When Troo and me got back home from the apartment, I ran straight into Mother’s bedroom and told her how awful Nell looked and how she suspected Eddie was being moony over an outer space skank. Mother was perched at her dressing table, brushing her glimmering hair with her golden brush. I thought she’d be understanding and so sympathetic because the same thing happened to her. Hall Gustafson stepped out with a cocktail waitress at the Beer ’n Bowl when Mother was supposed to be dying up at St. Joe’s. But Mother didn’t take her eyes off the mirror when she said, “Your sister made her bed, Sally, now she’s got to lie in it. Let this be a lesson to you.”
The cop side goes up on their feet when Mr. Kollasch hits a high fly ball that sails over Eddie’s head in right field.
“Where do you think Dottie is right this minute?” Nell asks me, not even noticing that her husband let a run get driven in. “Out dancin’ in a new dress with her hair done up in a bow?”
Nell and Dottie Kenfield were in the same class in high school together so they knew each other, but didn’t have much in common back then. Dottie was on the honor roll, and Nell . . . like Troo says, most of her brain is in her bra. Nell only started bringing up Dottie all the time after she heard that she escaped from the hospital with her baby in Chicago. She’s sure that Dottie’s living the high life in some fancy supper club and wishes she could be, too.
“How am I supposed to know where Dottie is?” I feel sorry for Nell, but I am getting as tired as Troo is of her asking us what we think has become of Dottie, so I answer her the same way she does minus her special f word. “Do I look like a map?”
“Ya know, being a mother isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Nell spits back. “Tell your sister that. I see those looks she’s been givin’ me.”
Just like her, I can easily see Troo sticking out in the crowd. There’s other redheads in the neighborhood, but none like my sister. She’s giving Nell dagger eyes. She’s never liked her and she hates it when I go outta my way to be nice to her. She’s also giving me the c’mere finger.
“Well, nice chattin’ with you. I gotta go,” I say, kissing freshly diapered Peggy Sure on her nose and handing her back to Nell, who takes all that pinkness back into her arms like she’s a piece of Dubble-Bubble I clawed out from underneath the bleachers.
“Oh, where oh where has my little Dot gone, oh where oh where could she be?” Nell starts singing, not to Peggy Sure.
She’s been acting like this since she got home from St. Joe’s with her bundle of joy. I think she caught a disease in the hospital that is making bats fly out of her belfry. That is not just my opinion, I know something about this. Troo reminds me all the time that people who have big imaginations can go off their rockers the same way Virginia Cunningham did in The Snake Pit movie, so I have memorized the signs to watch out for:1. Talking to objects or singing to yourself.
2. Not brushing your teeth regularly.
3. Smiling or laughing at times or places when you’re not supposed to.
It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if somebody told me tomorrow that they saw Nell running down the street chortling at dead birds on the sidewalk with her tan teeth. Mark my words, one of these days the men in the white jackets will be coming to move her out of her apartment and over to the county loony bin.
Stepping over feet on my way back to my bleacher seat, I catch a glimpse of Mr. Kenfield. He hasn’t come across the street to cheer with the rest of us, but is watching the game from his porch swing. The tip of his cigarette is glowing in the dark. I’d like to head over there to have a visit with him after the ninth inning the way I woulda last summer, but I just don’t know anymore if my old friend would be happy to have me rocking next to him. He told me once during one of our visits that he loved children and wished he coulda had a whole houseful, but I think he mighta changed his mind. I heard he’s been chasing kids outta his yard.
His wife, Mrs. Kenfield, is sitting ramrod straight on the other side of Mother, who looks particularly pretty tonight in gold hoop earrings and a sleeveless white blouse that shows off her summer brown-sugar skin. I can hear the two of them talking, but not what they’re saying. I scoot closer, afraid that Mrs. Kenfield might be ratting Troo out for stealing from the Five and Dime, but the only thing I catch her saying is “. . . so upsetting about Charlie Fitch. I asked Father Mickey to say a novena for Lorraine and Ted. To lose that boy . . .”
I could tell she was trying to hold back tears. And not just for the Honeywells. Mrs. Kenfield had to be thinking about what she’s lost. She must miss her disappeared daughter and her granddaughter, and her husband, who is still here, but not really, not the way he used to be anyway, which in some ways I think has gotta be worse.
Seeing that awful lonely look on Mrs. Kenfield’s face makes me want to go sit next to Henry in the worst way. He’s two rows in front of me in the bleachers, keeping his mother company. Maybe he’s not so special to a girl like my sister, but there’s something about the way he listens to me without rolling his eyes and sometimes when he looks at me in a certain kind of way, I wish Henry could bottle himself. I would buy him by the case.
Troo uses her mental telepathy on me and says, “Well, lookee-lookee. Onree got a fancy new haircut.”
She’s right. Since I saw him last, he got it cut short and is making it stand up straight from his skull with butch wax. I already adore it and I’m sure that my sister does, too. She likes all things modern.
“I love him . . . I mean . . . it. The flattop,” I tell her, hoping I can find some time soon to meet him at the drugstore and run my hand across the top. It’s gotta tickle.
“Ya know what I think . . . Peaches ’n Cream?” Troo leans down and says with so much snide. “I think he looks like the Kenfields’ hedge. Hunh . . . hunh . . . hunh.”
Hearing her wild French laugh makes me remember that I forgot to do what I was supposed to be doing. I got caught up thinking about Daddy and Nell and Peggy Sure and Mother and Dave’s third base playing and the Kenfields and adorable Henry that I forgot to pay attention to the details. During my flight of imagination, I betcha any money Greasy Al slunk right past me.
Chapter Fourteen
The smell of the chocolate chip cookies baking in the big ovens on 49th Street got stronger during the top of the seventh inning. It was like the cookies were giving the men a two four six eight who do we appreciate cheer. I thought that might make the Feelin’ Good men get a second wind, but that’s not what happened. Living up to their name, the cops clobbered the factory team, 10–3.
Snatches of different songs are coming out of the cars driving past us with all their windows open or, if they are lucky enough to own a convertible, with the top down. No crickets yet, but the fireflies are out. Troo loves fireflies. They flock to her. I think because they start with the letter f.
Strolling up Vliet Street on our way home after the game, we pass by the factory men who gave it their all out on the diamond. They’re on the front steps of their houses drinking cold beer in their undershirts, hoping to catch a breeze. They tip their hats to Dave and say, “Good game,” and he says back, “Thought you had us there in the fourth. Better luck next time.”
Dr. Heitz, who doesn’t play ball because he is a dentist, smiles at me when we pass him changing a tire on his car. He likes kids so much. He goes to the Saturday matinees at the Uptown and will give you a free box of Milk Duds if you sit on his lap to watch the movie. I think it’s his way of apologizing for having to drill you.
Dave and I are walking slightly ahead of Troo, who is kicking a rock that is coming dangerously close to my father’s ankle. Mother and Nell and Peggy Sure are behind her on the sidewalk. The reason Nell is with us and not with Eddie the way a wife is supposed to be is because after the game he was nowhere to be found, which means he probably headed up to the Milky Way. (Dave tried to have a man-to-man with Eddie about being a better husband and father, but that talk didn’t make a dent in that moron’s thick skull.)
I decid
ed the walk home would be the perfect time to get more information out of my father. I have had hardly any time with him. He’s been so busy trying to catch the cat burglar. “Can I ask you a coupla questions?” I say.
“Shoot,” he says, which is cop talk for, go right ahead.
“How did Molinari get out of the reform school anyway? Did the guard doze off?” That’s what happens most of the time in movies when a criminal breaks out of jail. That, or a ripe-looking Italian girl shows up with a bottle of wine in a low-cut blouse with a black cinch belt.
Dave looks down at me with so much kindness. “We’ll apprehend Alfred eventually, Sally. Don’t worry. He can run, but he can’t hide.”
“Well, actually, he can’t run,” Troo butts in from behind. She pretends to ignore everything that Dave says and does, but she watches him, waits for him to make one wrong move. “If you were such a good detective, you’d know that.” She swings her leg back and kicks the rock hard. It bounces off the heel of Dave’s shoe. “By the way, did you catch the cat burglar yet?”
Dave heard Troo’s sassy remark just fine, but he doesn’t blow his stack the way Mother would’ve if she’d heard Troo smarting off like that. Dave keeps his steady green eyes on mine and tells me, “Rest easy. Law officers from Milwaukee and all points south are aware of the situation.”
“But just knowin’ that Molinari’s escaped isn’t enough,” I say. “Did they issue an All Points Bulletin? Do they have tommy guns? Are they—”
Mother, who’s closer than I thought, tugs down hard on my braid. “Simmer down, Sally!” She bustles to Dave’s side and says in an even more fed-up way, “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me. Filling up her mind with talk of your cases and . . . and all those criminal television shows the two of you watch . . . see what you’ve done?”
Dave gives Mother an I’m sorry look and I do, too. Not only do I not want to cause any more problems between them, I can’t have her yell at me for the rest of the night and then not talk to me for three days. That’s the worst punishment there is, to feel invisible like that, so I swallow back the questions I have about Charlie Fitch, too. The next time Dave and me work in the garden together, that’s when I’ll ask him. It’s important to find Charlie even if he’s dead, not only for Mr. and Mrs. Honeywell’s sake, but for Artie Latour’s. When we walked past his house, he was standing out on his porch yo-yoing, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
When we make the turn onto Lloyd Street, three houses down, we come to the Molinaris’.
Their place is not rising out of a swamp with moss hanging all over it the way you’d expect. The house has got fresh white siding with a mowed lawn and two robins are splashing around in the birdbath that’s set in a yellow petunia flower bed. Sure, the place looks nice on the outside, but so did Bobby Brophy. Who knows what evil deeds those Italians are up to in their rumpus room. Or their garage. That’s where Greasy Al’s brothers, The Mangling Meatball and Moochie, have a bench they lie down on to lift barbells under a pinup picture of Jane Russell lounging in a haystack. Those boys have bulging muscles and switchblades that they’re not shy about flicking open to remind you who’s boss around here. There are all sorts of sharp tools hanging on the walls of that garage that a convict could use to cut off his ball and chain.
Because I’m walking with my head turned back to my sister to make sure she doesn’t run off, I don’t even notice that we’ve made it to the front of our house until I bump into the back of Dave.
Mother flips up the baby’s buggy top and says to Nell, “Well, you better get a move on. It’s late.”
Nell whines, “But . . . I’m so tired . . . it’s six blocks. Could I get a ride back to the apartment? Please, Mother.”
“Absolutely not. You need the exercise. Your rear end, it’s . . .” Mother widens her arms out as far as they go. “How do you ever expect to get your figure back?”
“Helen, it’ll only take a few minutes, let me . . . ,” Dave tries to say, but before he can get the rest of it outta his mouth Mother gives him her do-you-smell-dog-poop look and that’s that.
I can’t take this anymore. “Hold on, Nell. I’ll get Lizzie on her leash and walk you back at least part a the way.”
Troo says, “I’ll go with.” Not for Nell’s sake. Or mine. She adores Peggy Sure. When she thinks you aren’t looking, she smothers her tummy in raspberries. But baby love is not all she’s got on her mind tonight. Troo’s gonna ditch me on the way back so she can go look for Molinari. Walking past their house riled up her revenge feelings.
Mother tells us, “You two’ll do no such thing.” She runs her hand across Nell’s hair like she understands how cruddy things are for her being married to outer-space-skank-loving Eddie Callahan for the rest of her life, the same way things were bad for Mother when she was married, and still is, to waitress-loving Hall Gustafson. But when Nell’s pointy chin starts trembling and she tries to put her head down on Mother’s shoulder, Mother steps out of reach and says, “Powder your nose. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, for godsakes.”
When Troo opens her mouth to point out to Mother that Nell has on flats, the phone starts bring . . . bringing from inside the house. It’s the station house calling for Dave. It always is this late at night.
Dave says sheepishly to Mother, “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get that,” and takes our front steps three at a time.
I’m right behind him, thinking to myself another reason why I need to make Troo buckle under immediately. She’s gotta be prepared for when we get old like Nell. When Mother pushes you outta her nest, you better have your wings in good working order, sister.
Chapter Fifteen
The inside of the house is quiet, except for Lizzie, who is bouncing up to my chin, looking for a biscuit. When Granny says, “Hope springs eternal,” she must have our little collie in mind.
I’m always happy to see our furniture waiting for us with open arms. It’s nicer than what we ever had before. It’s double-stuffed checkered and it matches, even the hassock in front of the davenport that Dave and me can put our feet up on when we watch TV. His sink in next to mine and look good. We got the same-shaped toes.
It still smells in here like the pigs-in-the-blanket Dave made us for supper. I never saw any father do this before. Not even Daddy. I like to watch Dave in front of the stove stirring the same way I used to like to watch Daddy shave in front of the sink or tinker with the tractor. Dave tells me he enjoys cooking and I would like to send out a special thank-you to St. Theresa the Little Flower for prayers granted. (Mother made us something yesterday called slumgoodie, which had hamburger and tomatoes and some secret ingredient that must have something to do with the slum part of its name because it had absolutely nothing to do with the goodie part.)
Dave is dashing through the living room toward the black telephone that sits in an alcove in the hallway like one of the shrines up at church. I’m hoping with all I got that somebody in the neighborhood saw Molinari lurking outside his garage and they called the station and now the cops over on Burleigh Street are ringing Dave up so he can help capture Greasy Al, who they have trapped in a dragnet.
“Rasmussen,” he says into the horn. “Yes, sir. When? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’ll get right on it, Captain.”
After Dave drops the phone back down in the cradle, I ask, “Is it Molinari? Did they catch him?”
He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his usually light blond hair that has gone knotty pine–colored from his baseball sweat. “When we were at the game, somebody broke into the Livingstons’ house.”
“Oh, no. What . . . what got stolen?” I ask.
“They haven’t had a chance to go through the whole house yet to check what’s missing, but so far, Tom’s rodeo belt buckle is gone along with their best silver. I need to get over there.”
I know that Greasy Al isn’t the regular cat burglar because things were getting stolen before he escaped from reform school, but it could be him just this one time. It’s
been weeks since he has been on the run and his stomach should be growling. He can’t just show up at his family’s restaurant or the Milky Way in his striped prison suit. Yes. That makes perfect sense. Greasy Al burgled some food and the Livingstons’ silver because even he isn’t uncivilized enough to eat raw meat with his bare hands.
“You should check the freezer in their basement,” I tell Dave when I’m done thinking it through. Mr. Livingston is our butcher. His daughter, Kit, is in my grade at school. She brought a hunk of beef for show-and-tell. When she was done explaining to the class that her father is originally from Montana and that’s why he knows how to cut up cows, she told us they had a whole freezer full of T-bones in their basement. “There’s probably a few steaks missin’.”
Dave’s pale eyebrows shoot up straight as exclamation points. “Sally . . . that’s . . . why would somebody take—are you okay?”
I should tell him right this minute about my suspicisons about Greasy Al. And Mary Lane, who I’m sure has been doing the burglaries this whole time. It’s got to be one of the two of them who broke into the Livingstons’. At the game tonight, Mary Lane was looking extra skinny. She mighta slipped away during the seventhinning stretch for a late-night snack. But Dave’s unbuttoning his baseball shirt in a hurry and heading into the bathroom, just missing Mother, who walks past me on her way to the kitchen. If she hears me telling Dave anything having to do with police business of any kind she’ll get mad all over again.
She calls out to him, “I’ll make us some popcorn and pour us a couple of beers. I thought we could watch Jack Parr. I kid you not. Hardy . . . har . . . har. Who was on the phone by the way?”