by Lesley Kagen
But there’s somebody else who isn’t.
His back is to her, so Father can’t see Wendy running her crazy windmill way toward us the way I can. Even the lightning that flashes right over our heads doesn’t slow her down. She understands that Father Mickey is hurting me, twisting my arm so hard that I think it’s going to break. She’s coming fast like she did over at the Vliet Street playground the time Buddy Deitrich was bullying me.
Father Mickey barks at me, “I’m going to teach you and your snotty sister a lesson about minding your own business. Where’d she go? And the other kid . . . the kid with the camera. Get up, get up!” He yanks me again, and Wendy, she’s almost right on top of us.
I try to shout, “No!” but she bowls into Father Mickey from behind like she’s a ball and he’s a pin up at Jerbak’s. I try to reach out to break his fall, but I’m not fast enough and he goes down hard. His head bounces off the side of one of the poles that are set around the DANGER hole where the foundation is getting poured tomorrow for our new school wing.
I don’t know what to do. This is nothing like Troo’s plan. Father Mickey is sprawled out next to me. Out for the count.
It takes me a minute or so to get my wits about me, but when I finally get up on my knees and say, “Hello?” my tongue brushes against my front tooth that feels jaggedy and tastes like an iron railing because of the blood. “Father Mickey, ah . . . you . . . you okay?” He’s lying tummy down, blending into the blacktop, but his white face is cocked my way. I’m not sure if I should be trying to wake him up. I’m scared about what he’s going to do to us when he comes to. Maybe Wendy and me should just run off and leave him. When he wakes up he might have amnesia and forget all about what happened. You can get that if you hit your head as hard as he did. That’s the best we can hope for. I try again. “Father?” He doesn’t groan. He doesn’t thrash around or move at all and once I lean down closer to him, I think that he’s not ever going to again. Wendy didn’t knock him out cold just for a little while. I’m pretty sure Wendy mighta knocked him out cold forever.
I’ve seen plenty of dead people. Daddy. Granny O’Malley. I saw Bobby after he fell into Sampson’s pit over at the zoo. And the longer I stare at Father, the surer I’m getting that it’s too late to run inside the rectory, find the telephone and call the operator so she can send one skinny and one fat ambulance man to come put Father Mickey on their stretcher and take him up to St. Joe’s with the siren blaring. But I gotta be positive. It takes me three tries to put my two fingers on his neck the same way I’ve seen Ethel do so many times to Mrs. Galecki when she has one of her spells. His skin is warm and soft under his stubbly beard, but nothing is pounding beneath my fingertips. I think I must be doing it wrong and move down to his wrist. Not a beat. I don’t see any other marks on him. He’s only bleeding a little from where his head hit the concrete post. I’m not sure why he’s dead. It could have something to do with his neck. It doesn’t look right.
From behind me, Wendy says, “Thwing now, Thally?”
She doesn’t know what she’s done. She doesn’t understand death. She swats skeeters and waits for them to fly off again. That’s when it really hits me that Wendy Latour has accidentally killed Father Mickey because she was protecting me and the tears come gushing. My whole body is shaking and my mind, it feels like it’s spinning away from me and I can’t catch up to it. I don’t know if I’m grateful or scared or relieved, maybe all of them. So many feelings are whirling around inside of me and I can’t tell one from the other. I don’t think there’s any sadness, though. Not for Father anyway. A good Catholic should be feeling sorrowful about his death, but I’m not. I’m not rejoicing, but I’m not broken up either. I feel something every time I look at him, I just don’t know what the word for it is.
“Thally?” Wendy comes up behind me and cups her hands under my arms and lifts me up to my feet. She lays her head on my shoulder and gives me a gentle honey bear hug. I can smell fish sticks and fruit on her T-shirt when she gives me a couple of hard pats on the back. “Don’ cry. Don’ cry, Thally O’Malley,” she says, licking the tears off my cheek. “All better now.”
We stay there together, rocking back and forth like we are slow dancing under the darkening sky. The wind pushes a piece of trash across the playground and the swings are twisting and the flagpole is making a clink . . . clink . . . sound. It seems like we are in each other’s arms forever until I realize I gotta do something and even longer before I figure out what.
“Wendy?” I whisper.
“Yeth?”
“I wanna play a game, do you?”
“Yeth, Thally,” she says, unlocking her arms.
I pick up the rhinestone tiara that got knocked off when she tackled Father Mickey and set it back where it belongs on her shiny black hair. “We’re gonna play hide-and-seek. You remember that one?”
She nods really fast, but she doesn’t. Every single time we play a game I have to go over the rules with her.
“Go into that little nook.” I point to the part of the school where I was supposed to hide and wait for Father Mickey. “I want you to put your hands over your eyes and start countin’ very, very slow and I’m going to hide and then you can come find me.”
“Then thwing?”
“Yup . . . then we’ll swing.”
“With laugh.”
“And witch laugh. Go on now.”
This time Wendy does exactly what I tell her to do and while she’s counting around the corner with her wide face in her chubby fingers, “One . . . free . . . nine . . .” I squat down and push with everything I got. When he flips over . . . Father’s face . . . he still looks so handsome.
I know what I’m about to do is against the law. You’re supposed to tell the police if someone dies, even if it’s an accident. I also know that according to the Church, I’m committing a sacrilege. Horrible as he was, Father Mickey deserves a proper burial. But this isn’t the first time I’ve examined my conscience. I’ve spent countless sleepless nights questioning what’s right and what’s wrong. I finally decided that knowing bad from good isn’t always so black-and-white. I mean, there are times when you know you’re about to do something that maybe you shouldn’t so you stop yourself, but there are other times when you know you’re committing a sin but have no choice except to go full speed ahead. You can’t always pick what’s right. Sometimes you can only pick what’s less wrong.
This is one of those times.
I can’t leave Father Mickey here to be found in the morning by one of the old neighborhood ladies. When he doesn’t show up for eight o’clock Mass, they’ll come storming up to the rectory. The police will be called in and all sorts of questions will be asked. Dave will remember that after the fish fry, Troo and me stayed up here for her religious instruction. My sister will be cool, but when Dave questions me, I will put up a good fight at first, but the love I have for him will eventually win out and I’ll confess everything. In nothing flat, what happened here tonight will fly through our neighborhood.
No one will believe me when I try to explain that what Wendy did was an accident. No matter how hard I try to convince our neighbors that she didn’t mean to murder Father, that she was only trying to save me, I know what will happen. They will not watch Wendy’s loping run or hear her funny way of talking or remember her swinging at the playground with her blouse off and smile to themselves the way they do now. Our neighbors won’t even feel sorry for her. Every time they look at her, all they will see is the girl who ended the life of the best pastor we ever had. Her picture will be in the newspaper and on television. She might even have to go to jail or reform school. I can’t let that happen. I won’t. Mongoloids don’t live as long as the rest of us and over my dead body is Wendy Latour spending whatever time she’s got left on earth where there aren’t any swings.
She calls over from the school corner, “Ready or no, here I go, Thally!”
I shout back, “No, stay there, Wendy! Gimme a minute.”
I’m sure God wouldn’t have let Wendy tackle Father Mickey hard enough to kill him if that wasn’t part of His plan. Our fate is in His hands, right? Even though I’m positive that what I’m about to do really is for the best, it wouldn’t hurt to get a second opinion.
I bow my head and pray:DEAR LORD, I KNOW THAT I HAVE NOT BEEN THAT GOOD LATELY, SO I PROBABLY DON’T DESERVE ONE, BUT YA KNOW, IF YOU COULD JUST GIVE ME A SIGN THAT WHAT I’M ABOUT TO DO IS OKAY WITH YOU, THAT’D BE GREAT. AMEN.
When I open my eyes and look to the heavens for my answer, the wind that was blowing suddenly stops and the dark clouds that were so threatening break apart to let the moon shine down on me again. That’s all I need to know. This is His celestial way of giving me two thumbs-up. God is letting me know that I am in His good graces. It’s not my imagination. How could it be?
Wendy calls to me again from around the corner in her croaking voice, “Now, Thally?”
“Almost,” I holler back.
All it takes is a couple of strong pushes to roll Father Mickey into the deep hole, where he lands with a soft thump.
When I get up off my knees and scurry around the corner to hide so Wendy can seek, I think about how tomorrow bright and early, after the cement trucks come and pour their load, Father will become part of the foundation for the new school. After I call out, “Ready!” I also think how the next time somebody tells me that the Almighty works in mysterious ways, I will have to agree with them.
Chapter Thirty
When I didn’t show up at the church confessional the way I was supposed to according to Troo’s plan, my sister came looking for me. She heard my Wicked Witch of the West cackling from down the block and the three of them followed it to the school playground. Of course, none of them are shocked to see Wendy. Just like the time she showed up in our bathroom eating a stick of butter, her appearing out of nowhere happens all the time. She really is like a mirage.
“Well?” Troo asks, coming to my side. I check her throat right away to see if Father Mickey tried to strangle her, but I don’t see any marks, just a coupla skeeter bites. There’s a handprint on her right cheek, though.
Mary Lane and Artie ask at the same time, “Well?” They want to know the nitty-gritty.
“After Troo came peelin’ out of the rectory, Father was right behind her, but I had a big head start and got across the playground in nothin’ flat.” I run my tongue over my tooth. They can’t see that it’s broken as long as I don’t smile. “I was going so fast, he didn’t even bother tryin’ to follow me. Probably he’s halfway to Mexico already,” I tell them, because a lot of times in the movies that we see at the Uptown Theatre, that’s where people go when they are on the lam so that seems really believable.
Mary Lane, who’s up on top of the monkey bars, points down to the ground where she left her camera for safekeeping and says excited, “I got the picture. It woulda been better if I waited until Father got his hands around Troo’s throat instead of just slappin’ her across the face, but Fartie here”—she cocks her head at him—“knocked my hand and the camera went off. I have to go to the zoo tomorrow with my dad, but I’ll take the film to get developed at Fitzpatrick’s soon as we get back.”
As soon as Artie is done giving Wendy an under doggie on the swings, he comes back and asks, “Should I still talk to the altar boys tomorrow?” He’s anxious to do his part of the plan. “See if I can get them to tell their parents what they did?”
Before Troo can answer, I say, “Naw. Don’t bother. I’m tellin’ ya, Father Mickey isn’t comin’ back. There’s no sense gettin’ the boys in trouble and everybody else in the neighborhood all worked up. I think we should leave things just like they are, don’t you, Troo?” It is her plan after all.
Troo says, “Yeah . . . okay,” but she’s giving me her squinty sister look that means What kind a crock is this?
When the church bells get done ringing nine times, Mary Lane swings down from the bars and when her back is turned, I pick her Brownie up off the ground like I’m being courteous, but I’m not. I flick the switch and open up the back of the camera long enough so her picture of Father Mickey gets ruined. The last thing we need is proof of any kind of what happened up here tonight. The second we get home, I’m taking Troo’s genius plan that she wrote down in her notebook and flushing it down the toilet.
Mary Lane says, “Thanks,” and hangs the camera back around her neck. “I gotta get over to the park. My ma and dad are waitin’. They brought caviar and champagne.” (What she really means is that they brought her a box of jujubes and a bottle of orange soda.)
“Oh, shoot,” I say, slapping my forehead and doing my best to sound disappointed. “I wish we could go, too, but I just remembered. We told Granny at supper that we’d wash out Uncle Paulie’s socks ’cause we missed this afternoon, so that’s what we gotta do.” I turn to Artie and Wendy. “You guys should also get a move on before your dad notices you’re not there.” (Mr. Latour uses a leather strap when you don’t follow his rules.)
Of course, my sister knows what I said about going to Granny’s is a big fat lie, but she says, “Yeah. Ya better get outta here toot sweet!” which is French for—get going!
Mary Lane and Artie right away say their good-byes, but Wendy, she gets her inscrutable face up close to mine, and says, “Thafe now,” before she windmills off after them.
Watching her take off down the block, I’m thinking that I’ll be wondering every time I see her or when I can’t sleep and maybe for the rest of my life . . . does she understand what she did? Does she? I know she’s a lot smarter than she lets on, she’s proved it to me a couple of times, but . . .
“What gives?” Troo asks, exasperated.
“I gotta show you something.”
I lead her over to the DANGER hole, telling her what happened along the way. What Father said, what I did after Wendy did what she did. For a little while, I’m not sure if my sister believes me because when we get to the edge of the hole, the priest is real hard to see down there in his black sporty shirt and pants, but then Troo hawks a loogie, and says, “We need a coupla shovels.”
I knew she’d say that. “There should be some in the . . . shed.”
She knows the one I mean. It’s where Father Jim kept all his gardening supplies when he was still our pastor and growing the most beautiful irises and other gorgeous flowers that still smell wonderful tonight. He left a little part of himself behind.
“I’ll go get ’em. Wait for me over at the ladder,” Troo says, for once not teasing me. No matter how sure I am that Father Mickey has to get buried so the men pouring the cement won’t see him tomorrow, a shed is still a shed. If my sister wasn’t here to take charge, I hate to think that I’d leave Father to get found by the church ladies in the morning because I was too much of a scaredycat to do the right thing.
What would I do without my Troo?
When she comes back, she’s got a flashlight that is running low on batteries stuck in her armpit. She’s also lugging two shovels that are kinda like the ones they use over at Holy Cross Cemetery, only smaller. She throws them down into the hole, hands me the flashlight and backs down the ladder that was left there after Denny Desmond lost that walk-across-the-plank challenge and ended up breaking his collarbone.
Of course, Troo goes down first because she is so much braver than me. She shines the light on lumpy Father Mickey, who is still here, which is such a relief. When Troo left me alone with him to go to the shed, I got the creepiest feeling that he was gonna resurrect himself outta the hole, grab me around the throat and whisper into my ear, “Gotcha!”
Taking baby steps toward where he’s lying, I can see that Father Mickey landed facedown, which is another real blessing. Him looking at Troo and me while we throw dirt on his face might be too much even for my sister.
Daddy had to bury dead animals out on the farm, so we know just how it’s done. We don’t talk at all, just breathe hard, but while we’re working, even though I believe with my w
hole heart and soul that what we’re doing is the best thing for Wendy and the rest of the neighborhood, I’m wondering if I’m going to be having nightmares over this the same way I do about Bobby carrying me over from the lagoon and Daddy’s dying, but there’s no turning back now.
After one final scoop, Troo says, “That should do it. Grab one a his feet.” She takes the other one and we drag Father into the hole that isn’t six feet deep, maybe only three. Deep enough so the man driving the cement truck tomorrow shouldn’t notice anyway.
After we get done patting the last bit of dirt back into place, my sister wipes the sweat off her forehead and tells me something that surprises me. “We should say some words. You first.”
Together the O’Malley sisters bow our heads and I say the only thing I can think of, it’s what Daddy always said in the spring after he finished planting. “Ye shall reap what ye shall sow.”
But when it’s Trooper’s turn to say good-bye to Father Mickey, she does me one better. She says very solemnly, “His mean justified his end,” and I don’t bother correcting her.
Chapter Thirty-one
By the time Dave and Mother got home from Music Under the Stars last night, Troo and me had already cleaned all the digging dirt off in the tub, talked some more about what happened over at the rectory and got our stories straight. When the lovebirds came in the back door, laughing like they had a great time over at the park and didn’t want it to end, the O’Malley sisters were in our bed pretending to be asleep.
After Dave went upstairs to turn in, Mother slipped into our bedroom. I breathed in the smell of Blatz and her Chanel No. 5 when she bent down and gave us each a kiss, which is the only time she likes to show that she loves us—when we’re asleep. (She thinks she’s being tricky, but Troo and me find her lip prints on our cheeks in the morning.)
I spent most of the night going over in my mind what Wendy accidentally did to Father Mickey. And how Troo and me buried him. But when I finally fell asleep, I didn’t have any nightmares, which I took as another thumbs-up from God.