Al Capone Does My Homework

It doesn’t help that we don’t have our stuff at the Chudleys’. Our whole kitchen was lost in the fire. Any time we need something, it’ll mean another trip down to 64 building to borrow pans, spatulas, colanders, and serving spoons. And guess who’s going to make all those trips.

  Yours truly, pack animal.

  Before I even walk in the door, my mother hands me a grocery list: salt, sugar, tea, spaghetti, and tomato sauce. I’ve managed to steer clear of Bea since Sunday night. But when I get down to the canteen, there she is, shelving soup cans.

  I stall, peering in the window, wishing Jimmy would show up. I’m ready to hunt him down, when Annie and her mom arrive.

  “What are you doing?” Annie asks me as her mom opens the canteen door, the bell tinkling her arrival.

  “I have to get stuff for supper.”

  Annie looks through the window at Bea Trixle, then back at me. “Want me to?”

  I hand her the list. “Thanks,” I say.

  She pushes open the door. Bea is talking to Mrs. Bomini, but her eyes flash in my direction. “That Flanagan girl burns the place down and nobody does squat.”

  I should ignore this and wait outside for Annie, but I can’t stop myself from going in. “Natalie didn’t have anything to do with the fire, Mrs. Trixle, ma’am,” I say as politely as a person who wants to slug another person can possibly manage.

  “Apparently the fire started by its own self.” Bea’s voice is thick with sarcasm.

  Mrs. Bomini opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.

  “The task force hasn’t released their report.”

  “I don’t need a task force to know what I know,” she says, her face red as a rash. “What’s more, I don’t appreciate you accusing my Janet.”

  Annie has my arm. She’s trying to pull me out the door, but my stubborn feet won’t budge. “Moose, c’mon.”

  My voice shakes with the effort of keeping my temper in check. “It’s not fair to blame Natalie.”

  “Tell you what’s not fair,” Bea tells Mrs. Bomini. “Being stuck up there with no fire escape. And your husband burning his hand because of a girl who should be locked up.”

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Bomini says. “That was an accident.”

  “But it wouldn’t have happened if that Flanagan girl hadn’t started the blaze. That’s my point,” Bea says.

  “You have no proof it was Natalie,” I tell her.

  “You have no proof it wasn’t. Darby has told me all about it,” Bea counters. “We should go to the newspapers. That’s what we should do, and we ought to call that school of hers. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought those poor little children might be in danger because of her.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Bea,” Mrs. Bomini says. “Is that really necessary?”

  “I’m suggesting what any upstanding citizen ought to do.”

  “Can’t you wait for the report?” I insist.

  She snorts. “No one has the guts to blame the associate warden’s daughter and that’s the truth.”

  “Ma’am.” My chest strains like it might pop.

  “Calm down,” Annie whispers.

  “She’s spreading lies,” I say.

  “I’m spreading lies?” Bea is fit to be tied.

  “She needs someone to blame,” Annie whispers, her mouth pressed tight against my ear. She takes my hand and pulls me out the door. The second we get outside, she drops my hand and shoves her hands in her pockets.

  “Natalie’s an easy target, that’s all. My dad says Bea’s scared. 64 doesn’t have fire escapes and it should. That’s one good thing that’s come out of this. They’re looking at building some now.” Annie’s face is flushed. She doesn’t look at me directly when she says this.

  “Annie, your parents don’t think Natalie . . .”

  Annie shakes her head. “Nope. Bea’s just plain mean. That’s all.”

  “The task force will clear Natalie.” I say this like I’m absolutely positive of it. But once the words are out, they seem flimsy, like I could knock them down with my finger.

  13. Al Capone Is My English Teacher

  Tuesday, January 21, and Wednesday, January 22, 1936

  After I say goodbye to Annie, I head over to Doc Ollie’s yard. I may have lost my nickel, but Doc Ollie’s sister is a big gardener, and she’s not stingy about her flowers. She always says a garden is for everyone to enjoy. I pick a daisy and then ring the warden’s bell.

  Piper’s mom answers. “Moose,” she says, her eyes on the flower.

  “Is Piper here? This is, uh, for her.” I blush hot as a radiator.

  “Aren’t you the sweetest thing. I was wondering where Piper was getting all the presents from. She’s at her grandma’s, but boy will she be sorry she missed this.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that I’ve never given Piper a present in my life, but how do I say that without sounding rude?

  “When will she be back?” I ask.

  “Tomorrow, but I’ll make sure she gets it. Of course I will. Thanks, dear,” she says, and then she’s gone.

  I stand staring at the closed door. Who is Piper’s secret admirer anyway? Not that I care or anything. I only kissed her one time. Okay, one and a half, but still.

  On the way back to the Chudleys’ I start thinking about the task force report. Is there any way to find out what’s in it before everyone else? The only person who would know is Piper. Where is she when I need her?

  At the Chudleys’, the day’s dishes sit in the sink. Flies cluster around a honey spill. The bacon is on the counter, congealed grease in the pan. Why didn’t Mom take the leftover food back to Doc Ollie’s icebox. Isn’t that the plan?

  She’s tired, that’s why. Between the fire and Nat staying up all night, she’s a wreck.

  When she finally gets supper on the table, the spaghetti noodles are watery and the tomato sauce tastes like cough medicine. Natalie is so agitated, she eats standing up. My mother is so tired, she doesn’t care.

  By bedtime, I have a headache from thinking about the task force and the cockroaches and Natalie and her eye contact trouble and then this sleep problem on top of everything else. Right now she’s in her room, rocking from one foot to the other. Every time we persuade her to lie down, she sits bolt upright like she’s afraid to fall asleep. Did the fire scare her? Or does she just dislike the Chudleys’? She held it together so well the night of the fire, but now she’s a mess.

  “The sun come up this morning?” she whispers.

  “It’s bedtime, Nat,” I say. “You have to go to bed first.”

  “I have to go to bed first,” Nat parrots.

  “Yes,” I say in a rush of hopefulness. At least she hasn’t slid back to calling herself Natalie the way she used to. That bugged me. Only insane people and batters on a losing streak talk about themselves in the third person.

  I play the Stupid Moose game. I call out wrong answers to simple math problems, pretend to confuse the order of the weekdays and the number of buttons in her box. I balance marshmallows on my nose, flicker the lights for her, offer up my toothbrush, and take her to the parade grounds swings. But nothing helps.

  I sleep fitfully until I hear someone knocking on the front door. I head downstairs and peek out the window to see who is knocking. The outside light shines down on the blue uniform of Darby Trixle.

  “Everybody okay in there?” he calls.

  I open the door a crack. “The lights are blazing all over the house. I thought I better check on you,” Darby explains.

  “We’re fine,” I tell him.

  He nods. “Bo Bomini said the same thing happened last night. I saw the reports.”

  The reports go to Warden Williams and to his boss, the head of the Bureau of Prisons. That’s the chain of command as my father explain
ed it to me.

  Why did I open the door? Knowing Darby, he would have broken it down if I didn’t open it.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me. Good. My father can handle this.

  “Dad, it’s Officer Trixle,” I say.

  My father swings the door open wide. “Can I help you with something, Darby?”

  “All the lights been on all night long. I thought you might be needing something, sir.”

  My father nods. “I’m afraid Natalie is still getting over the trauma of the fire.”

  “You need help watchin’ her? Make sure she don’t get in trouble?”

  “She’s scared,” my father tells him. “Not dangerous.”

  “The missus says she isn’t going to her school anymore.”

  “School holiday this week,” my father explains as my mom pads down the stairs in her slippers.

  “Darby, hello.” She pulls her bathrobe tight around herself. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Nothing, honey. Go on back to bed.”

  “Why is Darby here?” she asks.

  “Darby was checking on us is all. Just being neighborly.”

  “I see.” My mother gives Darby a smile that would cool molten lava.

  “Guess you’re all set, then.” Darby salutes. “You need something, give a holler.”

  “Sure thing, Darby, thank you.” My father smiles as if he means it.

  “Why is it his business whether our lights are on or off?” my mother whispers as soon as the door is shut.

  “It isn’t unreasonable for him to check on us,” my father tells her.

  “Don’t kid yourself. He’s hanging around hoping for a problem.”

  “Helen, you don’t know that.”

  “Like heck I don’t.”

  “Dad,” I say, “Nat’s going back to school on Sunday night, right?”

  “Of course,” my mom says.

  “And she’ll be able to sleep there, right?” I ask.

  “Right,” my father says. “We just have to get through this week.”

  “She asleep now?” my mom asks hopefully.

  “Almost,” Dad says.

  “Ahhh.” My mother’s voice is flat as a penny. “My turn. Go on, get some sleep.”

  If only I’d stayed up the night of the fire, maybe none of this would have happened. Could my mistake have caused all this?

  • • •

  In the morning I drag myself out of bed and peek in Nat’s room. Natalie is wide awake. My mother is curled up in Nat’s bed. How can one sister cause so much trouble?

  When Nat’s upset, she likes her purple blanket. We didn’t find it when we got our stuff, but maybe we just missed it.

  Before I even eat breakfast, I head down to #2E. Already the place looks a bit better. The burned-out stove and the icebox are gone. The kitchen cupboards are being rebuilt. The hall closet is cleaned out. The ashes in my room are swept into a neat pile. I sit on the floor and begin sifting the dirt, sawdust, and ashes. I find the spine of my baseball book, a piece of a drawing of a sphinx I did for a project on the Egyptians, the metal end of a pencil, a half-burned slipper, a lamp cord, and the heel of an old sock.

  Natalie’s room is almost untouched. A lot of her stuff is still in there, but we already brought her everything we thought might comfort her. Trying to fix Natalie is like trying to part your hair without a mirror. It’s impossible to know if you made a straighter part or a more crooked one.

  I head back to my room and sift through the pile again. An old can of tooth powder, part of a shoelace, the back of a frame, and then my finger grazes something soft. A piece of her purple blanket!

  I slip it in my pocket, a big grin on my face. I’ll bring this to Nat and miraculously she’ll let go of the counting and rocking. She’ll sleep easily each night. She’ll make eye contact with everyone. And then I’ll find out who or what started the fire, so that no one will suspect her again.

  Sounds good, anyway. But dreams always do.

  On the way out, I spot my blue homework notebook! The one with the essay in it. It’s just sitting out here. That’s strange. How could I have missed it before? I put the notebook under my arm and head back, an even bigger grin on my face. I won’t have to do the paper again! Doing your homework twice is like puking, then having to eat your own vomit.

  When I get home, I go straight to Nat’s room to give her the piece of blanket, my chest puffed up with hope.

  Nat takes the swatch of blanket and smells it. Then she hands it back to me.

  “It doesn’t smell right, does it . . . but Mom can wash it.”

  I close my hand over the little purple piece, then open it again, hoping she’ll see it differently this time.

  But of course that doesn’t work.

  I’m about to put the notebook with my stuff so I won’t forget to take it to school, when I decide to flip through it to make sure it’s all there. That’s when I notice something strange.

  On the top of the first page of my thesis about Roosevelt and his polio, it says State problem in handwriting that is hauntingly familiar.

  Al Capone has sent me notes before. I know his handwriting really well.

  But how did he get his hands on my homework? It must have been the cons who are working on our place. Somebody took my homework and gave it to him.

  Except why’d he write that? He doesn’t like my thesis? He’s my English teacher now?

  And then on the bottom of the last page he wrote:

  Roosevelt is a good fella, but Capone is the guy you should be writing about. Okay, Roosevelt had that polio problem, but he was born rich. Capone started with nothing. He earned every penny himself.

  Capone messed up my homework. How strange is that? A gangster did my homework. Not just any gangster, either—public enemy number one.

  Luckily, he wrote in pencil.

  14. Button It Up

  Friday, January 24, 1936

  On Friday morning when I’m getting ready for school, the phone rings at the Chudleys’. My mother and I stare at each other as if we are half expecting Mrs. Caconi to appear and answer it. Then Mom jumps up and rushes into the hallway to pick up the phone.

  “Hello, this is Mrs. Helen Flanagan,” she says awkwardly.

  After a pause, her worry lines deepen. “Mr. Purdy, hello,” she says. Mr. Purdy is the head of the Esther P. Marinoff School. Having the head of the school call you is never a good thing. But Natalie hasn’t even been to school this week. How could she be in trouble?

  My leg starts itching imagining the possibilities.

  “Yes,” my mother says.

  “Well, now.

  “But Mr.—

  “Mr. Purdy, sir. You know that’s not true.

  “The board has no right to do that. Surely the insurance company won’t suspend coverage based on an unfounded allegation.”

  I can only hear one side of the conversation, but one side is enough.

  “That doesn’t make sense.” My mom is practically shouting into the phone.

  “Temporarily meaning how long?

  “The task force report. How do you know about that?

  “Look, you can’t make this decision without talking to us.

  “Yes, but—

  “Mr. Purdy—

  “All right. Okay. I’ll have my husband call you. But I know there’s another way to handle this. It just isn’t fair . . . she’s been doing so well.”

  When my mother hangs up, she sits down on the crate we are using as a living room chair, her eyes on me. She lets her head fall into her hands.

  “Mom,” I say gently. “What did Mr. Purdy say?”

  “The board is worried about the fire. They think Nat is a fire risk.”

 
“That’s ridiculous. They monitor her all the time there. Even if she were a fire risk, which she isn’t, there’s no way she could . . . ”

  “I know that, Moose.” The vein in her forehead is pulsing. “But Mr. Purdy says we have to wait for the task force report. When they clear her, she can go back.”

  She shakes her head but doesn’t lift it. “Do you know something about this, Moose?” she asks.

  I’m surprised she asks this. How does she know? “Bea threatened to call the school.”

  My mother’s jaw clenches. “I figured as much.”

  After a minute she stands up, takes a deep breath, and points to the phone. “This must work the same as the 64 building’s, right?”

  “I think so.”

  She nods. “I’ve got the number somewhere.” She grabs her handbag and begins to dig through it.

  “Who are you going to call?”

  “Mrs. Kelly. She used to work at the Marinoff School. She knows Mr. Purdy. Maybe she can talk some sense into his head. She’s due out here anyway. If I have to go one more night without sleep . . .” She sighs again. “I can’t even think straight anymore.”

  • • •

  That afternoon Mrs. Kelly is on the three o’clock boat.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your apartment.” She bustles into the Chudley kitchen. “And I did call Mr. Purdy and I let him know putting Natalie on probation, pending the task force report, is just plain ridiculous.”

  “Report should be out soon anyway,” my father says. “Then we can put this all behind us.”

  Mrs. Kelly’s lips pucker. In one sweep of her head, she takes in the dishes in the sink, the clothes on the chairs, the towels hung over the windows, and my parents’ tired faces. She pulls up a crate and plunks herself on it. “What have you tried?”

  My mother tells her about the warm milk before bed, the jumping rope, the hours of swinging Nat on the parade grounds, about sleeping in different beds, about the purple blanket swatch, and the new purple blanket that my father searched all of Union Square to find. And that’s only what she can think of off the top of her head.

  “Okay.” Mrs. Kelly nods. “I get the picture. You guys going to stay here permanently?”