Lesley Kagen - Good Graces

Seeing that awful lonely look on Mrs. Kenfield’s face makes me want to go sit next to Henry in the worst way. He’s two rows in front of me in the bleachers, keeping his mother company. Maybe he’s not so special to a girl like my sister, but there’s something about the way he listens to me without rolling his eyes and sometimes when he looks at me in a certain kind of way, I wish Henry could bottle himself. I would buy him by the case.

Troo uses her mental telepathy on me and says, “Well, lookee-lookee. Onree got a fancy new haircut.”

She’s right. Since I saw him last, he got it cut short and is making it stand up straight from his skull with butch wax. I already adore it and I’m sure that my sister does, too. She likes all things modern.

“I love him… I mean… it . The flattop,” I tell her, hoping I can find some time soon to meet him at the drugstore and run my hand across the top. It’s gotta tickle.

“Ya know what I think… Peaches ’n Cream ?” Troo leans down and says with so much snide. “I think he looks like the Kenfields’ hedge. Hunh… hunh… hunh .”

Hearing her wild French laugh makes me remember that I forgot to do what I was supposed to be doing. I got caught up thinking about Daddy and Nell and Peggy Sure and Mother and Dave’s third base playing and the Kenfields and adorable Henry that I forgot to pay attention to the details. During my flight of imagination, I betcha any money Greasy Al slunk right past me.

The smell of the chocolate chip cookies baking in the big ovens on 49th Street got stronger during the top of the seventh inning. It was like the cookies were giving the men a two four six eight who do we appreciate cheer. I thought that might make the Feelin’ Good men get a second wind, but that’s not what happened. Living up to their name, the cops clobbered the factory team, 10-3.

Snatches of different songs are coming out of the cars driving past us with all their windows open or, if they are lucky enough to own a convertible, with the top down. No crickets yet, but the fireflies are out. Troo loves fireflies. They flock to her. I think because they start with the letter f .

Strolling up Vliet Street on our way home after the game, we pass by the factory men who gave it their all out on the diamond. They’re on the front steps of their houses drinking cold beer in their undershirts, hoping to catch a breeze. They tip their hats to Dave and say, “Good game,” and he says back, “Thought you had us there in the fourth. Better luck next time.”

Dr. Heitz, who doesn’t play ball because he is a dentist, smiles at me when we pass him changing a tire on his car. He likes kids so much. He goes to the Saturday matinees at the Uptown and will give you a free box of Milk Duds if you sit on his lap to watch the movie. I think it’s his way of apologizing for having to drill you.

Dave and I are walking slightly ahead of Troo, who is kicking a rock that is coming dangerously close to my father’s ankle. Mother and Nell and Peggy Sure are behind her on the sidewalk. The reason Nell is with us and not with Eddie the way a wife is supposed to be is because after the game he was nowhere to be found, which means he probably headed up to the Milky Way. (Dave tried to have a man-to-man with Eddie about being a better husband and father, but that talk didn’t make a dent in that moron’s thick skull.)

I decided the walk home would be the perfect time to get more information out of my father. I have had hardly any time with him. He’s been so busy trying to catch the cat burglar. “Can I ask you a coupla questions?” I say.

“Shoot,” he says, which is cop talk for, go right ahead.

“How did Molinari get out of the reform school anyway? Did the guard doze off?” That’s what happens most of the time in movies when a criminal breaks out of jail. That, or a ripe-looking Italian girl shows up with a bottle of wine in a low-cut blouse with a black cinch belt.

Dave looks down at me with so much kindness. “We’ll apprehend Alfred eventually, Sally. Don’t worry. He can run, but he can’t hide.”

“Well, actually, he can’t run,” Troo butts in from behind. She pretends to ignore everything that Dave says and does, but she watches him, waits for him to make one wrong move. “If you were such a good detective, you’d know that.” She swings her leg back and kicks the rock hard. It bounces off the heel of Dave’s shoe. “By the way, did you catch the cat burglar yet?”

Dave heard Troo’s sassy remark just fine, but he doesn’t blow his stack the way Mother would’ve if she’d heard Troo smarting off like that. Dave keeps his steady green eyes on mine and tells me, “Rest easy. Law officers from Milwaukee and all points south are aware of the situation.”

“But just knowin’ that Molinari’s escaped isn’t enough,” I say. “Did they issue an All Points Bulletin? Do they have tommy guns? Are they-”

Mother, who’s closer than I thought, tugs down hard on my braid. “Simmer down, Sally!” She bustles to Dave’s side and says in an even more fed-up way, “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me. Filling up her mind with talk of your cases and… and all those criminal television shows the two of you watch… see what you’ve done?”

Dave gives Mother an I’m sorry look and I do, too. Not only do I not want to cause any more problems between them, I can’t have her yell at me for the rest of the night and then not talk to me for three days. That’s the worst punishment there is, to feel invisible like that, so I swallow back the questions I have about Charlie Fitch, too. The next time Dave and me work in the garden together, that’s when I’ll ask him. It’s important to find Charlie even if he’s dead, not only for Mr. and Mrs. Honeywell’s sake, but for Artie Latour’s. When we walked past his house, he was standing out on his porch yo-yoing, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

When we make the turn onto Lloyd Street, three houses down, we come to the Molinaris’.

Their place is not rising out of a swamp with moss hanging all over it the way you’d expect. The house has got fresh white siding with a mowed lawn and two robins are splashing around in the birdbath that’s set in a yellow petunia flower bed. Sure, the place looks nice on the outside, but so did Bobby Brophy. Who knows what evil deeds those Italians are up to in their rumpus room. Or their garage. That’s where Greasy Al’s brothers, The Mangling Meatball and Moochie, have a bench they lie down on to lift barbells under a pinup picture of Jane Russell lounging in a haystack. Those boys have bulging muscles and switchblades that they’re not shy about flicking open to remind you who’s boss around here. There are all sorts of sharp tools hanging on the walls of that garage that a convict could use to cut off his ball and chain.

Because I’m walking with my head turned back to my sister to make sure she doesn’t run off, I don’t even notice that we’ve made it to the front of our house until I bump into the back of Dave.

Mother flips up the baby’s buggy top and says to Nell, “Well, you better get a move on. It’s late.”

Nell whines, “But… I’m so tired… it’s six blocks. Could I get a ride back to the apartment? Please, Mother.”

“Absolutely not. You need the exercise. Your rear end, it’s…” Mother widens her arms out as far as they go. “How do you ever expect to get your figure back?”

“Helen, it’ll only take a few minutes, let me…,” Dave tries to say, but before he can get the rest of it outta his mouth Mother gives him her do-you-smell-dog-poop look and that’s that.