Lesley Kagen - Good Graces

I can’t take this anymore. “Hold on, Nell. I’ll get Lizzie on her leash and walk you back at least part a the way.”

Troo says, “I’ll go with.” Not for Nell’s sake. Or mine. She adores Peggy Sure. When she thinks you aren’t looking, she smothers her tummy in raspberries. But baby love is not all she’s got on her mind tonight. Troo’s gonna ditch me on the way back so she can go look for Molinari. Walking past their house riled up her revenge feelings.

Mother tells us, “You two’ll do no such thing.” She runs her hand across Nell’s hair like she understands how cruddy things are for her being married to outer-space-skank-loving Eddie Callahan for the rest of her life, the same way things were bad for Mother when she was married, and still is, to waitress-loving Hall Gustafson. But when Nell’s pointy chin starts trembling and she tries to put her head down on Mother’s shoulder, Mother steps out of reach and says, “Powder your nose. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, for godsakes.”

When Troo opens her mouth to point out to Mother that Nell has on flats, the phone starts bring… bring ing from inside the house. It’s the station house calling for Dave. It always is this late at night.

Dave says sheepishly to Mother, “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get that,” and takes our front steps three at a time.

I’m right behind him, thinking to myself another reason why I need to make Troo buckle under immediately. She’s gotta be prepared for when we get old like Nell. When Mother pushes you outta her nest, you better have your wings in good working order, sister.

The inside of the house is quiet, except for Lizzie, who is bouncing up to my chin, looking for a biscuit. When Granny says, “Hope springs eternal,” she must have our little collie in mind.

I’m always happy to see our furniture waiting for us with open arms. It’s nicer than what we ever had before. It’s double-stuffed checkered and it matches, even the hassock in front of the davenport that Dave and me can put our feet up on when we watch TV. His sink in next to mine and look good. We got the same-shaped toes.

It still smells in here like the pigs-in-the-blanket Dave made us for supper. I never saw any father do this before. Not even Daddy. I like to watch Dave in front of the stove stirring the same way I used to like to watch Daddy shave in front of the sink or tinker with the tractor. Dave tells me he enjoys cooking and I would like to send out a special thank-you to St. Theresa the Little Flower for prayers granted. (Mother made us something yesterday called slumgoodie, which had hamburger and tomatoes and some secret ingredient that must have something to do with the slum part of its name because it had absolutely nothing to do with the goodie part.)

Dave is dashing through the living room toward the black telephone that sits in an alcove in the hallway like one of the shrines up at church. I’m hoping with all I got that somebody in the neighborhood saw Molinari lurking outside his garage and they called the station and now the cops over on Burleigh Street are ringing Dave up so he can help capture Greasy Al, who they have trapped in a dragnet.

“Rasmussen,” he says into the horn. “Yes, sir. When? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’ll get right on it, Captain.”

After Dave drops the phone back down in the cradle, I ask, “Is it Molinari? Did they catch him?”

He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his usually light blond hair that has gone knotty pine-colored from his baseball sweat. “When we were at the game, somebody broke into the Livingstons’ house.”

“Oh, no. What… what got stolen?” I ask.

“They haven’t had a chance to go through the whole house yet to check what’s missing, but so far, Tom’s rodeo belt buckle is gone along with their best silver. I need to get over there.”

I know that Greasy Al isn’t the regular cat burglar because things were getting stolen before he escaped from reform school, but it could be him just this one time. It’s been weeks since he has been on the run and his stomach should be growling. He can’t just show up at his family’s restaurant or the Milky Way in his striped prison suit. Yes. That makes perfect sense. Greasy Al burgled some food and the Livingstons’ silver because even he isn’t uncivilized enough to eat raw meat with his bare hands.

“You should check the freezer in their basement,” I tell Dave when I’m done thinking it through. Mr. Livingston is our butcher. His daughter, Kit, is in my grade at school. She brought a hunk of beef for show-and-tell. When she was done explaining to the class that her father is originally from Montana and that’s why he knows how to cut up cows, she told us they had a whole freezer full of T-bones in their basement. “There’s probably a few steaks missin’.”

Dave’s pale eyebrows shoot up straight as exclamation points. “Sally… that’s… why would somebody take-are you okay?”

I should tell him right this minute about my suspicisons about Greasy Al. And Mary Lane, who I’m sure has been doing the burglaries this whole time. It’s got to be one of the two of them who broke into the Livingstons’. At the game tonight, Mary Lane was looking extra skinny. She mighta slipped away during the seventhinning stretch for a late-night snack. But Dave’s unbuttoning his baseball shirt in a hurry and heading into the bathroom, just missing Mother, who walks past me on her way to the kitchen. If she hears me telling Dave anything having to do with police business of any kind she’ll get mad all over again.

She calls out to him, “I’ll make us some popcorn and pour us a couple of beers. I thought we could watch Jack Parr. I kid you not. Hardy… har… har. Who was on the phone by the way?”

Dave sticks his head out of the bathroom, sighs and shrugs, and I do the same back to him. She knows darn well he can’t stay to cuddle up with her while they watch The Tonight Show . He’s gotta leave and do his detecting job. Mother’s trying to make him feel like he is letting her down. Again. This is something that she is astoundingly good at. She could be the Eighth Wonder of the World when it comes to letting you know how much you disappoint her.

“There’s been another burglary,” Dave says, down in the mouth. “That was the station calling.”

Mother says like this is the first time the thought has crossed her mind, “The station?”

“I’m sorry. I know you made plans, but I’ve got a responsibility to-”

“But you promised,” Mother says. “You told me that…”

Dave must apologize to her five times a day and I don’t want to hear him doing it one more time. She was so happy when they first got together again and moved into this house with the white shutters and window boxes that my father keeps filled with red geraniums because that’s her favorite flower, but nowadays, most of the time all Mother does is complain. Especially about him working such long hours since he really doesn’t need to have a job at all. You wouldn’t know it because he doesn’t drive a Lincoln Continental or swing a gold watch on a chain, but Dave is filthy rich. He won’t get his money stolen by the cat burglar though, because it’s not here in the house. He keeps it in something called a trust fund, which I really like the sound of.

After I found out that Dave was my father, I had so many questions. Especially about my other grandparents that I never met. I went straight to Granny’s little house. I knew she wouldn’t get worked up the way Mother would if I wanted answers and I was right. When I asked her to fill me in, Granny didn’t even mention how curiosity killed the cat. She arranged melba toast on a plate and poured me a cuppa out of her copper kettle that she brought all the way from the old country. (A cuppa is what she calls a cup of tea chock-full of milk and sugar.)