by Lesley Kagen
Mrs. Goldman turned toward our neighbors’ house. “I believe it is Audrey Kenfield that you hear crying. Dottie’s mother.”
Mrs. Goldman looked at me like she was deciding something and then she seemed to make up her mind and then changed it again but finally said, “Mr. Kenfield made his daughter to leave his house after she became pregnant and was not married. Dottie is forbidden to come back home and . . . that is why Dottie’s mother cries. She is yearning for her lost daughter and the daughter of her lost daughter.”
I looked at Mrs. Goldman’s eyes real hard for a minute. And then down at those numbers on her arm. “I will come to visit you all the time. I will. I promise.” I knew she was telling the truth about Dottie because Mrs. Goldman would never lie to me. Especially about something like that. Since Mrs. Goldman’s daughter, Gretchen, never came back to the concentration camp after her shower, she probably knew what a mother who had lost her child would sound like.
“Marta, you are letting in of the flies,” Mr. Goldman said from inside the house.
“That book . . . you . . . one of my favorites.” Mrs. Goldman put hands on my shoulders and pulled me into her for a bear hug, which she had never done before even after the day I picked over twenty-five weeds out of the garden. “Offveedersane, Liebchin,” she said and closed the door.
I ran up our stairs two at a time and through the door that went into the living room. Newspapers were scattered across the floor and dust bunnies bulged in the corners and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer bottles lined the windowsills full of cigarette butts. It smelled of a place that nobody cared about anymore. I thought of Mother when I looked over at the stained red-and-brown couch. And how, after she thought Troo and me had fallen asleep at night, she would sit there sometimes and stare out the window, never seeming to find what she was looking for. But now maybe she had.
I sat down on the piano bench and opened up the white paper bag that Mrs. Goldman had given me. A Secret Garden . That was very thoughtful of Marta Goldman. Maybe I could learn more about gardening from this book, and when I came back to help them they would be amazed by what a better gardener I had become. Rasmussen, he was a good gardener, too. So maybe if I wanted to I would learn something from him. Which I wasn’t all that sure yet that I wanted to. To forgive Mother was one thing . . . but to forgive Rasmussen? That might take some doing.
When I went into our bedroom to start putting my clothes into piles, so that when Eddie came back with the boxes I would be prepared, Troo was laying on our bed, spread out like she was making a snow angel in the room made dark by the storm. I tried to turn on the little lamp on the dresser but nothing happened.
Troo said, “What did Mother tell you?”
I knew this would bug Troo so I laid down next to her and told her. About how Daddy wasn’t my real daddy. How Rasmussen was. And about our green eyes. When I was done, she was so quiet. I figured she was just too sad to say words. So I quickly said, “I have a secret for you, too.” I knew that would make her happier because Troo loved a good secret and was most of the time good about keeping them.
We were both looking up at that crack that ran across the ceiling like the Honey Creek. I felt around for her hand and stroked it with my thumb the way she liked me to. “Daddy, right before he died,” I said quietly, “he told me to tell you that it was okay.” I said it right out like that because I thought that was the best way to do it, like when you went swimming and the water was too cold it was just a Chinese torture to go in slowly. Better just to jump right in.
I took her face in my hands and looked into the windows of her soul. “Daddy wanted me to tell you that the crash wasn’t your fault.”
Troo pulled away and turned to the wall. She wasn’t making any noise, but I could tell by her breathing. It was the first time I had seen my sister cry since forever. I gently lifted her head and set it back down on my Sky King- smelling pillow.
Nell came in and said, “What’s goin’ on in here?” She had a mop and other cleaning things.
I said, “Nothin’.”
“What’s wrong with Troo?”
“Nothin’.”
“I’m gonna clean this place up and then Eddie will take you over to Officer Rasmussen’s.”
“Today? But I thought we were just packing today.” That felt too surprising to me. Too quick. “Are you going to stay at Rasmussen’s?”
I thought Nell was going to say mind your own beeswax, you little brat. “I’m going to stay with Eddie because Mrs. Callahan said that would be fine now that we are getting married.” She looked over at Troo, who was still thunderstorm crying because she had saved up so many tears from since Daddy was dead and she hadn’t cried like I had, which was more like spring showers sprinkled here, there and everywhere. Nell didn’t say anything to Troo, but to me she said, “You know, Sally, you don’t always have to play second fiddle.”
Since I didn’t play the second fiddle or any other musical instrument, I thought Nell might be drunk again, especially since she grinned at me before she left. Yes, I was sure of it now. Nell was drunk.
I laid back down next to Troo and rubbed her back that was going in and out so fast. Since she still hadn’t said anything, I thought she might go quiet and give up on talking like she did after the crash. But as always, my sister was full of surprises. “I have a secret for you, too,” she said to the wall.
I wasn’t really that excited to hear another secret because I pretty much had had it with secrets that day.
“I put my hands over Daddy’s eyes,” Troo said. “Right over his eyes.”
The rain was coming down hard outside our bedroom window, a sound I usually liked, but it was too loud and a branch rubbed against the pane like it was trying to break in.
“On the way home from the game, Daddy and Uncle Paulie were fighting,” Troo whimpered. “I wanted them to stop so bad. They were yelling about you and something about your birthday and I wanted them to pay attention to me so I played peek-a-boo with Daddy in the car even though he told me to stop, and that’s why he ran into the tree and that sound was so bad, the sound of the car smashing.” She was holding the edge of the pillow between her teeth to keep them from chattering. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry for killing Daddy.”
Poor, poor Troo. What an awful shocking secret to have to hold on to for such a long time. I stroked her back and said, “Daddy said it’s not your fault and he meant it. I promise you on the O’Malley sisters’ hearts of love and all that is holy on Heaven and Earth, he forgave you.”
When Troo was sure I was telling the truth, she said in a baby voice, “Could I have a glass of water, please?”
On my way to the kitchen, I could hear that Troo had gone back to her crying, which was not only about her sadness but the sadness she thought she caused others she loved, the worst kind of sadness. Maybe after a while Troo would forgive herself, but I knew she’d never, ever forget hearing the sound of the car going into that elm.
Just like I’d never, ever forget the look on Daddy’s face on August 2, 1959.
“I’m disappointed in you, Sal,” he’d said that morning. He was angrily pulling weeds out of the little vegetable garden I had begged him to plow for me. “Instead of going to the ballpark with me today, you’re gonna stay home and work on your garden. I’m takin’ Troo instead.”
“But, Daddy,” I cried. “I’ve been looking forward to this game all week.” We were going to sit in the hot sun and eat salty peanuts and hot dogs with mustard and relish and sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretches. It was a double-header against the Cards.
“I guess you shoulda spent less time looking forward and more time weeding. By the time I get home, it better look like somebody tends this garden. Like somebody cares about it.” He wiped his hands off on his overalls and stomped off toward the house.
I yelled at his back, “But you promised.”
He stopped for a second like he’d changed his mind, but then he just kept going toward
the house.
“I hate you,” I yelled to his back. “I wish I had another daddy.”
The screen door slammed behind him.
I had visited that secret so much since he died that sometimes I worried it had left my heart in tatters that would never get mended.
Granny kept telling me time heals all wounds. I didn’t know about that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mother always said a house was nothing but a reflection of its occupants. She was right, because Rasmussen’s house also reminded me of a chocolate-covered cherry, even better on the inside than the outside. It was clean and organized like a classroom. Only it didn’t smell like books or poster paint or rubber boots. It smelled like all those flowers Rasmussen had growing in his garden and like that puppy dog Lizzie.
While we carried our clothes boxes through Rasmussen’s front door, Nell told us that he and Eddie would move some other stuff, like our dresser and the little lamp, later on, and for tonight we could sleep over in Mrs. Galecki’s screened porch. That was something everybody knew we really loved to do, especially Troo, who liked to watch the fireflies when she fell asleep, like they were a nightlight that made her feel safe and just so. Nell said that Rasmussen told her that me and Troo could each have our own bedroom, but I told her to tell Rasmussen no thank you, because I didn’t think either one of us could fall asleep if we didn’t rub each other’s backs. But really, I was probably just being sinfully selfish because I just couldn’t wake up in the middle of the night like I did sometimes with the Creature of the Black Lagoon chasin’ me all over the place and not have Troo next to me, making that noise she made when she sucked on her fingers, her baby doll Annie looking at me with those wide-open eyes like we’d just met.
So just like that, like we had been shot through space to another planet, the next morning we were sitting at Rasmussen’s very modern yellow Formica kitchen table that I knew Troo just adored even though you would have to chain her down and drip water on her forehead for six days to get her to admit it. Troo felt happy about being Daddy’s only girl now. But Troo wasn’t so happy about Rasmussen being my father and the boss of this house. Like she might have to be second in command around here and she wasn’t going to say something nice about any of it.
For breakfast, he’d made us waffles with real maple syrup from up north that were gone in two seconds. And lots of bacon, too, done nice and crispy.
Rasmussen wasn’t sitting down with us; he was drinking a cup of percolated coffee and leaning against the sink in his policeman’s uniform. “So how does heading over to the state fair tomorrow night sound to the both of you?”
Mother must’ve told him how much Troo loved the freak show and he was trying to be nice. Troo found those freaks fascinating as all get-out. I thought they were a little on the sad side, on display like that, all boxed up, but Troo said no, they were different from everybody else and deserving of extra attention, which was unusually charitable of her.
“The fair sounds good,” I answered.
“Okay then. We’ll head over there tomorrow night and you two can get cotton candy and go on some rides and . . .” Rasmussen was clearing his throat about every five seconds, which was a sure way to tell if someone was jumpy. “Does that sound good to you, Troo?”
She looked up at him and I could practically see the mad lava coming out of her ears. “My name is Margaret.”
Rasmussen did not miss a beat. “So how does going to the fair sound to you, Margaret?”
Before Troo could go spouting off, I said quickly, “Goin’ to the fair sounds good to her, Officer Rasmussen.”
He looked right at me and showed his dimples that were a lot like mine only larger and I looked right back at him, right into his green eyes. Two peas in a pod. Suddenly it all made sense. Why he had always looked at me the way he had. He’d been missing me. That was hard for me to take in because it meant so many things at the same time.
He rinsed his coffee cup out in the sink and dried it off with a red terry-cloth towel that looked brand-new from aisle two at the Five and Dime. “You two can just call me Dave, okay?”
Troo said in a voice I had never heard her use before, a voice so cold that it gave my goose bumps goose bumps, “Shouldn’t Sally call you Daddy?”
It got so quiet then that all you could hear was the ticking of the kitchen clock that hung on the wall behind the stove and looked like a black cat.
Rasmussen said, “Your sister can call me Dave. I think that would be fine for now, don’t you, Sally?”
I just nodded because I was imagining how it would be to call Rasmussen Daddy. I never called Hall Daddy. I just called him Hall. And sometimes when he couldn’t hear me, a couple of other names that I would have to confess since he was going to be in jail for a long time now. I probably would never, ever do that, call Rasmussen Daddy. Maybe after a while I would call him Mr. Dave. Because Daddy was still my Sky King no matter what anybody said, and I would never, ever let bygones be bygones.
“I have to head over to the station now.” Rasmussen noticed that I was staring at the gun on his hip. I’d never seen one up close like that. “The first rule in this house, girls. You stay away from this.” He patted the holster and then plopped his police hat on top of his head. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Troo, I mean . . . ah . . . Margaret, you don’t have to worry anymore about Greasy Al, I mean . . . Albert Molinari. I’ve taken care of that subject.” And like he’d turned a page in a book, he said real happy like, “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you two head over to the playground? And if you could later, take Lizzie for a walk. Her leash is hanging in the back hall.”
I looked up at him and his tallness. And then I looked down at my fly-like-the-wind long legs. I looked at his green eyes again. I’m sorry to have to say this, but I thought it all felt sort of good because right then, for the first time in my life, I finally looked like somebody. So because of that, and because he was being very nice, making us waffles and crispy bacon and saying he’d take us to the fair, I said, “See you later, Mr. Dave.”
I could tell he liked that by the look on his face. “See you later, Sally.” He started to leave the bright kitchen but then said very seriously, “You keep in mind what happened to Sara and Junie. I know how you two like Sampson, but I don’t want you going over to the zoo or anywhere else in the park for a while. Not until we catch this guy. Okay?”
I said, “Okay.” But Troo didn’t.
“If you need anything when I am at work, you can call me. The number is over there next to the phone. And also Ethel will help you out.” He looked back at me real quick and watercolor pink came into his cheeks when the screen door slammed shut.
Troo was sitting with her elbows on the table, her hands underneath her chin. “So Daddy really said that? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“That it wasn’t my fault, the crash? You swear?”
“I swear.” I made the sign of the cross over my heart. “Want some Ovaltine?”
Rasmussen had pointed out where he kept the Ovaltine in the cupboard. Ethel musta told him how much me and Troo went nuts for it.
She set her face down on the yellow kitchen table and said with some wonder, “So I can quit feeling that it was all my fault that I killed Daddy?”
“Yup.” I opened the new refrigerator that was a lot larger than our old one and packed with fruit and cold cuts and Graf ’s cherry soda. Brimming up like the food could just jump out at you. I had never seen a refrigerator so full up. I reached in for the milk bottle and smelled it. “You didn’t kill Daddy. You had an accident and that is two completely different things.”
“But what about Uncle Paulie? I made his brain damaged and he doesn’t forgive me,” Troo said with a heavy heart. “That’s why he keeps saying peek-a-boo all the time.”
I didn’t know what to say because that was what happened to Uncle Paulie. And he always did say peek-a-boo, which made me realize now why Troo didn’t like him. “We
ll, maybe you could . . .”
Ethel yelled over from Mrs. Galecki’s backyard, “O’Malley sisters?”
Thank goodness, because I couldn’t think of one darn thing to say that would make Troo feel better about weird Uncle Paulie and his damaged brain.
“You decent?” Ethel laughed, and came through the screen door.
“Mornin’,” I said. It was so great that Ethel was now our next-door neighbor. She gave us each a hug and said she was glad to see us looking so nice and clean because as everyone knows cleanliness is next to godliness. I didn’t know where Rasmussen kept the glasses so Ethel showed me and then took three out of the cupboard. I mixed us up three servings of Ovaltine and set them down on the table. Ethel was dressed in the white housecoat that she always wore when she was on duty at Mrs. Galecki’s. She also had on a couple of the lanyards that Troo and me had made her, which was one of the many reasons I loved Ethel. She was sensitive like me to people’s feelings and she knew seeing those lanyards would make us feel better because really, we had a big, secret, shocking day yesterday, moving into Rasmussen’s and all. Ethel only knew the half of it, so while she braided my hair I told her the other half. Everything. About Daddy’s forgiving Mother and what’d happened in the car crash with Troo and how Rasmussen was my father.
When I was done, Ethel said, “My gracious, y’all have had quite the summer.”
I woulda bet my best steely boulder that Ethel had known all along that Rasmussen was my daddy because I had turned around to check her eyebrows and they hadn’t gone up at all when I’d told her that part, which was what her eyebrows always did when she was surprised. After all, Miss Ethel Jenkins from Calhoun County, Mississippi, was the smartest woman I knew, and once you saw me and Mr. Dave together you’d probably know right away that we were related, if you paid attention to the details and were looking for that sort of thing.
Ethel leaned over the table toward Troo and said, “You know, Miss Troo, you just gotta let that go with your daddy’s accident. Chil’ren, they don’t know what the heck they’s doin’ so it don’t count what they do in God’s eyes like a bad thing ’til they get much, much older and they know when they’s doin’ a bad thing. And I know that Mr. Rasmussen, he can’t replace your other daddy, but . . .” Ethel took a sip of her Ovaltine and it left a mustache on her lip that she licked off with her startling pink tongue. “If I know anything at all about Miss Sally, it’s that she’s very good at sharin’.”