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.)
“So, Sally m’girl, you want to know more about the other half of your family?” Granny asked, across from me at the kitchen table. “The Danish side?”
“Yes, please,” I said, sipping and nibbling, wondering like I always do why the dickens she loves melba toast so much. It tastes like shingles.
Warming up to the idea since she’s got the gift of gab, Granny said, “You wouldn’t have liked your other grandmother. Before she died from tuberculosis, Gertie was very vain about her legs, which were nice, but not that nice.” Granny’s eyes went even more bulgy than usual. “But your grandfather, Ernie, now there was a horse of a different color. The man had a heart of gold and the Midas touch. He got a lotta
Troo.
Where is she? I didn’t see her follow Mother back into the house. Maybe she’s in our bedroom.
“You in here?” I whisper-call. Except for Daddy looking down on me from the wall and baby doll Annie’s legs sticking out from under her pillow, it’s empty.
I take a couple of steps backward into Mother’s bedroom. My sister likes to come in here, but usually when our mother isn’t home. Troo’ll sit at the dressing table and dab perfume behind her ears and smooth on lipstick, smacking her poofy lips in the mirror when she’s got it just right. She also loves to snoop. She’s always looking through my “How I Spent My Charitable Summer” notebook and under Granny’s bed and over at Nell’s, she’ll rifle through the closets. She especially likes rooting around in Mother’s drawers. I’m not sure what she’s looking for.
Back in the hall, I call out, not too loud, “Stop messin’ around.” I’m getting frantic, but if Mother hears me, she’ll shout that upper-class people do not raise their voices indoors.
Going through the dining room on my way to the front door, I’m thinking Troo might be out on the porch steps shouting rude stuff at the neighbors when they go by after the game, which is something she really likes to do, but out of the corner of my eye I see her. The floor in here doesn’t have the luxurious gold shag carpeting like the rest of the house does. When you press your cheek down on the wood it’s almost as cool as the linoleum in the kitchen, but Troo’s not doing that tonight. She’s on her back. Dead Junie Piaskowski in a golden frame is hanging on the dining room wall right above her. A little light that Dave never turns off shines down on the picture. Junie was his niece who I only knew a little before Bobby Brophy got his hands on her. She’s wearing her Holy Communion dress in the picture. The rosary draped over her praying hands was supposed to keep her safe.
Junie’s mother and father are living out of the neighborhood now in Appleton. Even though they aren’t trying to sell their house anymore the way they were right after Junie got murdered, I don’t think they’re ever coming back. Dave told me they will, but it’s been almost two years. It just about kills me when I see the look in his eye when he goes over to their place to mow the lawn in the summer and shovel the walk in the winter. I feel even worse awful when his eyes go to the little birdhouse that he and Junie made together that’s still hanging from the rain gutter. She loved birds, especially bluebirds. She called them happiness with wings. That’s another one of the things I really like about Dave. He doesn’t let bygones be bygones, same as me.
“So?” my sister says. Even though she’s got her eyes closed, she can hear my footsteps on the loose board in front of the hutch where Mother keeps her fancy dishes displayed. “Whatta ya think of
I study her. “Who’re you supposed to be?”
“Your dead cousin.”
“Troo! For godsakes.”
I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to rattle my cage, but I will not fall for that.
I ask, “How about playin’ Battleship?” She loves that game. She always beats me at it. Because of our mental telepathy, my mind tells her mind where I’ve hidden all my ships, but I don’t understand why it’s never vicey versa. “I’ll go get the paper and pencils. Meet you in the livin’ room.”
I offer my hand to her, but she says, “Scram. I’m busy workin’ on my revenge plan.”
Just like I knew she would be after we walked past Molinaris’ house. This is one of those times in life when it doesn’t feel so great to be right.
“Please, please, don’t do that… you gotta leave him to…” I almost slip and say,
“Nice try,” she says. “And for your information, I don’t
I look at the picture of Junie. From up in heaven, she knows all about somebody going after somebody.
“Then why?” I ask.
“I need a dummy for my ventriloquist show.”
Is she telling me that after she catches Greasy Al she’s going to ask him to sit on her lap? No, that can’t be right.
“Whatta ya mean?” I ask.
“Mary Lane told me the cops give big rewards for catchin’ wanted people. If I could capture Molinari, I… I could use that money to buy a professional dummy like the one Edgar Bergen’s got.”
“
Troo nods with brimming eyes that I’m never supposed to notice. “They got one for sale called Jerry Mahoney up at the toy store. It’s got a cute suit and a bow tie and… it’s
“What something new?”
I haven’t heard anything about that. Every year since we’ve been here it’s been just the announcing of the winner and then they go up on the stage to get the tiara placed on their head and we get to stay up late and stuff ourselves with the food the mothers bring and dance to the Do Wops ’til our heels blister.
Troo says, “I told the counselors they should put a talent part in this summer like we had up at camp and Debbie thought that was a fantastic idea. So unless ya can do ventriloquism or sing as good as me or…”
She knows that I can’t throw my voice, and songs sound good in my brain, but by the time they come out of my mouth they go flat. I tried tap lessons at Marsha’s Dance and Baton Studio on North Avenue. I loved the shoes with cleats, but I couldn’t get the hang of the shuffle-ball-change. I wasn’t a terrible twirler, but not good enough to stand out from the pack. If I’m going to have a chance to win the tiara this year, I need to make a talent splash. Maybe I could do some magic tricks. Find a book at the library that would teach me how to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Or practice some new imitations before the Queen of the Playground party.
“And… and I’m gonna win the Fourth of July contest, too,” Troo says. “Just you wait and see.”
I’m having a hard time stopping myself from kneeling down to wipe her tears off the same way I do when she’s sleeping. When she wakes up in the morning, she’d feel the dried saltiness on her cheeks if I didn’t use my pillowcase to blot her cheeks. It’s so important to her to win. To be the best. No ties. She wasn’t always like this. Not this bad anyway. She’d fall down and pretend she’d sprained her ankle during a race that I was gonna win by a mile or get hiccups if we were having a hold-your-breath competition. Little things, ya know. They got much bigger after Daddy died. Everything became a contest.
