Ethel’s lemony grin doesn’t cheer me up like it normally does because even though I told them not to, my eyes have moved down to where the zoo used to be. The bulldozers and the men that run them have this special day off, too. The only things I still recognize in the mess of broken-up white concrete and black iron bars is the moat around Monkey Island and our favorite climbing tree that hasn’t gotten knocked down yet. Daddy’s and my bench should be sitting below the tree, but it’s not. I should’ve rescued it. Now it’s gone forever, too.
I ask Ethel, “Remember how last Fourth of July everybody went over to visit Sampson?” He was the best part of the zoo, not only for me and Daddy. Everybody thought he was the cat’s meow.
Ethel takes a frilly hankie from between her bosoms, dabs at her broad face and says to Ray Buck, “I swear this humidity’s thick enough to slice and serve. Would ya mind fetchin’ us something cool to drink, sugar?” She waits until her beau heads down the hill toward the booths and then she says to me, “I hiked up here thinkin’ you might show up thinkin’ about that gorilla.”
“Oh, Ethel.” Could there be a better best friend than you? For a woman with bunions, it is no easy feat getting up this steep hill.
“Just ’cause they moved him, it’s not the end of the line,” Ethel says. “You can always go visit him at the new place.”
“That’s what everybody keeps tellin’ me, but . . . I don’t think it’ll be the same. Do you?”
“Hardly nuthin’ is, honey.”
“He’s gonna forget about me,” I say.
“Oh, ya couldn’t be more wrong ’bout that.” She’s fanning herself with one of the newspapers that she almost always has in her hand. She thinks it’s important to know the goings-on not just in the neighborhood, but in the whole world. “I read in the Reader’s Digest just last month how gorillas got longer memories than elephants.”
I hope she is not making that up. She mostly tells me the truth, but she’ll stretch it to keep my feelings from getting hurt.
“Ya know what I been thinkin’ we could do?” Ethel says. “We could ask Ray Buck what buses to take and we could go see Sampson on a pretty Sunday. Ya know, to put your mind at ease.”
“That would be very nice,” I say, thinking I’m not sure that anything, not even seeing Sampson, could put my running-at-full-throttle mind at ease and I’m pretty sure she knows that. Her brain hasn’t exactly been just cruising along lately either.
Yesterday I was kneelin’ in our room, saying my rosary, begging the Virgin for help in taming Troo. Even though I don’t hardly believe in God anymore, I will always have a special place in my heart for His mother and a rosary is almost nothing but Hail Marys. Through my window, I heard Ethel telling Mother over the fence that Mrs. Galecki won’t stop accusing her of stealing and no matter how much Pepto she gives her, her stomach won’t stop bothering her. “I tell ya, Miss Helen, don’t know whether to wind a watch or bark at the moon,” is what my good friend said.
Dave, who is the chief cook and bottle washer when it comes to the Fourth of July party, cuts the music off from somewhere down below, and says out of the loudspeaker, “Welcome, one and all! Father Mickey will open up today’s festivities with a prayer.”
There is a screeching sound like there always is, and then, “Bless us, o Lord, on this day that brings us all together to celebrate the birth of this fine nation.” Father pauses the way Willie O’Hara does right before he gives you the punch line of one of his jokes. “If you could turn the sun down a notch, that would be greatly appreciated.”
Everybody chuckles. Everybody except me. I wish I knew what it was about Father that makes my tummy feel like somebody threw a baseball at it. He’s charming to everybody, but especially it seems to our family. He’s always friendly to me, he spent hours instructing my sister and he burned the midnight oil to make Mother and Dave’s dreams come true.
“The annulment letter came,” I tell Ethel.
“Know all ’bout that. Your mama come over first thing this mornin’ to tell me.” They’re friends, too. Not as good as me and Ethel are, but they get along just fine. “There’s nothin’ like a weddin’ party to liven things up, don’tcha think?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.” The one where Hall and Mother got married at the courthouse was on Beggar’s Night so there were ghosts hangin’ everywhere. Nell and Eddie’s wedding almost gave me whiplash it went by so fast. But worst of all was what Bobby had in mind for our ceremony. “Ya know.” Ethel knows all about how Bobby told me on his way over to the lagoon that night that he was going to make me his bride. She’s the only one who will let me talk about what happened. Everybody else tells me to put it out of my mind, go back to sleep, let bygones be bygones, get control of my imagination, which I would really love to do, but no matter how hard I try to forget, it seems like that night at the lagoon is engraved in my memory.
Ethel runs her chocolate pudding hand down my arm and says, “Well, this here weddin’ is gonna be different. This’ll be a fine celebration. Gonna hafta get me a new pair of dancin’ shoes.”
I didn’t hear Mother say so, but I bet the party afterwards will be at Volpano’s Supper Club since it is the ultimate around here. The popular Mill Combo will play, so I could dance with Ray Buck, but what about Troo? Now that she knows what her future holds, what does she have to look forward to? Her life is all downhill from here on out. It’s not only the annulment news. She really was counting on winning that blue decorating ribbon and she didn’t even bring her bike over this morning. I checked after she ran off.
Dave gets back on and announces, “Children under twelve, you’re up next. Meet under the oak tree with the red ribbon near the picnic tables.”
“Here ya go, ladies,” Ray Buck says, coming back up the hill with our drinks. Gosh, he smells like he just stepped out of a tray of ice cubes. “How about after y’all drink that down we move over to the lagoon? I’ll row the both of ya ’round for a bit.”
Ethel gives me a wondering look. She knows I don’t go to the lagoon anymore or too close to the rowboats, but she doesn’t want to be rude and not ask me to join them. It would also be safer to take me since the boat is really gonna sag on her side and I could add a little more balance. I’m gonna save her the trouble of inviting me, even though I really would like to watch Ray Buck row us. He may be thin, but his chest and arms are muscular, which for some reason is something I really like to look at.
“You two have a good time,” I tell them. “Thank you for askin’ me, but I gotta go be with Troo.”
“And where is your sister?” Ethel says, not letting me off that easy. She hasn’t said anything, but she knows that Troo did not take the annulment news well. She doesn’t miss much. “I know what a momentous day this is for your sister. I’d like to wish her good luck.”
“Twelve and unders. Last call,” Dave says over the loud speaker.
“Troo’s . . . ah . . .” My eyes look the hardest they can down at the crowd. At first I don’t, but then, over near the judging area, just for a second, I get a glimpse of Troo’s hair. “Right there,” I say, moving my arm to where Dave told the twelve-and-under kids to gather to compete for the blue decorating ribbon. There’s gotta be at least forty or more kids. Why’s my sister hanging out where everybody’s waiting to be judged? That is so heartbreaking.
Ethel puts her hand to her forehead like an explorer. When she sees Troo, she says, “Lord. What in tarnation does that child got on? Is she blinkin’?”
What in tarnation does she got on? I’m not as tall as Ethel so I can’t really make out all of it, but Troo definitely is blinking. I gotta get down there.
“Ask for boat number six. It’s the one that’s rotted out the least. I’ll meet ya at the fireworks, same place as always,” I shout back to Ethel and Ray Buck.
Barreling down the hill toward my sister, I’m remembering how she was the Statue of Liberty last year and how we ran into Greasy Al and he took out his switchblade and cut off all
the flowers she had taped onto her bike and squished her crown between his fingers. I haven’t forgotten him for one minute. Just because he hasn’t shown up yet doesn’t mean he’s not going to.
“Excuse me, pardon me . . .” I’ve got my arms out in front of me, swimming through the kids. I’m trying to get to Troo, who I’ve lost sight of now that I’m on flat ground. She’s been swallowed up again. Ahead of me, I can see Mary Lane floating through the crowd so easily because she can get through tight spaces that normal-sized children can’t. “Mary!” I shout. About twenty kids turn to look at me because I forgot to add on her last name. “Mary Lane!”
She looks to the left and to the right.
“Behind you!”
When she gets a bead on me, she stops and waits.
I shove closer until I get right up next to her. She’s got the Stars and Stripes tied around her neck with a jump rope.
Mary Lane says, “I been lookin’ all over the place for you. Ya like my costume?” She tries to spin around to show it off, but there’s not enough room with the crush of kids, even for her. “I’m a flagpole.”
I don’t know what to say to that, except, “You sure are.”
“Wish it’d get windier,” she says, trying to fluff the flag up. “Looks a lot better when it’s wavin’.”
“You seen her?” She knows who I mean.
“Attention please!” Dave says. “I’ve got a couple of contest winners to announce! Drumroll, Maestro.” Even though I can’t see them either, I know he’s talking to the drummer of the Do Wops, Johnny Fazio’s band. They’ll play later on when we eat, and after it gets dark, they’ll serenade us while we wait for the fireworks to start. “The winner of the baby carriage contest is Mrs. Walker. Top-notch decorating, Donna.”
I already knew that Nell’s name was not gonna be announced. I took some supplies yesterday over to the apartment. I was gonna help her decorate the baby’s buggy. After I cleared the stack of old TV dinners off her kitchen table and set down what I brought, Nell asked, “What’s this for?”
“The Fourth!” I said.
She blew her nose into one of the Kleenex flowers it took me most of the morning to make. “The fourth what?”
Dave announces, “The winner of the three-to-eight-year-old category is . . . Jimmy Latour. Nice job on those spokes, Jimmy.”
I spot Artie clapping for his brother. I’m so surprised to see him out and about and he’s even got on a costume. Artie’ll compete in the over-twelve category. After kids turn thirteen around here, something weird happens to them and they think dressing up for the Fourth party is not cool, so hardly none of them enter. Artie is the exception. Since he was the only one that entered last year, he had to go against the younger kids, but this year it looks like he’s got a little competition from a couple of other boys whose costumes aren’t nearly as nice as his. He’s got on the same getup he had on last year and looks thrilled to pieces. And a lot like Daniel Boone from the television show because both of them are lanky and have those enormous Adam’s apples and . . . is that a coonskin cap he’s got on his head?
“Artie!” I holler. “Over here!”
He doesn’t see or hear me, he’s too wrapped up in looking at the same thing everybody else is. I can’t see who all the kids have made a circle around until Mary Lane says, “Move,” and jabs someone with her elbow that’s like a stiletto and a hole opens up.
All I can say is, “Sweet Jesus,” and I can tell that’s what everybody else is thinking, too.
My Troo is in the center of the cirle wearing the most fantastic costume I have ever seen! It’s made of hundreds of Popsicle sticks all glued together. Like a sandwich board, they’re hanging down the front and back of her and there’s twinkling white lights running up the edges, and right around her middle, she’s written out on the sticks in red and blue poster paint:AN AMERICAN IN PARIS
That’s the name of the movie we saw during old-timey week at the Uptown Theatre that Troo loved so much. My sister has turned herself into a living, breathing Eiffel Tower!
Dave, who has to do double duty as a judge, steps into the admiring circle. He takes his time, but when he’s done judging Troo, he says real loud—maybe even my sister can hear the pride in his voice—“I think all of us can agree hands down that we’ve never seen anything quite like . . .” He sweeps his hand toward her. “The blue ribbon for the under-twelves this year goes to . . . Miss Margaret . . . sometimes known as Troo . . . also called Leeze . . . O’Malley! Let’s hear it for her, gang!”
Troo starts hunh . . . hunh . . . hunhing and everyone’s clapping and Wendy Latour’s throwing Dinah Shore kisses and Artie shoots off his cap gun and Mary Lane is chimp-grinning and man, oh, man, excuse my French, but what a fucking genius my sister is!
Chapter Twenty-one
The heat usually dies down around this time of night, but I guess it’s making a day of it same as me and Troo and everybody else who’s spread out at the lagoon waiting for the sky to go a smidgeon darker so the fireworks can get shot off from the island in the middle.
My breathing is coming a little faster than it normally does, but I’m not feeling as jumpy as I usually do being this close to the murky water. It was right over there where Bobby set me down. My loved ones being close by helps. Troo is lying next to me and Ethel and Ray Buck are two blankets over. I’ve already said a prayer for Junie, my little cousin, who would also be cuddled up with us along with her mother and father if she wasn’t rotting away in the cemetery in her little white coffin. I bet Dave is thinking about his dead niece, too. All the blue today had to remind him of Junie since that was her favorite color. Can you see fireworks from heaven?
Mother and Dave are perched in folding chairs behind us, getting along better than the lovebirds in the pet aisle at the Five and Dime.
The ladies in the neighborhood were swarming all over Mother for most of the day. They wanted to get a close-up look at her engagement ring. Most of them told her congratulations, but I heard one lady grumble, “And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I was afraid to let my husband leave the house without me. The woman’s a Jezebel.”
I don’t know where Uncle Paulie disappeared to but wherever he is, he’s busy. The Fourth party is the biggest day of the year for him. All the Popsicle sticks lying around on the grass are like manna raining down from heaven for my uncle. Granny isn’t here. Even though she likes fireworks, she never comes to the celebration anymore because she got sick of people telling her how she should win a prize for looking so much like George Washington. Nell, she’s not here either because she doesn’t even know what month it is. But her nincompoop of a husband showed up. I saw Eddie earlier over where they were selling beer. He was hanging out with Tommy “The Mangling Meatball” Molinari, who musta challenged him to a chugging contest because the both of them were blotto. I stuck around for a while to see if Greasy Al might show, but all that ended up happening was Eddie and Tommy weaved down to the Honey Creek and tinkled into it.
Father Mickey is visiting with his parishioners around the shadowy lagoon, stopping to ask about how things are going up at the Feelin’ Good factory or with their kids. When he comes by Dave and Mother they treat him like a king, can’t thank him enough for getting them the annulment. They also talk about the cat burglar. Everybody has been. The Montgomerys got hit yesterday and lost a boatload of money that Mr. Montgomery, who doesn’t believe in banks, kept in a coffee can under the sink. Nothing else was taken. Dave told me that houses are usually ripped apart when a thief searches for hidden treasures, but our cat just zeroes in on the good stuff like he’s got a treasure map or something. X marks the spot.
Father Mickey stops to say hello to the O’Malley sisters, too. I say, “Hi,” back, but Troo doesn’t. She doesn’t even say thank-you when he compliments her on her winning costume.
I know why. She’s holding him responsible for getting Dave and Mother permission to get married. I bet Troo has already added Father Mickey’s name on the t
op of what she calls her “Shit List,” which is already over a foot long.
This is another one of those times when I think God really does have a plan because Father Mickey getting the annulment letter worked out really good for Troo in the long run. I’m almost positive she’s moved her crushing feelings off the priest and back to her old flame, Artie Latour, because he was definitely wearing the coonskin cap. It was flat as Troo’s beret from being under our mattress for so long, but it still looked good. Artie was also Troo’s partner in the egg-on-a-spoon and three-legged races and they dangled their feet in the Honey Creek during the afternoon, talking, talking, talking. When I took three Dreamsicles down and tried to join in with them, they told me, “Thanks,” but they clammed up about whatever it was they were chatting about.
My sister and me are lying on our stomachs, which we barely can do because of all the apple pie we ate. She’s tuckered out after her big winning day. I adore her all the time, but a little bit more when she gets sleepy like this. That’s when she’s more like olden-days Troo. Still whistling in the dark, but not as as loud. Her blue decorating ribbon and two more for winning the games are hanging off her neck, swinging like the pendulum on Mrs. Goldman’s grandfather clock. That reminds me. I’ve gotta get over there soon to check on her house. I’ve been slacking.
I look over to where Troo set her Eiffel Tower costume against a tree. It’s still blinking.
“How’d ya get the lights to stay on like that?” I ask.
“Batteries,” she says. She doesn’t smell like an Evening in Paris. She smells sticky with everything we ate today, mostly sweet. “Uncle Paulie was in charge of that part.”
“No kiddin’.” For a man who once went to work with his boxer shorts on the outside of his pants, that is a smart invention. “Did he figure out how to get all those sticks to stay together like that, too?” I say, wondering if someone’s brain can grow back. Some worms can do that if you split them in two.