Good Graces

rubbing my back for Lent and didn’t start up again the way she was supposed to after the Resurrection. That’s fine. I don’t mind. She may have Daddy’s shirt in one hand and her Annie doll in the other, but I got her to soothe me. She feels like a baby blanket. Especially around her edges, which are usually satiny. But in this kind of heat that is making the O’Malley sisters feel like cookies baking away at the Feelin’ Good factory, I gotta sprinkle some of the powder I keep on the windowsill over Troo’s back. My hand won’t glide if I don’t.

Her snoring tonight is reminding me so much of the Hiawatha train that chugged down the tracks that ran behind our farm. Between that good sound and the steamy night and how tired I’ve gotten from chasing her, I can feel myself falling into dreamland face first, which is not like me at all.

When I wake up in the dark, I feel dopey and confused. That’s why I don’t right away shake Troo awake when I hear the clawing noise. I tell myself it must be left over from a nightmare. Bobby Brophy’s long fingernails made that kind of raking noise across his shorts zipper after he set me down in the lagoon grass. But once I hold my breath and listen, no matter how hard I try to convince myself, I know the sound isn’t part of a bad dream that’s going to fade away. That awful noise is in the here and now. And so is the putrid smell. Both of them are coming from right outside our bedroom window.

My heart is galloping, but I can’t move my arms or legs, and my mouth won’t make words. It feels like I’m being held down to the sheet by the rough hands of an invisible bully. It’s not until the clawing sound finally goes away, taking some of my scared away with it, that I can reach for my sister and say into her ear, “Wake up! Wake up!”

Troo answers back, thick and groggy, “What?”

I lift my nose into the air and say, “Do you smell that?” When she doesn’t say she does, I tell her louder, “Breathe in, breathe in,” and give a little jab to her ribs to wake her up even more.

Troo bats my arm away and says, “I don’t smell nothin’ ’cept for the cookies. And you. Did you wet the bed again?” She slides her hand sleepily down the sheet to check.

“No… I… there was a clawin’ sound on the screen and the smell of…” I think again and realize it wasn’t exactly the smell of pepperoni I breathed in, but close enough. Maybe it was some other kind of Italian sausage. “I’m sure it was Greasy Al tryin’ to get in here. I gotta go wake up Mother and tell her to go get Dave and his gun outta bed right away!”

I try to hop over her, but Troo wraps both of her arms around me and says, “Don’t you dare. She’ll get mad and tomorrow she’ll be worse crabby than she usually is. It was just your dumb imagination.” She pushs me off and starts her choo… choo snoring again in no time.

The longer I lie here and think about it, the more I know Troo is right. If I wake Mother up, she won’t rush upstairs to knock on Dave’s door and tell him to go after Greasy Al. Just like my sister, my mother will think it’s my imagination, she always does no matter what I tell her, but she especially won’t believe me in the middle of the night.

What I need is some kinda proof that Greasy Al was about to break in and murder Troo.

I slide on my tummy to the end of the bed, tiptoe through the kitchen and out the back door. I’m trembling so hard that I can barely keep a hold of my under-the-covers reading flashlight when I take baby steps around the corner of the house. I need to make sure. I promised to keep Troo safe.

The bedroom window screen does look like somebody used their fingernails on it, but that’s not enough to convince Dave to call in the troops. I search harder. Lift up branches and run my hands over the grass, but I don’t come up with a pizza cutter or anything else sharp that Greasy Al coulda used to slice open our screen and Troo’s neck.

When I inch back around the corner of the house, worried that Molinari could still be lurking around, that’s when I see my sister. She’s not out here looking for me. She didn’t even notice I wasn’t lying next to her anymore. Sometimes in the night, she starts missing Daddy too much and thinks too long about how he’d still be here if she hadn’t accidentally killed him, so she’ll come out to the glider in the backyard and smoke a cigarette and rock really fast. I can’t let her know that I’m watching. I want to rush over and tell her that accidents happen, but the last time I tried that she shoved me down on the ground and kicked me. She didn’t mean to hurt me. She just can’t stand it if anybody sees her not pretending to be brave, not whistling in the dark. But tonight, Troo isn’t gliding and puffing away like usual. She’s lying on her tummy next to the vegetable garden, breathing in the dirt smell that Daddy always had on his overalls after a hard day in the field. I can hear some cursing mixed in with her crying. I want so bad to put my arms around her, but she’d hate it if I did. All I can do is slink back to our room on still shaky legs and wait.

By the time Troo comes back to bed, I think hours musta gone by. I wasn’t worried because I was sure she fell asleep out in the yard the way she does sometimes. But when she spoons me, she smells like something else besides baby powder and grass. I can’t put my finger on it. I know I’ve smelled it before, I just can’t remember where or when. It has a rusty odor.

I bolt up and ask her where she went, but she laughs and says, “What are you talkin’ about, numnuts? I been here the whole time. Go back to sleep.”

I wouldn’t even if I could. I’m sure that after she cried herself out in the backyard over Daddy’s being gone, she decided to believe me about pepperoni-reeking Greasy Al being outside our bedroom window. I bet she flew into the night, tryin’ to sniff him out. She might even try again. That’s why I’m gonna stay on my toes until I hear Mother wake up with the clanking of the milkman’s bottles to put on her face.

At the breakfast table, freshly shaved and smelling like starch, Dave tells me over crispy bacon and scrambled eggs, “Good news, Sally! Alfred Molinari was spotted in a park yesterday afternoon by the Racine police.”

“I…” I desperately want to tell my father that those cops should get their eyes tested. Let him know that if I hadn’t woken up last night, Molinari would’ve slid over our windowsill, stuffed Troo under his arm and took off to someplace where he could torture her in private before I was able to scream bloody murder. But in this sunny kitchen with the smell of just-cut grass coming through the window and the birds singing their hearts out and coffee percolating, I keep my lips zipped. Troo’d never talk to me again if I give Dave a clue to Molinari’s recent whereabouts. My sister doesn’t want Detective Rasmussen to be the one to catch Greasy Al. She needs to be the one who hangs him by his thumbs.

Dave flaps open the Milwaukee Sentinel and sticks his nose in the sports section, his favorite part. “Big game tonight,” he says.

He doesn’t mean that the Braves are playing out at County Stadium. He’s talking about the one that’s going to happen over at the playground later on. The one game of the summer that nobody in the neighborhood misses.

Mother, who looks lovely in a creamy blouse, lights up a cigarette and says, “We’ll be there rootin’ for you, right, girls?”

The urge to tell Dave about Greasy Al paying us a visit last night is so powerful, but I can’t face the rest of my life with my sister not speaking to me, I just can’t. So I tell him, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Go get ’em, tiger.”

Troo doesn’t wish him good luck. She gives Dave a dirty look, stabs her fork down at her plate and doesn’t even thank him for making her French toast.

Chapter Thirteen

I will always love baseball the same way Daddy did. Unfortunately, coming to these games puts me in a pickle. I spend most of every inning thinking about how much he would love being here on a hot summer night and how bad I miss feeling his hairy arm pressed against mine, the look of his chipped-tooth smile after a really great play and how he’d jump to his feet and shout, “That’s showin’ ’em who’s boss!”

How do you make yourself forget?

It’s the Policemen (The Clobbering Coppers) versus the Feelin’ Good Cookie men (Chips Off the Old Block) under the playground’s big lights tonight. I’m sitting high up so I can get a bird’s-eye view, but not of the action out on the diamond. I’m memorizing the faces of the people coming and going. I’m looking for Greasy Al. It would be so simple for him to blend into this crowd and bide his time, especially if he was wearing a disguise like a black beard or something. After the ninth inning, he could stream out the gates with everybody else and hurry to hide between