it.”