Lesley Kagen - Good Graces

“What?” she says, sitting up straight from the waist and reminding me again of that actress in The Bride of Frankenstein when she’s on the doctor’s table right after she’s brought to life. Mary Lane’s permanent wave hasn’t settled down at all.

Because of our mental telepathy, I know Troo’s about to crack wise about her electrified hair, so I hurry and tell Mary Lane, “It’s a matter of life and death. We need to go out to the zoo with you today. I can’t wait anymore. I gotta see Sampson.” That’s not a lie I’m telling her just to get out of the neighborhood for the day. I really do need to see him bad. It’s been almost three months. He must be missing me as much as I’m missing him.

Mary Lane, who smells like her pillow, which I’m sure is stuffed with potato chips, says, “Fine by me, but we gotta ask my dad.”

After she pulls on her usual high-tops, T-shirt and shorts, the three of us go out to the kitchen and beg Mr. Lane to take us with him to work. Being the nice man that he is, he swigs down his cup of breakfast java and says, “Yeah, sure. The more the hairier.” (He is known for these kinds of animal jokes. I think telling them is part of his job the same way shoveling poop is.)

Mary Lane was right when she told me at the beginning of summer that it would take at least three buses to get out to the new zoo on Bluemound Road. It takes almost a half hour by car. It kills me to say it, but it was worth it. It’s really nice. And HUGE. There’s an all-the-time pony ride and the hot dogs they sell are the Oscar Meyer wiener whistle kind and the critters have a lot more room to roam. I want to see Sampson right away, but Mary Lane wants to show us around. She is a big believer in saving the best for last.

We’re her guests, so that’s what we do. Spend the whole day, running here and there. The polar bears’ area looks like the North Pole and Monkey Island is something straight out of a jungle. There’s lots of animals that we didn’t even have at the old zoo, like seals and reindeer. The Reptile House is full of snakes. The boa constrictor sticks his tongue out and makes me think of Bobby Brophy. The only out-of-place cage we come across is the one that belongs to the camel, who doesn’t look like he lives in the desert of Arabia, but the dirt lot on the corner of 53rd Street.

When I ask her why, Mary Lane tells me, “That’s the best Dad could do. Bringin’ in all that sand costs a lot of money and camels are really stupid and they spit worse than your sister. What’d ya do to your tooth, by the way?”

I forgot all about it. “Ah… I… tripped and um… can we go see Sampson now?”

Troo and me follow her past the flamingoes and the penguins over to the Primate House. Mary Lane pulls open the door and says, “He’s got a big yard all to himself, but he’s indoors today. This way.” She leads us past the chimps and the mandrills and all the other monkeys doing their shenanigans until we get to the biggest and busiest cage of all.

Mary Lane clears her throat and announces very professionally, “Zoo business. Comin’ through,” and we push to the front of the crowd.

Seeing him in all his glory, it makes my knees go floppy. I tenderly press my hand against the glass and wait for him to do the same, the way he always did, but Sampson stays where he is, looking at me with his fudgey brown eyes the same way he’s looking at everybody else. He isn’t singing Don’t Get Around Much Anymore or Take Me Out to the Ballgame. He’s not beating his chest because he’s so happy to see me, after so much time apart. He just hangs there for a while from his ceiling rope and when he gets tired of that, he starts looking for that thing in his ear that he’s still not found.

Troo says, “Doesn’t look like he remembers you,” and I can’t get mad because it seems that way to me, too.

I think Mary Lane knows how let-down I’m feelin’ because she says very kindly, “C’mon, we gotta go. Time to meet Dad in the parkin’ lot.”

On the ride back home, I’m wondering if Sampson acted cool toward me because he’s living in a much better place than he used to. Sorta the same thing happened when Troo and me went to visit our old Vliet Street friend Louise Greely after she moved to a much bigger house near Enderis Park that had a huge yard and a swing of her own hanging off a tree. We didn’t have much to say to each other anymore either.

Sampson’s snub woulda cut me to the core in the olden days, but for some reason I’m going to have to think long and hard about, when Mr. Lane pulls up in front of our house I notice that my heart isn’t feeling shattered into a million pieces. More like one of its wings fell off.

Dave is out on our front porch steps, reading the evening newspaper. He calls out a friendly “Thanks, Phil” to Mr. Lane when he drops us off, but when Troo and me try to scoot past him, Dave sounds more like Joe Friday from Dragnet than Mr. Anderson from Father Knows Best .

“Girls, wait a minute. I need to talk to you,” he says. When I slow down, Troo pokes me in the back, so Dave follows us into the house, straight through to the kitchen.

I say to Mother, who’s standing in front of the stove, “We’re home.” Whatever she’s cooking is making it stink worse in here than the lions’ den up at the zoo. “Did you get my note?”

Mother says, “It’s about time. Supper’s in ten minutes,” and goes back to stirring.

“What happened to you two last night?” Dave asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the counter in front of the sink. “Why didn’t you come over to the park?”

The O’Malley sisters knew he’d ask us this.

Just like we planned it out last night under the sheets, Troo says, “Didn’t Father Mickey tell you this mornin’ after Mass?” Dave almost always attends the eight o’clock. “He kept me later than he usually does and then he couldn’t give us a ride over there because he forgot he had an important meeting, so Sally and me came straight home, took our baths and went to bed.”

I can’t wait to tell him all about the new zoo, but I ask him, “How was the concert?” because that’s the polite thing to do.

Troo grins and says, “Wait, before you go into all that-after we finished up last night, guess what? Father Mickey told me I don’t have to come back anymore. Isn’t that great?!” Instead of being in a freak show or a drummer in Sal Mineo’s band or a professional Kleenex-flower maker, my sister could be a movie actress when she grows up, that’s how easy she can turn the truth off and on. “You’re gonna have to order me a new school uniform, Helen. I did such a good job on my religious instructions that I’m purer than Ivory soap! I’m going back to Mother of Good Hope next month!”

See, that’s Troo genius at work. I never would’ve thought of adding that part.

When they don’t congratulate her, Troo says, “Call Father up and ask him if you don’t believe me.” Both Mother and Dave do look pretty stunned.

Dave says, “I’m afraid that would be… I have some bad news, girls. Father Mickey appears to be missing.”

Troo brings her hands up to her cheeks and says, so concerned, “Oh, no! That’s terrible. Really?”

“Did Father happen to mention who he had that important meeting with last night?” Dave asks.

Troo and me decided that she would be the one to answer any hard questions he had. She is very good under pressure. And even though I haven’t told her that I adore Dave, she knows. She doesn’t trust me not to fall into a heap and confess what we did and she shouldn’t.

“The meeting? Uh… I can’t remember if he… oh, yeah,” Troo says, snapping her fingers. “That’s right. Father told us that he was goin’ to see Mr. Fazio to thank him again for startin’ work on the school.”