“Who’s out there?” he says, slurry. “I… iden… identi… who’s there?”
I press my hand even harder over Wendy’s mouth so she can’t jump up and holler, “Thee the U Eth A in your Thevrolet.”
“Dottie?” Mr. Kenfield calls out again, not mad-sounding this time. More like the way you would call out if you were lost in the woods and given up all hope of ever being rescued, but then you spotted a plane flying overhead. “That you, sweetheart?” he says, coming down the steps on legs that look delicate.
Since we spent so many nights together in the olden days, I’m not hard on him like the other kids are. I don’t fill a grocery bag up with Lizzie’s poop and set it on fire on his steps. I don’t call him names like Loopy Lou or In the Can Kenfield behind his back either. I am just about to call out, It’s not Dottie, sir. It’s your old friend Sally O’Malley. Sorry for bothering you, but his wife doesn’t give me the chance.
She shouts from inside the house, “Chuck? What’re you doin’ out there? The show’s back on.”
He looks around his yard one more time, squinting especially hard into the hedge shadows where we’re hiding. “Goddamn kids,” he says, throwing down the beer can and going back into the house hunched over. He forgot to switch off the porch light. Two moths are circling it.
I take my hand off Wendy’s mouth and wipe it on my shorts. She licked me. She always does that. She thinks I taste good.
Artie whispers, “Geeze, that was close.”
To the bone. I especially understand how Mr. Kenfield is feeling and Troo does, too. It’s so hard to lose someone you love. Our hearts growl for Daddy the same way our tummies do when we’re hungry. It must be even worse for Mr. Kenfield. I know my daddy’s gone forever in the deep blue of the western sky. I’ll never hear the sound of his voice again or feel his late-day whiskers on my cheek or spend time after supper curled up on his lap listening to his happy shouts when Hank Aaron hits a homer on the radio. But Mr. Kenfield’s daughter is not dead. She’s out there somewhere. I bet if my old neighbor had it to do all over again, he wouldn’t have sent Dottie away to the unwed mothers’ home the way the church told him to do. He doesn’t even go to Mass anymore.
“We gotta get back,” I tell Artie, when I hear screams coming from up the block. “Sounds like Troo’s tagged someone.”
I spring up to peek at the Goldmans’ house to check to make sure everything’s okay, but he yanks me back down before I can see a thing.
“What’re you doin’?” I say, jerking my arm away.
“I… I’m sorry. It’s just that… I need to tell you something in the worst way,” Artie says. “I already tried once, but you didn’t answer me.”
He did not. I haven’t hardly seen him at the playground or anywhere else. He’s been acting too pooped to participate ever since Charlie Fitch disappeared. “What do ya mean you tried to tell me something in the worst way? When?”
“On Mimi’s birthday. We had beans and wienies for supper and… and my brothers kicked me outta our room because… ya know.”
I do. Beans are the musical fruit. The more you eat, the more you toot. Our cabin at camp smelled worse than the outhouse.
“Didn’t you hear me scratchin’ on your screen?” Artie asks.
It takes me a second to put together what he’s telling me, but then that night comes whipping back. “That was you?!” I give him a two-handed shove. “Ya scared the bejesus outta me!” The clawing on the screen. And that awful smell floating into our bedroom window. It wasn’t pepperoni-reeking Greasy Al coming after Troo the way I thought it was. It was Fartie Latour leaving his calling card! “What’s wrong with talkin’ to me durin’ the day like normal?”
“I… I needed to talk to you in private,” he says. “I thought that’d be a good time to tell you what I gotta tell you without Troo hearin’. I know ya don’t sleep so good.”
Everybody around here knows that about me. After one of Troo and my overnights at the Fazios’, Fast Susie spread around that I scream in my sleep.
I peek around Artie at Wendy. Nothing we’re saying seems to be bothering her in the least. She’s squatting next to her brother, happily sucking on a cherry Life Saver and waiting for the skeeter she swatted to fly away again. I don’t think she really gets death. Sometimes I think being a Mongoloid is not such a bad deal.
“Why can’t you tell me whatever it is in front of my sister?” I ask, less mad and more curious.
Troo and Artie were an item once, but that ended when she wrestled the coonskin cap away from him last Fourth of July. Maybe he’s decided to forgive her and wants my opinion on how to get her to like him again in the same lovey-dovey way.
Artie says, “Because Troo likes Father Mickey so much and… I know she’s been goin’ up to church a lot to see him and…”
Just like I thought. He wants to be Troo’s boyfriend again and he’s jealous of all the time she’s been spending with Father Mickey. Artie’s in the clutches of the green-eyed monster.
“You got it all wrong,” I say. “Troo only likes Father because he’s givin’ her extra religious instruction. The nuns won’t let her back in school if she doesn’t.” But then I remember how she has that little crush on him. I don’t mention that. Artie’s having a hard enough time as it is. “We can talk about this some more later, okay?” More squealing comes from up the block. “We gotta go now. They can’t start another game without us.”
Artie sets his sweaty hand on my arm, gently this time. “Father Mickey… he’s the reason Charlie ran away.”
“I already know that,” I say. “Fast Susie told us that Father caught Charlie stealin’ from the poor box. Now let’s get outta here before Mr. Kenfield comes out again.”
“It’s not what it sounds like! Charlie… he had to take that money… Father Mickey is up to no good and…” Artie’s Adam’s apple takes the long trip down his throat and shoots back up again. “And it wasn’t only Charlie… the other altar boys are bein’ forced to… Father is making them do something bad.”
What a load of malarkey. I may not like Father Mickey much, but everybody knows how he is especially kind to his altar boys. He took them all to Wisconsin Dells to feed the deer and ride the Ducks and they stayed overnight at a motel and went to breakfast at Paul Bunyan’s restaurant. He does other extra good things for those boys, too. Has them over to the rectory for special sleepovers and he coaches the boys’ basketball team after school.
“You gotta believe me,” Artie says, almost in tears. “Father’s committin’ some bad sins and he’s gonna commit more unless we do something to-”
“Cut it out!” I say, pressing my hands against my ears. Artie needs to keep his opinions about Father Mickey to himself the same way I have, except for accidentally telling Ethel how I feel. What he just told me is much more serious than just not liking Father. He’s being a heretic. “You’re gettin’ mushy feelings for Troo again and you’re jealous about how much time her and Father are spendin’ together and… and on top of all that, your best friend is probably d-” I cut myself off before I can tell him that Charlie’s never coming back. I’m sure that orphan’s dead. “Doc Keller told me that your brain can play tricks on you when you lose people you love. I lost my daddy and when Mother was in the hospital I thought she was gonna die… so I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but your imagination is runnin’ away with you the same way mine does.” Artie has no idea what kinda problems he’s in for once this starts happening. “Tell ya what. I’ll bring you some cod liver oil, okay? Maybe we can nip this in the bud.”
“Thanks for nothin’, O’Malley.” Artie stumbles up to his feet. “If anybody was gonna believe me around here, I figured it’d be you,” he says, charging off into the darkness.