Good Graces

Father Mickey probably had joy in his heart and dollar signs in his eyes when he poured that poor old lady a tall glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade and told her, “Time for your pills. Open wide, dearie,” and gave her too many of one or not enough of another or maybe some other awful poison that he brought along with him. That’s why she’s in that coma. It’s not her heart and it’s not her tummy and it’s not my imagination. Mrs. Galecki has been tottering on the edge of death for quite some time. All it’d take is one good push from the executioner of her will to knock her off.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Mother’s got on a yellow dress and her hair is pulled back in a bow that matches when she sets the laundry basket down on the backyard grass. With her pinched-in mouth, she looks like a buttercup about to bloom. Even though Dave bought her a new dryer to replace her old wringer, she still hangs sheets on the line in the summer, thank goodness. When I put my head down on them in the dark, the smell of sun and sweet-smelling clover reminds me that the night won’t last long; tomorrow is another day.

Troo and me are down on our hands and knees weeding the vegetable garden, which has always been one of our chores even out on the farm.

Mother slips the last clothespin into place, glances over at Mrs. Galecki’s house and says, “O’Malley sisters, I need to talk to you.”

Troo gets up to her feet and grumbles to me, “She’s got on her dog butt look. She’s probably gonna start complainin’ about the bench again.”

Mother wasn’t happy about Troo lugging Daddy’s and my bench over here from the zoo. It’s not new enough for her taste. Troo told me she almost didn’t let her hide it in the garage. That’s why our mother sits down on the white glider with the hearts cut out on the back. When Troo and me go to either side of her, I can tell she’s been to Doc Keller’s office for her checkup because not even perfume from gay Paree can cover up the stink of tongue depressors.

Mother doesn’t look at either one of her girls head-on. She hardly ever does. She is twirling her diamond engagement ring round and round on her finger. “I want you to hear this from me before you hear it from somebody else.” She pauses like she doesn’t know where to go next and that’s not like her. She is usually very sure of herself, very full-steam-ahead. “They took Ethel away early this morning to question her about Mrs. Galecki’s illness.”

I say, “No!”

The only reason I haven’t fainted right off the glider is because I was already afraid something like this might happen. I imagined the subject around every table this morning in the neighborhood went something like- I heard that Negro woman who was supposed to be taking care of Bertha Galecki mixed up the medicines and that just goes to show you, right?

Troo, who is playing with her cat’s cradle, says, “Who took her away?”

Mother yanks the bakery string outta her hand.

“Dave?” my sister asks with a sliver of a grin.

“No. It was that horse’s ass, Joe Riordan,” Mother says. “Couldn’t he have waited until after the wedding?”

She doesn’t mean she would’ve liked it more if Detective Riordan waited to take Ethel over to the station house to ask her questions about how Mrs. Galecki got into a coma until after the wedding. What’s bothering Mother is that Detective Riordan, who was going to be Dave’s best man, dumped Aunt Betty, who was supposed to be Mother’s best lady, and that screwed up her marriage plans beyond belief.

I ask, “But how could they… what proof… Ethel-” I get an even worse thought. “Did Mrs. Galecki… did she-?”

“Kick the bucket?” Troo says.

“Watch your mouth.” Mother brings up her left hand and gives what she calls a love tap to Troo’s cheek. “And another thing… I understand you’ve been skipping your meetings with Father Mickey.” She reaches into her big square dress pocket, takes out a cigarette and says even more disgusted, “He’s been taking time to teach you enough decency that you can go back to school in September and you can’t be bothered to show up.” She picks a piece of tobacco off her tongue. “I wouldn’t give you a second chance.” No, she wouldn’t. “But Mickey-I mean, Father-despite the fact that he’s exhausted from sitting by Mrs. Galecki’s hospital bedside, he called to tell me that he’d be willing to see you tomorrow night after the fish fry to continue your studies.”

I am desperate to tell her that Father is probably not sitting up at St. Joe’s. That he’s circling Mrs. Galecki’s hospital bed like a buzzard, so the second she’s dead he can fly over to see Mr. Cooper the lawyer to get his hands on her inheritance to save his own life. I really should say that out loud, but Mother… well. What’s the use?

My sister perks up and says, “Father wants to see me up at the rectory tomorrow night? That’d be great!”

Mother looks like she’s going to give Troo another love pat because she thinks my sister is being a wisenheimer, but I know she isn’t. My sister looks excited, like she does when she drops in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Getting up to the rectory must be part of the revenge plan that she’s gonna finally reveal to us tonight over at the Latours’.

“If I hear back from Father Mickey that you gave him one bit of grief, mark my words, Margaret O’Malley, you won’t be able to sit down until Christmas,” Mother says, getting up and bustling back into the house like she just remembered something really important.

Troo laughs and says, “Goddamn Helen doesn’t know her own strength.” She doesn’t rub her cheek where Mother smacked her to make it feel better, she never would. “You look a little peaked.” That’s something my good friend says to me if she thinks I look under the weather. “You okay?”

“No.” Not even a little. I’m so worried. About Ethel, who is over at the precinct house getting grilled for something she didn’t do, and Mrs. Galecki, who is holding on to life by her fingernails, but most of all I’m worried about Troo, who I’m supposed to be keeping safe. “You can’t go over to the rectory tomorrow night,” I tell her. “I’m beggin’ you. That could be so dangerous.”

Both of us know that Father Mickey is not having her over to give her some religious instruction the way he told Mother. I bet he’s been looking and looking for Mr. Galecki’s emerald necklace, wondering what the heck happened to it. He must’ve finally figured out that Troo had to be the one who took it from behind those books in his office.

“Are you off your rocker?” Troo tells me. “A course I’m goin’ up there tomorrow night.” She gives me her most blinding smile. “This is the moment I’ve been waitin’ for. It’s a sign from God.” When I don’t jump up and clap my hands, she says, “You’ll get why this works out so perfectly when I tell you the plan tonight.”

She doesn’t understand. Not really. She thinks she can beat Father Mickey at his own game, but she can’t. She’s just a little girl with too-big britches. I know I should try harder to talk her outta her revenge plan, but like Granny always says, stubborn runs worse in our family than a pair of cheap nylons, and that goes double for Troo. Once her mind is made up, nobody is going to stop her and that includes me.

(Like always, sorry, Daddy.)

By the time Troo and me recover from Mother’s Spam-and-brussels-sprouts casserole, the sky has gone dark enough for the streetlights to come on. We are on our way to the Latours’ to join up with Mary Lane and Artie so we can have the put-off powwow where aaalll will be revealed. The fastest way over to Vliet Street is shortcuts.

About halfway through the Hamlins’ yard, I ask my sister the question that won’t stop rolling over and over in my mind. “Hey, did you break your promise to Mr. Gary and tell Father Mickey about Mrs. Galecki’s will during one of your talks?” I’m pretty sure she did, but I’d like to hear her admit it.

Troo reaches over, strips the leaves off a bush and throws them up in the air like confetti. “So what if I did?” she says. “You’re the only one around here who makes a Federal case about breakin’ promises. What’s the big deal?”

I’m positive that finding out about that gigantic inheritance is what made Father Mickey come up with his plan to murder Mrs. Galecki, but I can’t let Troo know that. It doesn’t seem like she would, but my tough little nut would