by Lesley Kagen
I’m getting surer by the minute that one afternoon when Ethel needed to do her grocery shopping or make a trip to the drugstore, Father Mickey told her, Go right ahead. I’ll be happy to watch Bertha until you get back.
Ethel would be so grateful for the help. She wouldn’t think twice about leaving her patient in his trusting priest hands. She’d even ask him if he’d mind giving Mrs. Galecki her special medicines if she left around two o’clock.
Father Mickey probably had joy in his heart and dollar signs in his eyes when he poured that poor old lady a tall glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade and told her, “Time for your pills. Open wide, dearie,” and gave her too many of one or not enough of another or maybe some other awful poison that he brought along with him. That’s why she’s in that coma. It’s not her heart and it’s not her tummy and it’s not my imagination. Mrs. Galecki has been tottering on the edge of death for quite some time. All it’d take is one good push from the executioner of her will to knock her off.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Mother’s got on a yellow dress and her hair is pulled back in a bow that matches when she sets the laundry basket down on the backyard grass. With her pinched-in mouth, she looks like a buttercup about to bloom. Even though Dave bought her a new dryer to replace her old wringer, she still hangs sheets on the line in the summer, thank goodness. When I put my head down on them in the dark, the smell of sun and sweet-smelling clover reminds me that the night won’t last long; tomorrow is another day.
Troo and me are down on our hands and knees weeding the vegetable garden, which has always been one of our chores even out on the farm.
Mother slips the last clothespin into place, glances over at Mrs. Galecki’s house and says, “O’Malley sisters, I need to talk to you.”
Troo gets up to her feet and grumbles to me, “She’s got on her dog butt look. She’s probably gonna start complainin’ about the bench again.”
Mother wasn’t happy about Troo lugging Daddy’s and my bench over here from the zoo. It’s not new enough for her taste. Troo told me she almost didn’t let her hide it in the garage. That’s why our mother sits down on the white glider with the hearts cut out on the back. When Troo and me go to either side of her, I can tell she’s been to Doc Keller’s office for her checkup because not even perfume from gay Paree can cover up the stink of tongue depressors.
Mother doesn’t look at either one of her girls head-on. She hardly ever does. She is twirling her diamond engagement ring round and round on her finger. “I want you to hear this from me before you hear it from somebody else.” She pauses like she doesn’t know where to go next and that’s not like her. She is usually very sure of herself, very full-steam-ahead. “They took Ethel away early this morning to question her about Mrs. Galecki’s illness.”
I say, “No!”
The only reason I haven’t fainted right off the glider is because I was already afraid something like this might happen. I imagined the subject around every table this morning in the neighborhood went something like—I heard that Negro woman who was supposed to be taking care of Bertha Galecki mixed up the medicines and that just goes to show you, right?
Troo, who is playing with her cat’s cradle, says, “Who took her away?”
Mother yanks the bakery string outta her hand.
“Dave?” my sister asks with a sliver of a grin.
“No. It was that horse’s ass, Joe Riordan,” Mother says. “Couldn’t he have waited until after the wedding?”
She doesn’t mean she would’ve liked it more if Detective Riordan waited to take Ethel over to the station house to ask her questions about how Mrs. Galecki got into a coma until after the wedding. What’s bothering Mother is that Detective Riordan, who was going to be Dave’s best man, dumped Aunt Betty, who was supposed to be Mother’s best lady, and that screwed up her marriage plans beyond belief.
I ask, “But how could they . . . what proof . . . Ethel—” I get an even worse thought. “Did Mrs. Galecki . . . did she—?”
“Kick the bucket?” Troo says.
“Watch your mouth.” Mother brings up her left hand and gives what she calls a love tap to Troo’s cheek. “And another thing . . . I understand you’ve been skipping your meetings with Father Mickey.” She reaches into her big square dress pocket, takes out a cigarette and says even more disgusted, “He’s been taking time to teach you enough decency that you can go back to school in September and you can’t be bothered to show up.” She picks a piece of tobacco off her tongue. “I wouldn’t give you a second chance.” No, she wouldn’t. “But Mickey—I mean, Father—despite the fact that he’s exhausted from sitting by Mrs. Galecki’s hospital bedside, he called to tell me that he’d be willing to see you tomorrow night after the fish fry to continue your studies.”
I am desperate to tell her that Father is probably not sitting up at St. Joe’s. That he’s circling Mrs. Galecki’s hospital bed like a buzzard, so the second she’s dead he can fly over to see Mr. Cooper the lawyer to get his hands on her inheritance to save his own life. I really should say that out loud, but Mother . . . well. What’s the use?
My sister perks up and says, “Father wants to see me up at the rectory tomorrow night? That’d be great!”
Mother looks like she’s going to give Troo another love pat because she thinks my sister is being a wisenheimer, but I know she isn’t. My sister looks excited, like she does when she drops in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Getting up to the rectory must be part of the revenge plan that she’s gonna finally reveal to us tonight over at the Latours’.
“If I hear back from Father Mickey that you gave him one bit of grief, mark my words, Margaret O’Malley, you won’t be able to sit down until Christmas,” Mother says, getting up and bustling back into the house like she just remembered something really important.
Troo laughs and says, “Goddamn Helen doesn’t know her own strength.” She doesn’t rub her cheek where Mother smacked her to make it feel better, she never would. “You look a little peaked.” That’s something my good friend says to me if she thinks I look under the weather. “You okay?”
“No.” Not even a little. I’m so worried. About Ethel, who is over at the precinct house getting grilled for something she didn’t do, and Mrs. Galecki, who is holding on to life by her fingernails, but most of all I’m worried about Troo, who I’m supposed to be keeping safe. “You can’t go over to the rectory tomorrow night,” I tell her. “I’m beggin’ you. That could be so dangerous.”
Both of us know that Father Mickey is not having her over to give her some religious instruction the way he told Mother. I bet he’s been looking and looking for Mr. Galecki’s emerald necklace, wondering what the heck happened to it. He must’ve finally figured out that Troo had to be the one who took it from behind those books in his office.
“Are you off your rocker?” Troo tells me. “A course I’m goin’ up there tomorrow night.” She gives me her most blinding smile. “This is the moment I’ve been waitin’ for. It’s a sign from God.” When I don’t jump up and clap my hands, she says, “You’ll get why this works out so perfectly when I tell you the plan tonight.”
She doesn’t understand. Not really. She thinks she can beat Father Mickey at his own game, but she can’t. She’s just a little girl with too-big britches. I know I should try harder to talk her outta her revenge plan, but like Granny always says, stubborn runs worse in our family than a pair of cheap nylons, and that goes double for Troo. Once her mind is made up, nobody is going to stop her and that includes me.
(Like always, sorry, Daddy.)
By the time Troo and me recover from Mother’s Spam-and-brussels-sprouts casserole, the sky has gone dark enough for the streetlights to come on. We are on our way to the Latours’ to join up with Mary Lane and Artie so we can have the put-off powwow where aaalll will be revealed. The fastest way over to Vliet Street is shortcuts.
About halfway through the Hamlins’ yard, I ask my sister the question that won’t stop r
olling over and over in my mind. “Hey, did you break your promise to Mr. Gary and tell Father Mickey about Mrs. Galecki’s will during one of your talks?” I’m pretty sure she did, but I’d like to hear her admit it.
Troo reaches over, strips the leaves off a bush and throws them up in the air like confetti. “So what if I did?” she says. “You’re the only one around here who makes a Federal case about breakin’ promises. What’s the big deal?”
I’m positive that finding out about that gigantic inheritance is what made Father Mickey come up with his plan to murder Mrs. Galecki, but I can’t let Troo know that. It doesn’t seem like she would, but my tough little nut would feel terrible about causing somebody else to accidentally die, the same way she feels terrible about causing Daddy’s crash. That’s why I tell her, “No big deal. Just wonderin’.”
After coming out of the Hamlins’ and crossing the alley over to the Latours’, Troo jiggles open the unhinged gate. From inside the house, we can hear Mrs. Latour screaming at the kids about brushing their teeth and getting into their pj’s. That sounds so good to me and Troo knows that, so she grabs me by the wrist and drags me down to where Mary Lane and Artie are already waiting for us in the bomb shelter.
Troo and me had never seen one of these things until we moved onto Vliet Street. (Daddy told us we didn’t need one out on the farm because “Joe McCarthy’s full of hooey. The only Reds we have to worry about, girls, are the ones from Cincinnati.”)
Tonight’s not the first time I’ve been down here. Our first day in the city, Troo and me met Artie over at the playground. He brought us over to his yard, showed us the shelter and told us how his dad is sure that we’re gonna get bombed by the Russians, it’s just a matter of time. Artie bragged about how his family can live down here for two weeks or more. In my opinion, that was, and still is, a harebrained idea. You stuff all the Latours into a small space like this they are going to kill each other before any radiation could.
I get the heebie-jeebies when I’m closed up, but the underground hole isn’t too bad if you keep the door open. But once it’s shut, like it is now, it feels like I think it would if you were buried alive with lots of canned goods and candles.
The reason Troo insisted we meet in the bomb shelter is not only because she adores it, but because she’s being extra, extra careful about Father Mickey or some blabbermouth finding out what we’re up to. That might sound kinda silly, but she’s right, ya know. These blocks have ears and eyes. And motoring mouths. My sister wants to lay out her revenge plan in absolute, walls-of-steel secrecy.
“This meeting is called to order,” Troo announces, and makes us say the Girl Scout Promise for some reason. “On my honor, I will try to serve God and my country, to help others at all times . . .”
For the next half hour, she spells out exactly what is expected of us, what parts we’ll be playing in her revenge plan against Father Mickey tomorrow night. Because I can’t tell her without letting her know what part she played in his plan, she thinks she’s only going after a priest who got Mother an annulment and is the head of a gang of altar boy thieves. Only I know that Father Mickey is much more than that. He’s an attempted murderer who is trying to frame Ethel for something he did.
When my sister’s done explaining, she folds her arms across her chest and says, “Any questions?”
She taps her foot on the concrete floor. “Sally?” She’s staring at my hands, where there is a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.
I answer, “No, no questions,” and so does Artie.
But Mary Lane says, “Yeah, I got a couple.” She fans her hand in front of her nose. “What the hell did you eat for supper tonight, Fartie? The Wisconsin Gas Company?”
Chapter Twenty-eight
I don’t know if it’s a sin to skip the fish fry, but everybody sure acts like it is. In the winter or when it rains, people drive their cars if they’ve got one. But on a clear summer night like this one, that’s considered bragging. For blocks ahead and behind Troo and me, we can see the faithful heading up Lloyd Street on their way to Mother of Good Hope Church and School for our every-Friday-night supper.
Before we left the house, I went out to the garden to spend some time with Dave, who I have hardly gotten to be alone with lately. That’s why I’ve been feeling a little shy around him. I watched him water the garden, thought how ruggedly handsome he is, a real Viking, then told him, “By the way. When we were playin’ kick the can last night, I noticed the light over Mrs. Goldman’s stove was on again even though I turned it off weeks ago.”
He said, “It’s probably a short. I can’t tonight, but as soon as I get a chance, I’ll take my toolbox over there and make it right.”
I waited for a little bit and then asked him what I really wanted to know. “Could you please, please, please tell me how the questionin’ of Ethel went?”
When he switched off the hose, his eyes looked like he wanted to tell me, but his mouth said, “I know you’re worried, but it’s an ongoing investigation, Sally. I wish I could, but I can’t discuss it.” He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. “Your mother and I are going to pick up your grandmother and uncle and drop them off at the church, and then we’ll swing back to get Nell and the baby at the apartment.” He gave me a couple of dollars. “We’ll see you and Troo up there.”
So, no thanks to Dave, all I know right now for sure about what’s going on with my dear Ethel is that she didn’t come back to Mrs. Galecki’s after they were through questioning her at the station yesterday. And I only know that because I sat and watched the house all afternoon. Mr. Gary came back from the hospital looking glum.
Ethel’s not in jail; Dave would’ve told me that. She musta gone back to the Core to be with Ray Buck, or Reverend Joe Willow, who is also good at making her feel better. She might also be at the Greyhound Bus station. Since she is the smartest woman I know, she has got to have put two and two together by now and figured out that she’s going to get blamed for Mrs. Galecki’s coma. She is the perfect patsy. As much as I’m going to miss her, I wouldn’t blame Ethel for buying a bus ticket for far, far away, maybe all the way back home to Mississippi to go live in a swamp, which sounds like a dangerous place, but has to be a whole lot safer than staying around here. (Alligators with their huge choppers and sharp claws are attempted murderers, too, but at least a person knows to steer clear of them. Not like you-know-who with his black Irish smile and manicured fingernails.)
On the corner of 54th Street, Troo points and says, “There they are. Right on schedule,” and takes off toward Mary Lane and Artie Latour, who are standing out in front of the Sheinners’ waiting for us just like Troo told them to last night.
When I catch up to them, even as nervous as I am, Artie makes me smile. He’s back to his old self, yo-yoing like it’s going out of style. He’s already started practicing for when his best friend gets back. If everything goes the way it’s supposed to tonight, Artie is going to write to Charlie Fitch tomorrow morning and tell him that he can come home to be adopted by the Honeywells.
Troo can tell Artie’s raring to go by how high he’s bouncing on his toes, but she asks Mary Lane, “Ready, Freddy?”
Our other best friend tosses her banana peel down and says, “Ready, Betty.”
Of course she is. She already went over to the rectory to set up what she needs. She found a better concrete block, one that she won’t fall off of this time, and carried it to Father Mickey’s office window. She also hid her Brownie camera in the bushes. Artie doesn’t have anything to do tonight except be a lookout and stick close to Mary Lane to remind her to stay on point. If she starts chowing down, she might forget all about the plan. (Fish fry Friday is her favorite night of the week and she can get carried away.) Artie’s much bigger part will kick in later after all is said and done.
When we round the corner of 58th Street and the church comes into sight, Mary Lane throws down a challenge. “Last one there’s gotta sit next to B.O. Montanazza at church t
his Sunday.”
Of course, I get there first, but it’s my sister who holds the side door of the school open for us. She says, “Age before beauty,” and gives me a goose when we head down the steps to the cafeteria, which is even louder than usual with gossip and complaints about the weather and more gossip. I hear someone say, “The radio reported there might be rain on the way. Somebody else says, “Did you hear about Jilly Wilton? She got caught in the boathouse with Joe Riordan without her blouse,” and the whole place reeks of just-waxed floors and steam and so many perfumes and sweat.
When it’s our turn to pry apart the sticky trays, the same lunch ladies as always slap limp fish sticks on our plates and a scoop of coleslaw that runs into the rye bread and for dessert there is always fruit cocktail. We’d usually try to find a place at the crowded cafeteria tables, but the cashier told us to go out to the playground. “The janitors set up out there tonight. The heat, ya know,” she says, handing back my change.
When the four of us come out of the cafeteria doors, I can see everybody spread across the playground.
“Thally O’Malley!” Like always, Wendy spots me when we get close to the Latours’ long, long table. After Artie takes a seat on the end next to his sister, she grins up at me with coleslaw lips and gives me one of her super-duper hugs around my waist. Even though I’m standing right next to her, she yells, “Hi. Hi. Hi. Thit. Now,” and tries to pull me down to her lap.