feel terrible about causing somebody else to accidentally die, the same way she feels terrible about causing Daddy’s crash. That’s why I tell her, “No big deal. Just wonderin’.”
After coming out of the Hamlins’ and crossing the alley over to the Latours’, Troo jiggles open the unhinged gate. From inside the house, we can hear Mrs. Latour screaming at the kids about brushing their teeth and getting into their pj’s. That sounds so good to me and Troo knows that, so she grabs me by the wrist and drags me down to where Mary Lane and Artie are already waiting for us in the bomb shelter.
Troo and me had never seen one of these things until we moved onto Vliet Street. (Daddy told us we didn’t need one out on the farm because “Joe McCarthy’s full of hooey. The only Reds we have to worry about, girls, are the ones from Cincinnati.”)
Tonight’s not the first time I’ve been down here. Our first day in the city, Troo and me met Artie over at the playground. He brought us over to his yard, showed us the shelter and told us how his dad is sure that we’re gonna get bombed by the Russians, it’s just a matter of time. Artie bragged about how his family can live down here for two weeks or more. In my opinion, that was, and still is, a harebrained idea. You stuff all the Latours into a small space like this they are going to kill each other before any radiation could.
I get the heebie-jeebies when I’m closed up, but the underground hole isn’t too bad if you keep the door open. But once it’s shut, like it is now, it feels like I think it would if you were buried alive with lots of canned goods and candles.
The reason Troo insisted we meet in the bomb shelter is not only because she adores it, but because she’s being extra, extra careful about Father Mickey or some blabbermouth finding out what we’re up to. That might sound kinda silly, but she’s right, ya know. These blocks have ears and eyes. And motoring mouths. My sister wants to lay out her revenge plan in absolute, walls-of-steel secrecy.
“This meeting is called to order,” Troo announces, and makes us say the Girl Scout Promise for some reason. “On my honor, I will try to serve God and my country, to help others at all times…”
For the next half hour, she spells out exactly what is expected of us, what parts we’ll be playing in her revenge plan against Father Mickey tomorrow night. Because I can’t tell her without letting her know what part
When my sister’s done explaining, she folds her arms across her chest and says, “Any questions?”
She taps her foot on the concrete floor. “Sally?” She’s staring at my hands, where there is a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.
I answer, “No, no questions,” and so does Artie.
But Mary Lane says, “Yeah, I got a couple.” She fans her hand in front of her nose. “What the hell did you eat for supper tonight, Fartie? The Wisconsin Gas Company?”
Chapter Twenty-eight
I don’t know if it’s a sin to skip the fish fry, but everybody sure acts like it is. In the winter or when it rains, people drive their cars if they’ve got one. But on a clear summer night like this one, that’s considered bragging. For blocks ahead and behind Troo and me, we can see the faithful heading up Lloyd Street on their way to Mother of Good Hope Church and School for our every-Friday-night supper.
Before we left the house, I went out to the garden to spend some time with Dave, who I have hardly gotten to be alone with lately. That’s why I’ve been feeling a little shy around him. I watched him water the garden, thought how ruggedly handsome he is, a real Viking, then told him, “By the way. When we were playin’ kick the can last night, I noticed the light over Mrs. Goldman’s stove was on again even though I turned it off weeks ago.”
He said, “It’s probably a short. I can’t tonight, but as soon as I get a chance, I’ll take my toolbox over there and make it right.”
I waited for a little bit and then asked him what I really wanted to know. “Could you please, please, please tell me how the questionin’ of Ethel went?”
When he switched off the hose, his eyes looked like he wanted to tell me, but his mouth said, “I know you’re worried, but it’s an ongoing investigation, Sally. I wish I could, but I can’t discuss it.” He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. “Your mother and I are going to pick up your grandmother and uncle and drop them off at the church, and then we’ll swing back to get Nell and the baby at the apartment.” He gave me a couple of dollars. “We’ll see you and Troo up there.”
So, no thanks to Dave, all I know right now for sure about what’s going on with my dear Ethel is that she didn’t come back to Mrs. Galecki’s after they were through questioning her at the station yesterday. And I only know that because I sat and watched the house all afternoon. Mr. Gary came back from the hospital looking glum.
Ethel’s not in jail; Dave would’ve told me that. She musta gone back to the Core to be with Ray Buck, or Reverend Joe Willow, who is also good at making her feel better. She might also be at the Greyhound Bus station. Since she is the smartest woman I know, she has got to have put two and two together by now and figured out that she’s going to get blamed for Mrs. Galecki’s coma. She is the perfect patsy. As much as I’m going to miss her, I wouldn’t blame Ethel for buying a bus ticket for far, far away, maybe all the way back home to Mississippi to go live in a swamp, which sounds like a dangerous place, but has to be a whole lot safer than staying around here. (Alligators with their huge choppers and sharp claws are attempted murderers, too, but at least a person knows to steer clear of them. Not like you-know-who with his black Irish smile and manicured fingernails.)
On the corner of 54th Street, Troo points and says, “There they are. Right on schedule,” and takes off toward Mary Lane and Artie Latour, who are standing out in front of the Sheinners’ waiting for us just like Troo told them to last night.
When I catch up to them, even as nervous as I am, Artie makes me smile. He’s back to his old self, yo-yoing like it’s going out of style. He’s already started practicing for when his best friend gets back. If everything goes the way it’s supposed to tonight, Artie is going to write to Charlie Fitch tomorrow morning and tell him that he can come home to be adopted by the Honeywells.
Troo can tell Artie’s raring to go by how high he’s bouncing on his toes, but she asks Mary Lane, “Ready, Freddy?”
Our other best friend tosses her banana peel down and says, “Ready, Betty.”
Of course she is. She already went over to the rectory to set up what she needs. She found a better concrete block, one that she won’t fall off of this time, and carried it to Father Mickey’s office window. She also hid her Brownie camera in the bushes. Artie doesn’t have anything to do tonight except be a lookout and stick close to Mary Lane to remind her to stay on point. If she starts chowing down, she might forget all about the plan. (Fish fry Friday is her favorite night of the week and she can get carried away.) Artie’s much bigger part will kick in later after all is said and done.
When we round the corner of 58th Street and the church comes into sight, Mary Lane throws down a challenge. “Last one there’s gotta sit next to B.O. Montanazza at church this Sunday.”
Of course, I get there first, but it’s my sister who holds the side door of the school open for us. She says, “Age before beauty,” and gives me a goose when we head down the steps to the cafeteria, which is even louder than usual with gossip and complaints about the weather and more gossip. I hear someone say, “The radio reported there might be rain on the way. Somebody else says, “Did you hear about Jilly Wilton? She got caught in the boathouse with Joe Riordan without her blouse,” and the whole place reeks of just-waxed floors and steam and so many perfumes and sweat.
When it’s our turn to pry apart the sticky trays, the same lunch ladies as always slap limp fish sticks on our plates and a scoop of coleslaw that runs into the rye bread and for dessert there is always fruit cocktail. We’d usually try to find a place at the crowded cafeteria tables, but the cashier told us to go out to the playground. “The janitors set up out there tonight. The heat, ya know,” she says, handing back my change.
When the four of us come out of the cafeteria doors, I can see everybody spread across the playground.
“Thally O’Malley!” Like always, Wendy spots me when we get close to the Latours’ long, long table. After Artie takes a seat on the end next to his sister, she grins up at me with coleslaw lips and gives me one of her super- duper hugs around my waist. Even though I’m standing right next to her, she yells, “Hi. Hi. Hi. Thit. Now,” and tries
