I’m expecting her to yell at me for being in her room, but instead she just closes the door and walks over to her dressing table. She sits down on the little stool and undoes the single tortoiseshell comb and then hands me her brush. I used to brush her hair when I was a little girl.
The brush is heavy, with a thick wooden handle that fits my hand and bristles that are bare in places. I carefully brush out her hair. It’s long, almost all the way down her back. After her hair is smooth and free of tangles, I twist it into one thick braid, tying it at the end with a piece of black ribbon she hands me.
“There,” I say. “You look real good, Nonny.”
Nonny takes off her bathrobe and there it is: a long white slip, an old-fashioned cotton one with handmade lace at the hem. I look in her eyes, and I suddenly know why she wears black. It’s her shield, her armor in a country where she can’t speak the language, where she’s still afraid after all these years to talk on the phone or answer the door because she might not understand what someone’s saying. It’s her way of looking fierce, of hiding the fact that she’s old and tired and homesick.
“Tesoro mio,” she says, her voice weary.
I help her into bed and tuck the sheet high around her neck. She is asleep before I even leave the room.
Frankie’s waiting for me when I come downstairs.
“Well?” he asks.
“You were right,” I lie. “Black.”
He slaps his palm on his leg. “I knew it!”
But I know that it doesn’t really matter. Black, white, or purple underwear, she’s still my Nonny.
CHAPTER NINE
The Slider
Uncle Dominic says the thing about a slider is that you never see it coming. It’s the one pitch that can fool even the best batter.
When I get home from delivering orders with Frankie, I find Mother in her bedroom, sitting at her dressing table. She’s wearing a dress I haven’t see before. It’s lemon yellow and strapless. It looks glamorous and shows off her freckled shoulders.
“Are we going out for dinner?” I ask. We don’t go to restaurants very often and, believe me, it’s a real treat when we do.
“Actually,” she says, “I’m going out. Me-me’s made hamburger-olive loaf for you.”
I groan. Me-me’s hamburger-olive loaf is so bad, it should be in jail.
“You going out with Connie again?” I ask.
She turns around on her little stool and looks me in the eye. “Mr. Mulligan asked me out to dinner and dancing.”
“Mr. Mulligan?” I say.
“Yes.”
“The milkman?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going out to dinner with the milkman?” I blurt out.
My mother’s voice doesn’t have to get loud to show her disapproval. “His name is Mr. Mulligan, Penny, and he’s a very nice man. And there’s nothing wrong with being a milkman. He does quite well for himself.”
“Hold it,” I say, remembering the two of them talking on the porch. “Is this the first time you’ve gone out with him?”
She hesitates and then says, “No.”
“You’ve been dating him? For how long?”
She looks out the window, idly picking the dead leaves off the plant on the windowsill. “A little while.”
This is even worse than Me-me’s hamburger-olive loaf!
I look at her ring finger and notice that it’s bare; the engagement ring is gone!
“Mother, where’s your ring?”
“Penny,” she says, her voice cool, “I need to finish getting ready. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“But—”
She cuts me off with a look.
“Mr. Mulligan will be here at six,” she says, and then she turns her back to me and starts putting on her lipstick.
I stay awake waiting for my mother to come home. Scarlett O’Hara keeps me company in the parlor.
All these years I’ve wanted a father and this is what I get? The milkman? What does she see in him? My real father was handsome as a movie star, not going bald like Mr. Mulligan.
“I can’t believe she’s dating the milkman, Scarlett O’Hara,” I tell my dog.
She whines like she’s as shocked as me.
Pop-pop wanders through and says, “What’re you doing up?”
“I can’t sleep,” I say.
“What?” he asks. “What?”
“I said, ‘I can’t sleep,’” I say loudly.
“Drink some warm milk.”
“I hate milk,” I mutter. “Especially now.”
“Hmph,” he says.
When I finally hear the car pull up, it’s late, nearly midnight. I creep over to the front window and peek out.
Mr. Mulligan is walking around to the passenger side of the car. He opens the door for my mother and helps her out. He whispers something in her ear and she laughs. Then he leans over and . . .
Kisses her! Right on the lips!
At that exact moment, Scarlett O’Hara tinkles on the carpet.
My sentiments exactly.
A few days later, on Saturday, I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator and there’s a big plate of delicious-looking fried chicken just sitting there. It’s almost lunchtime and I’m hungry, so I take a leg and am about to bite into it when I hear my mother say:
“That’s for later, Penny.”
“For what?” I ask.
“I know you’re a bit upset about Mr. Mulligan, but he’s very nice,” my mother says quickly. “Why, when I told him how much of a Dodgers fan you are, he offered to come over and listen to the ball game with you.”
“What?”
“So you can get to know him,” she says. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Wonderful? Is she pazza?
“But I’m supposed to listen to the game with Uncle Dominic,” I lie.
“Just this once you can listen to it here,” she says.
“I can’t. I promised him,” I say.
She frowns. “You were over there yesterday and practically every day this week.”
“So what? I like it there. They have fun. They laugh. They eat food that tastes good. Their toilet’s not always leaking!”
“Penny,” she says.
But it doesn’t matter. Some line has been crossed and there’s no crossing back.
“They talk about my father!” I shout. “They talk about him all the time. Not like here. It’s like you’re embarrassed of him or something. Why won’t you talk about him? Why?”
She stares at me and I think she’s going to say something, but then it’s like a shutter closes over her eyes, and she shakes her head.
“Because there’s nothing to say,” she says.
We sit in the parlor listening to the game. I don’t know what’s worse: having to wear a babyish ruffled pink skirt or listening to Mr. Mulligan.
The whole game, Mr. Mulligan’s been trying to make conversation with me, asking me about my summer. There’s nothing worse than someone talking during a ball game. I’ve been doing my best to ignore him, but it’s already the eighth inning, and I swear I’ve only heard about two minutes.
“And there’s the pitch,” the announcer says over the radio.
“Say, Penny,” Mr. Mulligan says, a cheery little smile on his face, “you looking forward to starting seventh grade?”
“Shh,” I say.
“Pardon me?” he asks.
“Can you be quiet? I can’t hear the game,” I say.
“Penny,” my mother says. “Apologize immediately, young lady.”
“Why?” I ask. “He’s been talking the whole time!”
My mother shoots me a look.
“Ellie, it’s fine. I’m sure this is all a surprise to her,” Mr. Mulligan says in a soothing voice, reaching over and clasping her hand gently.
“Ellie?” I say. “You let him call you Ellie?”
“Penny,” my mother says, “there’s no call to be so dramatic.”
I look at Mr. Mulligan’s be
efy hand on my mother’s slender one, and I see my whole life changing in the blink of an eye. No more uncles, no more Pop-pop and Me-me. It’ll be boring old Mr. Mulligan talking through the ball game. I can’t believe I ever thought he was funny.
The next thing I know I’m leaping up from my chair and racing out the front door, Mother calling my name. I’m running down the street, my legs pumping fast, my skirt flying in the air. All I can think is Mr. Mulligan is going to end up being my father, and I can’t bear it. Everything’ll change; my whole life will be ruined.
I run and run, like I’ve just hit a ball to left field and am rounding the bases. Mrs. Farro’s is first, and the Sweete Shoppe is second, and Falucci’s Market is third, and then I’m rounding third, heading for home, and I can see Uncle Dominic’s car—he’s in the front seat, the window down, the portable radio on. I don’t even ask him; I just fling open the passenger door and throw myself in and the tears start pouring down my cheeks, pouring and pouring like they’re never gonna stop. I’m bawling my head off, crying so hard, you’d think the fire department would hire me.
“Princess,” Uncle Dominic says, alarm in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
But I can’t speak; I’m too busy crying, and it must scare Uncle Dominic, because he grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a little shake.
“What happened? Did some boy touch you?” he demands, his voice urgent.
That snaps me out of it like a blast of cold water.
“No,” I say. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh,” he says, and his shoulders relax immediately. “Okay, then. What’s with the waterworks?”
“It’s Mother,” I say.
“Something happened to your mother?”
“She’s dating the milkman!”
He blinks.
“He came over to the house and talked through the whole game,” I say.
“The milkman,” Uncle Dominic says.
“Yes! The milkman!” And then I burst into tears again.
He digs out his handkerchief. “Here. Come on now, it’s not so bad.”
This from a man who lives in a car and talks to dogs?
“Don’t you understand? What if they get married? What if he becomes my father?”
“Then you have a new father,” he says. “Right?”
“But he’s all wrong! He’s not the kind of father I want!”
“Why? Does he drink?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Unless you count milk.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Does he have a job?”
“He’s a milkman,” I say.
“Sober and employed,” Uncle Dominic says. “What more could you ask for?”
“It’s just that I want someone like, like . . .” and my throat closes up.
“Your father?” he finishes.
“Maybe you can marry Mother?” I ask, and start talking fast. “You know all about me. And you know how to fix the toilet. Even Me-me will like that.”
Uncle Dominic just shakes his head sadly.
“Princess, your mother and me, we just ain’t never gonna be like that.”
I lean back against the seat. “It’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” Uncle Dominic says, and I know he’s right. After all, he could be playing for the Dodgers right now instead of listening to them on the radio.
“Are you sure you won’t think about it?”
He shakes his head.
“Why did she have to pick the milkman?” I mutter.
“Look at it this way,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder. “At least you’ll get a lot of free milk.”
Uncle Dominic drives me home. My mother’s sitting on the front porch swing when we get there, and Mr. Mulligan’s car is gone.
“Think she’s mad?” I ask Uncle Dominic.
“Knowing your mother, I’d say so,” he says.
“But she threw me a slider, Uncle Dominic! Honest, I never saw it coming.”
He shrugs. “That’s the game, Princess.”
“Well, I struck out,” I grumble, and I open the car door and get out. I poke my head back through the window. “What should I do?”
“Apologize and then stay out of her way. She’ll cool off.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Anytime, Princess,” he says.
I wait until he’s driven away to walk up the steps.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her.
My mother doesn’t have to say a word. The door banging behind her as she goes into the house says it all.
CHAPTER TEN
The Water Boy’s Treasure
Frankie thinks it’s hilarious.
“Your mother’s dating Milky Mulligan?” He guffaws.
We’re sweeping up the store. It’s me and Frankie’s job to put down new sawdust—otherwise the blood from the back gets tracked everywhere.
“Does he smell like old cheese?” Frankie asks. “You know, how milk bottles sometimes get that old-cheese smell when they’re left out in the sun?”
“Frankie,” I say.
“Boy, if they get married, you’ll be Penny Milky Mulligan.”
“Shut up.”
He bursts out laughing. “You can serve milk instead of champagne at the wedding! No, wait, I got it! Milk shakes!”
“Knock it off!” I say, and wave my broom at him threateningly.
“Hey!” he protests. “I was just fooling.”
“It’s not funny.”
He snickers. “You think maybe you can get me a deal on cottage cheese?”
The bell on the door rings and Uncle Sally walks in, which is a good thing because I am a step away from whacking Frankie right in the kisser. Not that it would do any good.
“Hey, kids,” Uncle Sally says, and ruffles Frankie’s hair, even though he’s barely an inch taller than Frankie.
“How’s your mother, Penny?” Uncle Sally asks.
I want to say, She’s wrecking my life, but instead I say, “She’s good, thanks.”
“A great lady, your mother,” he says wistfully.
Uncle Sally has a crush on my mother, and he’s always asking after her. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s not her type. Not that I can see her dating Mr. Mulligan, either, but at least he comes up to her chin.
“You got in any of that tongue I like?” Uncle Sally asks Uncle Ralphie.
“In the locker. Dominic’s been saving some for you,” Uncle Ralphie says, leading him into the back room.
I turn to Frankie and make a gagging sound. I don’t know how you can eat a tongue, even if it is from a cow.
“What is it with him and the tongue?” I ask.
Frankie shrugs and says, “Maybe it’s ’cause he’s such a big talker.”
Uncle Sally always knows what’s going on in town. If someone sneezes, he knows about it.
Outside, a Sister of Mercy, one of the teachers at Frankie’s school, walks past the window. The sister looks in and catches sight of Frankie and narrows her eyes.
Frankie shakes his head and says, “Those Sisters of Mercy. They ain’t got no mercy.”
We load up the old sawdust into buckets and carry them around back to the garbage cans. Uncle Sally and Uncle Ralphie’s voices drift through the back door of the office, which is propped open.
“So I was talking to old man Garboella,” Uncle Sally is saying, “and boy did he ever tell me some story.”
I motion Frankie over to the door.
“Get this,” Uncle Sally says. “He told me that the Water boy once told him that he had a bunch of money hidden somewhere at the house.”
“The Water boy” was my late grandfather Falucci. He got his nickname because of his first job on a construction site when he came to America. It just sort of stuck.
“He said he buried it in the ground,” Uncle Sally says.
Frankie’s eyes widen.
Inside, Uncle Ralphie chuckles. “Yeah? He tell you where?”
“If I knew, I�
�d be over there with a shovel right now,” Uncle Sally says, and they both laugh.
This doesn’t surprise me all that much. Nonny does something similar. She pins dollar bills in the hems of drapes, squirrels them away under chair cushions. I once found five dollars under one of the Queenies’ beds, all matted with dog hair. I don’t know why they don’t put money in banks like everyone else, but they just don’t.
Frankie grabs my hand and squeezes. I already know what he’s thinking. He’s got the shovels lined up and is figuring out where to start digging.
“Do you believe it?” he whispers, his face flushed with excitement.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Think of all that dough! Then we don’t never gotta worry again.”
By which he means that he doesn’t ever have to worry about his father losing his job again.
I wrinkle my nose. “But if it is true, how’re we gonna find it? We can’t go digging up the yard.”
Frankie’s face turns sly.
“Says who?”
“So you need any yard work done, Uncle Paulie?” Frankie is asking.
We’re over at Nonny’s, sitting in the upstairs kitchen. Frankie thinks that the easiest way to find the treasure is to just work in the yard. We’ll figure out where the treasure is buried and then come back at night and dig it up.
Uncle Paulie raises his eyebrows. “You volunteering?”
“You bet,” Frankie says.
Uncle Paulie leans back and sips his coffee. “I guess the bushes could use a prune.”
“Sure,” Frankie says eagerly.
“And there are a few sticks that need picking up.”
“Sticks, you got it,” Frankie says.
“And while you’re at it, you can cut the grass.”
Frankie’s smile droops a little, but he says, “Be glad to.”
“Thanks, kid,” Uncle Paulie says, and turns back to his paper.
Two hours later we’re still picking up sticks in the front yard. They’re all over the place. A big tree is dying and has been dropping them everywhere. We haven’t even gotten to the backyard yet.
“I’m beat,” I say to Frankie.
“Quit complaining,” he says.
“But we’re never going to find anything at this rate.”
“Grandpa must have left some sort of marker or something,” Frankie says.
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