Lesley Kagen - Good Graces

“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 whole 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.

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.

Troo decided it would be best if we make ourselves scarce today, so we are up and at ’em early, even before Mr. Peterson gets here with the milk. So that Mother doesn’t get sore at us, I scribble a note for her and tape it to the coffeepot before we take off:

Good morning! Sorry. I forgot to tell you. Mary Lane invited us to go see the new zoo today. Be back later! xxxoooxxx P.S. You looked swankier than Mamie Van Doren last night at the fish fry.

My sister is riding me over to the Lanes’ on her handlebars. When we pass by our neighbors’ houses, I picture them snuggling together in their beds, dreaming sweet dreams. What a surprise they’re in for this morning when Father Mickey doesn’t show up for Mass.

When Troo pedals past the Molinaris’ house, she says into my ear, “What the hell do ya think happened to him?”

I don’t answer her because the reason that Greasy Al never showed back up to get his revenge against my sister for sending him to reform school even I can’t imagine.

After rounding the corner of 58th Street, two houses down, I hop off and Troo dumps her bike on the Lanes’ front lawn. We know which room is Mary Lane’s. We’ve done this a million times before. After Troo gives me a boost through our friend’s window, she stands on the hose faucet and slithers over the sill after me.

Troo wants to get some warm water out of the bathroom so she can stick Mary Lane’s hand in it, but I stop her. I’m feeling a smidge disloyal for not telling our other best friend the truth about what happened to Father Mickey, but I guess Troo’s right, we need to keep it to ourselves because it is better to be safe than sorry. She is Mary Lane, after all. There is no one better at keeping secrets, but she might work the story of what happened last night into a no-tripper tale with gypsy priests and wieners and blood-dripping altar boys, not even realizing she is doing it. We can’t take that chance.

I gotta be careful when I shake Mary Lane awake by her bony shoulder because, I’m not kidding, it’s so sharp she could use it to open tin cans. “Mary Lane. Mary Lane.”