Good Graces

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.

Chapter Ten

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:

Dear Mrs. Gustafson,

Once again, Margaret is suffering from impure thoughts. She will not be allowed back next year if she continues down the path she is heading. Perhaps your current living arrangements are a contributing factor.

May God have mercy on

your soul,

Sister Raphael, S.D.S.

My sister’s dirty mind doesn’t have a thing to do with where Mother lives. Troo is being influenced by a bad element. The Italians. These are a people who are interested in getting as much of the sex as they can. Look at Gina Lolloabridgida. Her bosoms… they’re the size of watermelons. Same goes for Annette Funicello. I don’t think it’s my imagination that Mousekeeter Lonnie couldn’t keep his eyes off her chest.

And then there’s Fast Susie Fazio, who might be the worst Italian of all. She’s three years older than me and knows all there is to know about first base and second base and sliding into home. Thanks to her, I couldn’t listen to a Braves game for over a month after she told me and Troo how babies are made during one of our sleepovers.

This is why I try to avoid going anywhere near her house, but when the noon whistle goes off at the Feelin’ Good factory, I call back to Troo, “We were supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago. Hurry up.” We don’t have any choice now but to cut through the Fazios’ yard to get to Mrs. Galecki’s place. I’m already late and Ethel keeps to a schedule. She likes me to read to Mrs. Galecki right after she feeds her an early lunch but before she takes a long afternoon nap. Troo is dragging her feet on purpose. She knows how much I hate being tardy.

Like always, Italian opera music is coming from outta the Fazios’. Fast Susie’s grandma is singing along to Rickie Caruso while she’s cooking, which is pretty much all she does besides casting spells on people. She is a Strega Nana… an Italian witch! But an excellent cook for such a small person.

The reason I know that is because it was another one of Troo’s genius plans last summer that we should just show up over here around suppertime because nobody was feeding us at home. Hall was spending day and night up at Jerbak’s Beer ’n Bowl and Nell quit taking care of us the way Mother told her she was supposed to so she could have more time to exercise with Eddie.

Even though we pulled chairs up to their kitchen table at least once a week, I still don’t know the names of all the Fazio kids because there’s ten of them. I do know Fast Susie’s oldest brother, Johnny, everybody does. He’s a singer in a band called the Do Wops. They’ll play at the Fourth of July celebration at the park and the crowning of the King and Queen of the Playground Festival the same way they do every summer.

Fast Susie’s mother likes to be called Jane; I don’t know why. Her real name is Angelica. Every afternoon, Jane lies in her robe on the davenport in the living room and watches “her shows,” which I have seen with her a few times when Troo wants to spend time yakking with Fast Susie and I don’t. The one called Guiding Light reminds me of our neighborhood because so many things go wrong… zip… bang… boom. And Queen for a Day I like because after those down-on-their-luck women are done telling the host, Jack Bailey, how crummy their lives are, I feel really grateful that we have our own washing machine.

As far as Fast Susie’s father goes, I have only seen him at supper a few times and Mass every so often because he’s got an important job. His name is Tony. He sells silverware, which he must do really well because he wears shoes made outta alligators and suits made outta sharkskin. Mr. Fazio works with a man called Frankie the Knife.

When we come into her backyard, Fast Susie says, “O’Malleys!” This is almost where she always is during the summer, lying on a greasy white sheet. Next to her, there is a bottle of baby oil with iodine in it. She slathers it all over her arms and legs, the whole hairy mess.

My sister plops down next to her and says with a load of admiration, “Zowie.” Troo isn’t talking about the two- piece bathing suit Fast Susie’s barely got on. She’s impressed by her bosoms. She is very interested in them in general and can’t wait until hers come in. Every morning she stands in front of the mirror on the back of our bedroom door to check to see if they’ve grown during the night.

Fast Susie beams down at the polka-dotted suit top that’s standing out about a foot from her body. “It’s like that song. An itsy bitsy teenie weenie,” she says, bouncing.

She inherited her bosoms from her grandmother the same way I inherited my long legs from Dave. Back in the old days Nana’s musta looked like freshly filled water balloons, too, but now she has to strap them down with a belt when she’s cooking so they don’t accidentally dangle into a pot of spaghetti and I hope the same thing happens to Fast Susie. She’s mean to me. She thinks I’m not cool. Not the way Troo is.

Fast Susie says, “Funny you two should show up. A little birdie told me something that might interest the both of ya.”

For once, I think I know which little birdie she’s talking about, so I say, “If it’s about Greasy Al escapin’ from reform school, Henry Fitzpatrick already told us.” Even though it’s the worst news, I’m proud of him. It really is something if you hear neighborhood gossip before Fast Susie does. Mother calls her the Hedda Hopper of Vliet Street.

Fast Susie pops up and says, “Fitzpatrick told you? That… that Casper