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 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 she played in his plan, she thinks she’s only going after a priest who got Mother an annulment and is the head of a gang of altar boy thieves. Only I know that Father Mickey is much more than that. He’s an attempted murderer who is trying to frame Ethel for something he did.
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.