Lesley Kagen - Good Graces

“From what I heard, not nearly as well as you did, Betty,” she says, looking down her long nose at her.

Aunty Betty throws her head back and laughs. Ladies are always whispering behind their hands about her being “a hot patootie,” so she’s used to it. I really admire how she takes those snippy comments as compliments about how good-looking she is. That is making the best of a bad situation.

Aunt Betty says with a fond-memory voice, “I remember this one time Helen and I came across Mickey and Paulie down at Honey Creek-”

“Paulie? Our Uncle Paulie?” I’m shocked. “I didn’t know that he knew Father in the olden days.”

Mrs. Callahan brings her hand to her bosoms and says, “They were best friends. Those two boys gave your granny her gray hair.”

I already know that our uncle was hell on wheels because Ethel Jenkins told me all about him last summer, but this is the first time I heard that Father Mickey was a troublemaker from around here.

“When did Father Mickey move away?” I ask.

Mrs. Callahan closes her eyes. She always does that when she tries to come up with an answer to a question. I can do a pretty good imitation of her if I borrow some of Mother’s blue eye shadow. “Well, let me see… after he was ordained, Mickey was assigned to St. Stan’s and then some small town in Illinois and soon after that the church sent him all the way to the jungles of the Congo to do some missionary work with the little Pygmy people. That’s when I stopped gettin’ postcards from him, ’til he showed up here again.”

Sounds to me like she’s been keeping close track of him.

“You want to know something else, Sally?” she says. I really don’t think I do, but there is no stopping her when she gets this naughty smile on her face. She reminds me a lot of this kid from Vliet Street, Fast Susie Fazio, when it comes to spreading hairraising facts. “I wouldn’t say that Mickey had what’s known as a true calling to the priesthood.”

I know what she means by that. They’re always trying to convince girls to be nuns and boys to be priests up at school. To keep their ears open for a call from Jesus.

I say, “Kenny Schultz was told to join up in a dream. He went to St. Nazianz seminary right after high school.”

“Yeah, that’s how it goes for most boys, but M.P.G… well, he wasn’t most boys.” I must look like I lost track of the conversation. “That was Mickey’s nickname back then. Ya know, his initials? M.P.G. Miles per gallon?” She rumble laughs deep in her throat. “That boy could give a girl the ride of her life and… hey, don’t take my word for it. Ask your mother,” she says, with a wink.

“That’s quite enough, Betty!” Mrs. Kenfield smacks her hand down on the glass case. Then to me, she says, “Make no mistake about it, I’m reporting you and your sister to Father the first chance I get.”

“Oh, for chrissakes.” Mrs. Callahan throws up her hands. “The kid’s not responsible for her sister, isn’t that right, Sally?”

“I… I…” Don’t agree with her. And neither did Daddy.

“I am my brother’s keeper,” Mrs. Kenfield says, holding her teeth closed so tight that I can’t believe the words got through them. “I believe the Lord would have the same apply to sisters.”

“Oh, you do, do you? You got a direct line to Him now?” Aunt Betty says, losing her cool. “Outta anybody in the neighborhood… you should know ya can’t take heat for whatever foolishness somebody in your family is doin’, Joyce. Get off your sanctimonious horse. You used to be the life of the party. When’d ya get that goddamn stick up your butt?”

Not waiting to hear Mrs. Kenfield’s answer, which I was interested in because I would like to avoid that sort of thing happening to me, Mrs. Callahan spins toward me and says, “I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do, Sally. I’m gonna give you an advance on your baby-sittin’ money and a few pennies more for what I lost to Troo playing rummy a coupla nights ago.” She snaps open her shiny black pocketbook. On the bottom, I can see the peppermint schnapps she keeps in there. She tells people it’s just to freshen her breath. She sets the bottle carefully on the top of the candy counter, slips out her coin purse, which is one of the leather ones Troo made at camp, and slaps down two quarters. Looking her right in the eye, Aunt Betty flicks them with her pointy red fingernail too hard toward Mrs. Kenfield, who doesn’t put up her hands to block them. The coins go tumbling down to the floor. One of them rolls away for a long, long time. “And that should cover whatever Troo took.” Aunt Betty sets her jaw the same jutting way my sister does when she won’t back down, and starts unscrewing the schnapps cap. After she’s taken three deep swallows, she dabs at her mouth and giggles. “Care for a nip, Joycie?” she says, thrusting the bottle across the counter. Mrs. Kenfield’s arm stays as frozen in place as her face, which looks like an ice-skating rink, cold and flat like that. “Not right now? Well, maybe you’d like to take some home to holier-than-thou Chuck. I’m sure he’d have no problem finishin’ it off.”

It goes midnight-in-a-cemetery quiet. The parakeets stop chirping and even the corn has stopped popping. All I want to do is get out of there and catch up with Troo and be on our merry way, but then I remember why I got sent up here in the first place. Mother’ll blame a flight of imagination if I forget to pick up her afternoon “nummy,” which she takes very seriously and goes even grumpier without. I’ve had my fill of cod liver oil this week.

“I… I’m sorry… Mrs. Kenfield… I… ah… forget something.” She doesn’t notice that I’m talking to her so I reach up to tap her on the shoulder, but then I’m not sure that’s a good idea, so I ring the bell next to the cash register instead. “I’ll take one of Mother’s usual please, if you don’t mind and that’s all right with Mother’s usual please, if you don’t mind and that’s all right with you.”

The owner of the Five and Dime doesn’t take her eyes off Mrs. Callahan when she grabs the candy out of the case and pitches the Snirkle at me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kenfield. You, too, Aunt Betty,” I say, fast as I can. “If I don’t see her first, tell Nell we’ll be there next Friday night to sit for the baby. I hope you have a nice time eatin’ and dancin’ with Detective Riordan,” and then I scramble out of the store.

Heading back down North Avenue toward Troo, who I can see a few blocks down bouncing her ball again, I’m feeling sorry for Mrs. Kenfield. First she had problems with her daughter and then her husband starts falling down a lot and now she’s gotta run the Five and Dime looking like a rag picker with a stick up her butt.

I guess, just like Granny says, when it rains, it pours.

Mrs. Kenfield really could use an umbrella.

It’s not just Troo and me, all the kids who go to Mother of Good Hope School have to write charitable stories over the summer. If you don’t show up with it the first day of school you’ll be punished by Sister Raphael, who is the principal but is also in charge of good deeds. She’s also the nun who wants to kick my sister out of school for more than one reason. Since Troo was in her office at least once a week for doing one bad thing or another, Sister told me she’s thinking of having the chair in the corner of her office engraved permanently with Troo’s name. (If she bothered to look at the back, she could save a few bucks. Troo stole a penknife outta the Five and Dime last summer.)

The last straw happened at recess two weeks before school let out.

Jimmy “B.O.” Montanazza was hanging off one end of the monkey bars. My sister was sitting on top. She musta been holding her breath because B.O. can’t even play hide-and-seek, that’s how easy he is to track down. His pits just reek. I couldn’t hear what exactly Troo asked him; I was playing double Dutch at the time, but I heard B.O.’s answer cut through the sound of the slapping ropes because like all the Italians, he talks so darn loud. “Take it from me, O’Malley, sex is like a hot dog. It’s all about the weiner and the bun,” B.O. said. Troo started hooting like a maniac. Sister Imelda didn’t. She dragged the both of them off the bars straight into the principal’s office. I had to take the note home because Sister Raphael didn’t trust Troo to deliver it to Mother: