Al Capone Does My Homework (11 page)

“Nat!” I call, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.

Donny swings, Darby dodges the blow, and it lands solidly in my father’s gut.

But Darby still has hold of Donny’s neck. His fingers squeeze. Donny chokes. “How
dare you cheat me! I should have known,” Darby says.

“Let go, you’re gonna kill him!” my father shouts.

Darby smacks Donny’s ear with his other hand, squeezing his neck, trembling power
in his hands. “That’ll teach you.”

Donny aims a left hook for Darby’s face.

Mr. Mattaman dives for Darby. He twists him off Donny. Darby screeches in fury, then
kicks Donny in the privates so hard, Donny doubles over in pain.

“Back off!” my father shouts, using Darby’s bullhorn.

Riv Mattaman is dragging Trixle off the still doubled-over Donny.

My father takes the bullhorn from his mouth. “You all right, son?” he asks Donny.

Slowly Donny stands upright, his cheek bruised and bloody, his eye already starting
to swell, raw red welts along his neck where Darby nearly strangled him.

“Darby?” my father asks.

Darby’s lip is bloody. He holds his jaw like it hurts, but his eyes are slits of fury,
trained on Donny Caconi.

“Now here’s how we’re going to play this,” my father announces. “Everybody is going
to leave this room with the exact money they carried into it. You”—my father points
at Donny—“will never play cards on this island again. Do you understand me?”

“Hey,” Donny cries, “it wasn’t me.”

Darby nearly busts out of Mr. Mattaman’s hold.

My father’s voice is steady. “It was you, son. A queen fell out of your undershirt.
I saw it myself, when Darby was on top of you.”

Darby snorts, blood spurting out of his nose.

“Darby, go see Doc Ollie. Donny, you’re going to have to wait your turn on that. And
you can expect the warden to be getting a full report. Your mama is only here because
of the warden’s kindness . . . don’t you know that, son?

Donny’s nostrils flare.

“Where’s she going to go if he decides he needs that apartment for a guard’s family?
You keep on with this business, you can bet that’s exactly what he’ll do. You wanna
be responsible for that?”

Donny doesn’t answer. His face is blank, like he’s still holding cards in his hand.
He untangles his coat from the chair turned over on the floor and opens the door.
The moon shines on the entryway for one brief second and then he’s gone.

My father thumps the table to get Darby’s attention. “Don’t you go after him, Darby.
You hear me?”

But Darby isn’t going anywhere. He’s looking at Nat, who is crouched in the corner
collecting cards from the floor. Darby’s feet are parked in front of her, but her
eyes are on the cards in her hand.

I hold my breath, willing her to look up. If only she could meet Trixle’s gaze right
now. If only she could make that connection.
Please, Nat. You saved him a bundle of money. He wants to like you. Can’t you pretend
to be normal just this once?
But Nat does not look up . . . and the moment passes.

Darby turns to my father. “How’d she know?” he asks.

“You pay attention, don’t you, sweet pea?” my father says.

Nat is sorting the cards in her hand, oblivious to us.

“Sure don’t look that way,” Trixle addresses my father again. “But she must.”

Nat starts mumbling. “You pay attention, don’t you, sweet pea.”

“What’d she say?” Darby asks.

“She said she pays attention,” I tell him.

He nods, but still can’t bring himself to give her more than a fleeting glance. He
continues to direct all of his comments to my dad as if Natalie isn’t here at all.

Saturday, February 1, 1936

The next morning, I head for the Mattamans’.

“Moose,” Mrs. Mattaman says my name like I’ve been gone for a year. “Where is that
sister of yours? She saved us an entire month’s pay. I’m gonna get busy here and whip
up the best lemon cake she’s ever had. That’s still her favorite, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Mattaman. She saved Darby money too, but he didn’t say boo to
her,” I tell Mrs. Mattaman.

“Can’t say that’s a surprise.”

“He’s always either ignored Natalie or had it in for her. If she would just look him
in the eyes, it would make all the difference. I don’t understand why she can’t fake
it.”

“One of the things I like about Natalie is she doesn’t fake anything, Moose. But I
see what you’re saying.” Mrs. Mattaman pulls out a clean apron, slips it over her
head, and ties the sash. “What have you tried?”

“Giving her buttons. Taking them away. Nagging her about not doing funny business.
Taping math problems to my forehead. You name it, we’ve tried it.”

She looks at me for a long moment, tapping her pencil against her wooden recipe box.
“I’ll tell you what, then . . . we got to try something new.”

“We’ve tried it all.”

“We got to figure out what makes her tick, that’s all. Moose, go get Annie, she’s
got good ideas. Jimmy, we need that clever mind of yours. Theresa, eat your breakfast.
You think better on a full stomach. We’re going to figure this out.” She shakes her
pencil at me. “That’s all there is to it.”

When I come back with Annie, Mrs. Mattaman scootches over, making room for me on the
sofa.

“You want to fill us in on the problem, Moose?” Mrs. Mattaman asks me. “We’ll take
it from there.”

I look around at everyone squeezed together on the Mattamans’ worn brown sofa. Theresa,
still in her pajamas, Jimmy, his hair wet from the shower, Annie in her new baseball
clothes, Baby Rocky with a plastic bowl on his head.

Mrs. Mattaman finds Rocky’s favorite toy hammer and gets him started pounding. “Ang!
Ang! Ang!” he babbles.

“Nat has to look us in the eye when she speaks to us. We’ve tried everything, but
nothing has worked,” I say as we hear a knock on the door.

Janet presses her nose against the screen. “Hey! What are you doing in there?”

“Come on in and join us, Janet.” Mrs. Mattaman nods her head as if to reassure me
this will be all right.

“What have you tried?” Annie asks.

I explain about the numbers on my forehead and the Esther P. Marinoff button reward
system and Carrie Kelly’s focus on funny business.

“Why does she have to learn this? Why can’t she do things her own way?” Jimmy asks.

“Because strangers ignore her,” I say. “They treat her like she isn’t there, like
she’s not worth anything, because she doesn’t look at them.”

“Why does everybody have to measure up in the same way?” Jimmy’s fingers thread a
series of rubber bands. “She’s got other strengths.”

“That she does. But there are certain things you have to learn to do, like saying
please
and
thank you,
” Mrs. Mattaman tells him. “Part of a mom’s job is to help her kids learn the rules
so they can be successful out there.”

“Did any of the things you’ve tried work better than the others?” Annie wants to know.

“The numbers didn’t work,” I say. “She hardly glanced up to read them. The buttons
have worked really well for other things, but not for this.”

“Let’s start off by asking Natalie why she doesn’t want to do this,” Mrs. Mattaman
suggests.

“She won’t say,” I tell her.

“Maybe she won’t, but we gotta try. It’s her that has to change. All we can do is
help. Go on and get her, Moose.”

• • •

Back in #2E, Nat is awake but still in her pajamas and my dad is trying to get her
up to the Chudleys’ for breakfast. He’s relieved when I take her off his hands. He
doesn’t even comment when I march her over to the Mattamans’ with her pajamas on.
My mom would be furious, but my dad and I think getting Natalie dressed is not worth
the trouble. My dad won’t brush her hair either. That’s a guaranteed fight.

“Natalie,” Mrs. Mattaman says, “I heard you were the one who figured out the cheat . . .”
Her voice trails off. She eyes Theresa. I don’t think she wants her to know that a
grown-up was caught cheating. “Uh, you were the one that helped out last night. I
was fixing to make you a lemon cake to thank you.”

“Lemon cake,” Nat whispers.

Now she’s talking Nat’s language.

“I’m gonna whip it up soon as we finish here. But your brother was telling me you
don’t like to look at people when you talk to them. That’s important, Natalie,” Mrs.
Mattaman says, “is there some way you can—”

“No,” Nat belts out loud and clear.

Mrs. Mattaman smiles. “No, huh?”

“No,” Natalie confirms, tasting her lip with her tongue.

“The pixies can help,” Janet pipes up. “When I can’t do something, they always help
me.”

“No pixies,” Natalie says. She’s begun rocking now, sitting on one hand, then the
other, trembling with agitation. “Lemon cake.”

“Maybe there’s something else we could do with numbers?” Jimmy suggests.

“No,” Nat shouts. “No Natalie look a person in the eye!”

“Okay, okay.” Mrs. Mattaman’s palms are up. “We hear you. We want to know why is all.”

Nat’s shoulders are hunched forward, making her look like a teenaged old lady.

“Natalie, you can tell me,” Theresa says. Nat shakes her off, shakes everyone off,
like a wet dog shuddering the drops away.

“It’s a little too much,” Mrs. Mattaman whispers.

“Too much!” Natalie shouts, digging her chest with her chin. “Too much!”

“Nat,” I say. “Stop it.”

Janet Trixle’s eyes are the size of cupcakes. This is just what we need. Janet Trixle
reporting this back to her parents.

I pull an afghan from the couch and wrap it around Nat. Having something tight around
her usually helps for some reason, but not today. Today she tears the blanket off,
angry tears running down her face.

“Lemon cake! Lemon cake!” she demands.

“Calm yourself down, young lady,” Mrs. Mattaman tells her. “I’m not making lemon cake
for you like this. No misseee.”

But Nat is beyond reason. The circuits have popped inside her brain and she can’t
think anymore.

I hold her in a bear hug, but she thrashes against me, grabbing hold of the doorway
as I half carry her out.

“Moose, no!” She bites my arm.

“Ouch!” My hand flies up to slap her. I only barely keep myself from doing it.

I find the blanket again and wrap it around her. This time she accepts the support
and allows me to carry her out of there. But I’m so angry, I’m shaking as I lug her
back to #2E. I’m not taking her to the Chudleys’. She’s too heavy. It’s too far.

“I hate you sometimes, Natalie,” I practically spit at her, dumping her on the bed
in her room. I hold my arm where her teeth punctured the skin.

All I do for her and this is how she treats me?

I’m sick of trying so hard. Why is it always me who tries? Me who worries? Me who
does everything?

“It must be fun to be you. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I
say.

Natalie doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. She’s turned into a human stone.

• • •

When my mother gets to #2E, there’s no hiding what happened. Nat’s pajamas are still
on. Her hair is matted and stuck with spit and tears to the side of her face. Her
eyes are open. She’s perfectly still, like one tiny motion will capsize her world.

My mother takes one look at her and the bottom drops out of her face. “What happened?”

I tell her about how Nat figured out the cheat Donny was pulling with the cards and
how Trixle still wouldn’t pay attention to her. Then I explain about the meeting at
Mrs. Mattaman’s.

“Has she even had breakfast?” my mom asks.

“No,” I admit.

“You know better than this, Moose.”

“She bit me,” I say.

My mother groans like she’s in pain. “Let me see.”

She looks at the bite and then up at me. “Go borrow some Mercurochrome from Anna Maria
and put it on that.”

I don’t move. “We can’t parade her problems in front of everyone. We can’t have her
biting you. With your dad in such a visible position, we have to keep her out of the
spotlight now more than ever.”

I grind my teeth. “I was just trying to help.” I never get credit for anything. It
doesn’t matter to my mom how embarrassing this was. It doesn’t matter that Nat hurt
me.

“I know, Moose, but it made everyone more aware of her limitations.”

“She isn’t invisible. People see her anyway,” I snap at her.

“They don’t notice until you point it out.”

“Sure they do, Mom, they’re not blind.”

“We can handle this ourselves.”

“Since when? We’re not handling it. It isn’t working. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Look at her,” my mom says. Natalie is still wrapped in the blanket, still completely
shut down. “Is this an improvement?”

“No. Okay . . . this didn’t help. And, don’t worry, I won’t try anything ever again.”
I stalk to my room, but the door isn’t even there. They took it off to repair it.
I hunker down in the blankets on the floor where I sleep now. I’m going to forget
about the fire. I’m going to forget about everything. I’ll just wait around for the
task force report like everybody else.

A few minutes later my mom comes in. “I didn’t mean that, Moose. I’m sorry. It’s just
we can’t have her throwing tantrums like this. We can’t have her biting people. If
she behaves that way, she won’t be welcome anywhere.”

“Yeah, but if we don’t try things, how’s she ever going to get better?”

Her shoulders sag. She sits down suddenly on a stack of lumber, like her legs have
given out on her. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?” she whispers.

“Let’s make it a game.” I throw this out weakly. It feels like I have a truck parked
on my chest. I can hardly breathe. “She likes games.”

“You tried that with the numbers on your forehead,” she says, her voice gentle for
once.

“A different game, then,” I offer.

My mom stares down at her hands. “Fine. But only at home. Not out there.”

“She’s going to live out there, Mom. You can’t keep her in here forever,” I whisper.

“Stop.” My mother puts her hands over her ears.

I wait until she lets them down again. “She can do this,” I say. “She just has to
want to. It can’t be us wanting for her.”

“Don’t you see how precarious this is? The Trixles still think she started that fire.
The Esther P. Marinoff has her on probation. If she goes back to pitching fits in
public, we’ll be off this island and out of that school. We’ll be nowhere.”

“But Dad’s a warden now.”

“That’s not insurance . . . if anything, it makes us more vulnerable. Do you know
how badly Darby wants that job?”

“She can do this, Mom.”

“It puts too much pressure on her. She bit you!”

“If she can’t figure this out, then what, Mom?”

She closes her eyes. I watch the tiny veins in her eyelids pulsing. She doesn’t answer
me. But she doesn’t say no again.