Revenge of the Green Banana

by Jim Murphy

  “James, our next rehearsal will be on Thursday.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks and spun around. “Next Thursday?” But . . . but . . . Sister Ursula was okay. She said so herself. And technically, the door slam was an accident. One afternoon of box-step torture was plenty of punishment, wasn’t it?

  “Yes, Thursday afternoon. I’ve already spoken to Sister Angelica. I’ll send one of my students to get you.” She turned around to organize her class train to chugga-chugga-chug back to their classroom. Al gave me a quick wave, but I was too shocked by my extended sentence to wave back.

  Up the stairs I flew. I was about to dash out through a side door to catch up with the guys, but I stopped when I realized that I didn’t have any books. Once I left the building, I might not be able to get back inside. All the doors locked when they closed, and the main entrances were guarded by suspicious nuns who could say No, you can’t come back inside, especially to someone (me) who was instantly a suspect and had a red folder with his (my) name on it.

  In the past I would have just left and not worried about books. But I remembered Ellen and our seven o’clock call. I’d already disappointed her once today and didn’t want to hear that in her voice again. So here I was, thinking about doing something to make Ellen happy, which was all so complicated and confusing I didn’t think I could stand any more. I pushed this aside, sighed, and let the door swing shut before heading up the stairs to our classroom.

  The room was empty of kids, as expected. Not expected was Sister Angelica Rose sitting at her desk, head down, marking papers.

  Run! was my first thought, along with sensations of panic, fear, and trembling. She hadn’t looked up from the papers (maybe her magical radar was turned off). I could probably slip away down the dark hall unobserved. I heard Sister Rose Mary’s bell ringing far away and was immediately envious of the kids she was trying to silence—​mainly because they were heading out of the building to freedom.

  Sister Angelica stopped writing for a second and rubbed her eyes with two fingers. My dad did this when his eyes were tired after a long day of studying clients’ ledger books. Sister Angelica closed her eyes briefly and shook her head gently before going back to her marking. So I was still unnoticed and could escape. But I needed to grab some books so I could have something to talk about with Ellen. Maybe I could tiptoe in quietly and get my books without Sister Angelica even knowing.

  This, of course, was a bogus idea and guaranteed to fail from the start. Her ability to see things going on behind her and hear the faintest whisper might have turned on again. But, I reasoned, if I tried to be quiet and she knew I was trying, she might let me zip in and out without much abuse. So I took the softest, quietest, most delicate step ever, and immediately caught my toe on the raised oak door saddle. The next thing I knew, I was lunging into the room, my feet slapping down as if I were wearing big, floppy clown shoes. This was not my day for moving gracefully, that was for sure.

  Sister Angelica sat up abruptly and dropped her pencil, clearly startled. “What . . .” she gasped. Then she realized it was me. “Oh.”

  “I need to get my books,” I explained when I’d stopped stumbling. I pointed to my desk, as if she didn’t know where I sat.

  Sister Angelica nodded. “And James,” she added. She must have been very tired or distracted because she didn’t “Master Murphy” me. She picked up her pencil and pointed over her shoulder to the blackboard. “I put tonight’s assignments on the board, so you might want to take a minute to copy them down.” Then she went back to her work.

  So there I was, in a hot, empty classroom, me at my little metal desk and Sister Angelica at her big wooden one. The only sound came from our pencils scritch-scratching across paper—​me squinting to see the board and desperately scribbling the assignments down while she scanned her papers like a sniper ready to pounce on each and every enemy mistake. We were kind of like armies facing each other across a no man’s land of shiny desks, waiting for the next battle to begin.

  I finished, gathered up my books, and started to leave. Quietly. In a few seconds I would be out of there and free again. I was halfway to the door when I suddenly had this odd feeling. Like I shouldn’t just leave without saying something to Sister Angelica. My parents were always telling me to be as polite as possible, especially to older people and teachers.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Sister.”

  She didn’t look up. “Good afternoon, James.” Her voice sounded as dry as dead leaves and about as enthusiastic. I had almost reached the door when she swiveled in her chair to face me, holding up a paper. “And could you put the correct date on your papers from now on?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  Then I bolted out of the room.

  Once in the hallway, I raced—​down the stairs, out a door, over to where the guys sometimes hang out after school. Only everyone was gone. But I had news—​a plan—​an idea about how we could finally murderlate-embarrass Sister Angelica, and I had to tell somebody. Soon, or I might burst.

  Then it came to me. Philip. He might be home, and for obvious reasons he was an especially good listener. So I double-quick headed for home, passing by the corner store and my usual salty potato sticks, even though I was hungry from all that box-step stuff. I was on a mission and wanted to get it moving forward as quickly as possible.

  I started thinking about how we could use the swinging cord on the stage. I didn’t think up many—​any, actually—​details, but I wanted to be able to describe what might happen so that somebody else could cook up the technical stuff.

  I was thinking about this and really excited. I didn’t deserve what had happened to me on the first or second or third day of school. In fact, I didn’t deserve a lot of the things that had happened to me at St. Stephen’s over the years. But now I might be able to settle the score, as Squints might put it.

  I was hurrying across the train bridge, head down, when I heard, “Hey, handsome. In too much of a hurry to say hello?”

  It was the three high school girls in their short plaid skirts and tight sweaters. I’d almost blown right past them, I was so consumed by my racing thoughts. I pointed lamely in the general direction of home and even glanced that way for a second, then looked back at them. “I have to tell a friend something.”

  “Oh,” said the brunette with the red sweater. “What’s your name, anyway? We were just wondering.”

  Why would they be wondering what my name was? I really didn’t care, since having them ask was flattering. “Um, Jimmy,” I answered. And realized instantly that it made me sound as if I were all of seven years old. I gave a little throat-clearing cough and lowered my voice. “Jim. Jim Murphy.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” This was said by the girl with a yellow and black plaid skirt and yellow sweater. “My dad’s John MacGullion. MacGullion Heating and Air Conditioning. His accountant’s name is Jim Murphy. Are you related?”

  “Yeah, he’s my dad. He’s a CPA. A certified public accountant. That’s different from just an accountant.” Now why did I go and say that? I wondered. I mean, she was trying to be nice, and there I went telling her she didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “I didn’t know that, Jim Murphy Jr., but I’ll remember it now.” She was smiling nicely. “You have a great day.” And the three continued along Kearny Avenue.

  I watched them wander off, wondering what the encounter meant. If it meant anything. Then I turned and rushed toward home. It sounded like they were flirting with me, kind of, but why would pretty high school girls bother with me? I didn’t think they were trying to make fun of me either. I was pretty good at sensing when people were doing that. It was a little confusing, really, but a lot of things in life are confusing. Such as, why couldn’t Kathy Gathers try to flirt with me?

  My shirt was wringing wet by the time I got home and put my books on the stairs leading to the second floor. I went to the kitchen and was surprised to see that the table had been moved against the wall and th
e swastika was gone, leaving an irregular shape of raw wood

  The night before, I had watched Dad get his Pepsi from the refrigerator and stop on his way to the living room to stare at the red tiles. He grimaced and shook his head before leaving to have his nightly soda.

  He must have gotten tired of seeing the swastika and thinking about the kind of club meetings that might have taken place in our kitchen. He had come home at lunchtime and ripped up all the red tiles and some of the green tiles around them, just to get them out of his sight. A flat-edge ice chopper was leaning against the wall, and the ripped-up tiles were packed in five brown A&P grocery bags lined up next to it.

  I went to the back window and looked across at Philip’s bedroom window. His room was dark and gloomy, so he always put on his reading lamp when he was in there studying his foreign-language books. No light was visible now.

  I was becoming very frustrated. I don’t usually have good ideas, not like, say, Mayor or Iggy. Or any other kid in our class, really. I wanted to tell somebody and find out if I really had a decent idea.

  I could wait at the kitchen window for Philip’s light to go on, but that might take hours. What to do?

  I was pretty sure Dad wanted to rip up the entire floor, so he might actually appreciate it if I took up some of the green tiles. I grabbed the ice chopper and started scraping up the tiles surrounding the exposed raw wood underfloor. Dad had left four empty paper bags on a chair, and I filled them pretty quickly.

  I went to the back window, but Philip’s light still wasn’t on. Now what? I knew. I grabbed up forks, spoons, knives, and everything else, and I set the dining room table. We probably wouldn’t be eating in the kitchen until the new floor was in, so this seemed like a natural thing to do. When I finished setting the table, Philip still wasn’t in his room. Where was he, anyway?

  By this time I was a ball of nervous energy. I couldn’t get done what I wanted to get done, namely tell someone—​anyone—​what I’d thought up. I ran the idea through my brain a few dozen times and decided it was more than just decent, even more than good. It was absolutely genius. I paced around a little, going from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room and back to the kitchen. Still no Philip.

  I knew I was desperate because on my fourth journey through the rooms I scooped up my books and sat down at the kitchen table. Yes, I started on my homework, checking between assignments to see if Philip was home.

  About an hour later Philip’s light went on and I scooted out to talk to him. His window was open, and I could hear music coming from his room. In addition to reading books about foreign languages, Philip sometimes listened to a station that played Italian operas.

  I leaned over the low fence between our yards and knocked on Philip’s window. He said “Hey,” and I immediately launched into telling him about my idea. It came out in a gulp and garble of words that would have made Erin (Margaret) O’Connor proud. I mentioned the bowling alleys and how Sister Angelica would be using them, the long cords that Bernie had been tucking in, and Al the Second Grader’s mention of The Pit and the Pendulum. Then I told him my genius idea. “We could use one of the cords, see, and have a ball on the end, and when she throws a bowling ball, it swings down and bam!, right in the kisser.” I was very proud of myself. “So, do you think it’ll work?”

  Instead of saying yes, it was the most brilliant idea he’d ever heard, Philip looked thoughtful for a second. In the background a female was singing her heart out in Italian, and it sounded as if someone were strangling her. Then he said, “H . . . h . . . how? Th . . . the . . . de . . . de . . . tails?”

  I told him I hadn’t come up with any details, but hoped he or Iggy or Mayor or the other guys might figure that stuff out. He nodded slowly, and I realized that I wanted him—​or anybody—​to say it wasn’t the dumbest idea ever. Positive feedback can feel good, after all. “So, do you think we can figure this out and murderlate Angelica once and for all?”

  Philip leaned forward and whispered, “Il tiranno sara rovesciate da mani di molte persone buone.”

  The Italian singer must have finally died, because suddenly the singing stopped and an eerie quiet surrounded me. I was certain that every neighbor was listening, so I lowered my voice. “Phil, what does that mean? Do you think my idea can work?”

  Philip leaned in even closer to the window screen. “Th . . . th . . . the tyrant can . . . b . . . b . . . be top . . . top . . . toppled b . . . by . . . by th . . . th . . . the hands of . . . of . . . of many good pee . . . pee . . .” He took a gulp of air and finished, “many good people.”

  I figured that was Philip’s way of saying yes.

  13

  Plausible Deniability

  TIME FLIES WHEN you’re having fun. At least that’s what my mom always said. She usually added, “So make sure you always have fun. But not too much.” Not having too much fun was very easy to do at St. Stephen’s.

  Anyway, the amazing thing is that my time-flying fun started right after I came back from chatting with Philip. We were at dinner when Dad suddenly said, “I took up the red kitchen tiles, and I’m wondering who ripped up the green ones.”

  Jerry immediately pointed across the table at me with his fork and announced, “I didn’t do it. He did!”

  This was an understandable reaction. Better to place blame for a crime as soon as possible and not get caught up in the investigation. I said, “Yeah, I did. I thought you wanted to get rid of them.”

  “I do,” Dad said. He snapped his fingers as if he’d just had a brainstorm (even though it was obvious he’d been thinking about it for a while). “I have an idea. Why don’t you rip up and bag all the rest of the tiles? I’ll pay you a dollar a bag. I brought a bunch of bags home tonight.”

  Jerry quickly put in, “I can do that too,” but Dad shook his head gently and said, “No, no, that’s okay, Jerry. Jimmy started the job, so he should finish it.”

  “But I want to make some money too,” Jerry pleaded, and here’s where my day got even better. For me, anyway.

  My mom said, “I know. I’ll give you a dollar to clean the oven.”

  “You mean I have to stick my head in a disgusting oven for a buck?”

  I was tempted to say something snotty, but I didn’t—​not a word to rub in Jerry’s attempt to blame me. Which was unusual for me.

  Mom managed to make my night even better when she suggested that if Jerry didn’t want to clean the oven, he could spread manure around the garden. “The roses need a good feeding before winter. And you can deadhead them, too.”

  Jerry looked clueless about this last part, so Mom explained. “Deadheading means cutting off the dead flowers.”

  “Oh,” was Jerry’s response, followed by, “How much do I get for each deadhead?”

  Even school got a little better in the following days. I leaned left, then right, just enough that Sister Angelica didn’t bother me at all. Still, she kept calling on Philip and making him answer questions in English, so that his cheeks and ears always seemed to blaze a red glow. I managed to get most of my homework done and even got a 75 on a spelling quiz, thanks to Ellen’s constant calls, prodding, badgering, and advice. Only the scores weren’t read out loud, so Kathy Gathers never knew that I’d improved on my 30 percent grade.

  I had to go to the auditorium on Thursday to practice being the Green Banana, but even that wasn’t so bad. Well, it wasn’t a lot of fun, but I kind of liked it when I came onstage and one of the Yellow Bananas whispered, “The Green Banana is here to save the day!” Have to admit I felt a little like a superhero, there to save a fruit cup.

  Apart from bananas, conditions in the auditorium got better and better. Bernie moved all the stuff from the bowling alleys to the very back of the stage and piled it as high as he could lift things. Next, he nailed down all the bowling alley boards, sanded both alleys, and put some sort of finishing lacquer on them. But the weather got hotter and hotter and the humidity went up and up, so the coating never dried. It was alw
ays sticky when he touched it. And it stank like airplane glue, so no one was allowed in the auditorium for more than a week.

  Finally Bernie decided he must have used the wrong finish on the bowling alleys, and he had to sand it off and start all over again. Which meant another week of not being the Green Banana while the alleys dried and the stink disappeared. Two whole weeks without having to do a box step. God really does work in mysterious ways, and sometimes the results ended up good for me.

  During this time, the Plan to murderlate Sister Angelica was moving forward. Philip had told the guys what I’d said through the screen, and Mayor took it from there. By the time I found them in the playground—​Ellen had waylaid me to talk about my math problems, my spelling-word sentences, and my geography map drawing, none of which I seemed to have done perfectly—​the Plan was pretty much in place.

  Mayor, Iggy, Squints, and Tom-Tom were going to volunteer to help Bernie clean up the auditorium stage. Bernie had decided that the stuff being stored backstage had to be cleared out completely before the bowling alleys could be used. He worried that kids might bump into something and break it. Bernie had been grumbling about how much work it would be to move all of it, especially in the humid heat, so Mayor thought he’d be more than happy to have some help. This would give Iggy a chance to study the long cords hanging up in the rafters to see if we could rig a pendulum-like trap.

  “I can help too,” I said. I wanted to actually take part in putting this all together.

  Mayor shook his head no. “Plausible deniability, Murph. You need to stay clear.”

  “Plausible what?”

  “Deniability,” Mayor repeated. “When this happens, who’s going to be blamed first?”

  I knew the answer perfectly well but managed to hesitate a beat or two. “You will be blamed,” Mayor continued. He gave me the hard look a sergeant might give a dopey recruit, and he poked me in the chest with a finger. “You need to go to rehearsals, do whatever you’re doing there, and get out without ever showing any interest in the bowling alleys. None. When you’re blamed—​and you will be—​Mary Brian, Bernie, and all those other kids will have to say you never once went near the cords or even mentioned them.”