Al Capone Does My Homework (3 page)

Sunday, January 19, 1936

The balcony vibrates with boots marching up and down the stairs. Water slops our feet.
Buckets clank, hoses spray a fine mist on our heads.

Officer Trixle has his bullhorn and he’s belting out orders while standing under the
balcony light. “Get the kids outta here. Aim that away. Hot spots in the kitchen.”
Mr. Bomini is on the front of the bucket brigade, pouring water on the fire while
Mr. Mattaman operates the hose.

Where are my parents? What time is it? Shouldn’t they be home? The last ferry is at
11:30.

I can’t stop shivering or keep my teeth from chattering. Nat is hunkered down next
to me like an inanimate object. She doesn’t even seem to want her button box, which
I’m surprised to see in my hand. I hardly remember grabbing it.

Mrs. Mattaman gives me a gentle push. She has Baby Rocky, who is a year old, in her
arms, his head buried in her chest. “Go on down now,” she tells me.

We’re in the way up here, but so far I’ve been unable to get Nat to move. Sometimes
she hunkers down and there’s nothing you can do.

“Nat, come on,” I tell her gently. I can see Piper with baby Walty, Annie, Theresa,
and Jimmy all standing together at the foot of the dock guard tower, a safe distance
away from everything. I want to join them in the worst way. But Nat is so upset, she’s
stopped listening. Nothing I say seems to have any effect.

Finally, when I’ve given up trying, Nat pops up and begins toe-walking across the
balcony and down the stairs.

I try to steer her toward everyone. Her head is hanging, her attention on her feet.

“Moose!” Theresa practically jumps at me. “Are you okay?”

“Moose!” Annie gives me a hug and then seems to realize what she’s doing and stops.
“What happened?”

I shake my head. “I dunno.”

“Didn’t I tell you being a warden’s kid is harder than it looks,” Piper whispers in
my ear.

Slowly her words sink in.  Could she be right? Could this have something to do with
my dad’s promotion? My stomach feels like a popped balloon.

Jimmy is peering at me. “You hungry?” he asks.

I nod. I am always hungry.

He digs in his pocket for a couple of smashed-up cookies in waxed paper. We all huddle
together, eating cookie crumbs and watching guards fight the fire. Annie is holding
baby Walty. Piper sent Theresa up the hill to the warden’s house to get diapers and
then back up again for a bottle.

Officers work under the floodlights, manning dock hoses and shuttling water hand over
hand in bucket brigades from neighboring apartments. An officer in his bathrobe pulls
our kitchen chair out of the apartment and hoses it down. Officers in shirtsleeves
smother the blaze with rugs and blankets.

“Get out of the way. Turn the hose up. Hot spots back there,” Trixle shouts, his voice
hoarse even with the bullhorn. For once, I’m glad for that bullhorn.

“Where are your parents?” Annie whispers.

I shrug. “They went to the yacht club to have dinner with the warden. I thought they’d
be home by now.”

“My parents aren’t back either,” Piper says.

“That must have been so scary,” Annie says, “trying to get Natalie out.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk about how scary it was.

• • •

Slowly the crackling roar dies down, the wall of heat lifts, and the cool of the evening
returns. Puddles, empty buckets, and axes litter the dock. The island truck is parked
cockeyed with one door open. Several hoses are crisscrossed between 64 building and
the bay.

I don’t know how long we stand like this, but my parents still aren’t back and Annie
and her dad have gone into the city. He burned his hand. Must have been bad too, because
Doc Ollie sent him all the way to San Francisco Hospital instead of treating him here.

My feet are numb by the time the men straggle down the 64 building stairs. Mr. Mattaman’s
face is grimy and he’s missing his uniform jacket. Officer Trixle’s hair is black
with ash. He’s in his shirtsleeves, his chest puffed up and his muscled arms shiny
with sweat as he holds the bullhorn to his lips. With my father and the warden off
the island, he’s senior officer and he wants everybody to know it.

“All clear,” he bellows. “Go on now. You folks go home.”

I look up at my home. The windows are shattered, revealing a blackened hole inside.
There’s a mess of buckets on the balcony and black scorch marks on the wall.

All I can think of is my baseball glove. If it burned up, I’ll never replace that.
It was worn in just the way I like it.

Then I look at Natalie. I’m glad we have her button box, but we don’t have my toothbrush
or her favorite purple blanket. Did they burn too? I feel bad thinking about possessions
when Annie’s dad’s hand got hurt, but I can’t help it.

“You going to be okay, Moose?” Piper asks, surprising me with the softness in her
voice.

“Yeah,” I say, though my head feels like a few hundred cars have driven through it.

“I gotta get Walty to bed,” Piper tells me.

I watch as she heads up the switchback.

“Where you gonna go, Moose?” Theresa asks.

“He’s coming home with us,” Jimmy announces.

“Natalie!” Theresa claps her hands. “You can sleep in my room. Won’t that be fun?”
she asks as we trudge to 64, past a small group of adults.

“The least they could do was build us a fire escape,” Bea Trixle, Darby’s wife, complains.
Her hair is white blond, but black at the roots. She’s wearing a uniform shirt of
Darby’s with her skirt and high heels. “It’s a death trap, our 64 building. Might
as well get some barbeque sauce and call it a day. How did it start, anyway?”

“Just what I was wondering,” Donny Caconi says as he stacks the extra buckets, his
dungarees wet at the bottom and dusted with ash.

“Ask Moose.” Darby nods toward me.

“Do you know, Moose?” Bea’s voice is tight as a stretched rubber band.

I think about the flames shooting out from the kitchen. “I have no idea.”

“It was
her,
wasn’t it.” Bea points her head toward Natalie. “She was counting matches or some
fool thing.”

“No!”
I say.

Bea’s face is red and puffy, and her arms are wrapped around her seven-year-old daughter,
Janet, protecting her as if the fire is still raging.

“Could have burned the whole place down, killed every last one of us,” Darby Trixle
says. “Look at her. She can’t even look at me. That’s a guilty girl if ever I saw
one.”

We all stare at Natalie, who is picking at her chest with her chin.

“She didn’t do this. Just because she’s different, doesn’t mean she’s guilty.” I try
hard to speak gently and reasonably the way my father would.

Officer Trixle looks up at our apartment and then back around to the dark water behind
us. There’s no moonlight tonight, only the fog closing in like a lid. Mrs. Caconi
stands huddled in her giant pink bathrobe.

“I always liked you, Moose, but don’t try to protect your sister.” Bea shakes her
finger at me. Janet watches, her eyes dazed. She hasn’t left her mother’s side all
evening.

“It wasn’t Natalie,” I tell her.

“How do you know?” Darby asks.

“Because I was there.”

“But you were asleep, weren’t you?” Darby asks.

“Natalie was asleep,” my mouth says, while my head tells me what a chump I am. If
I’d stayed awake, none of this would have happened.

Bea’s chin is raised. “How do you know that?”

“Now look here, Bea,” Mrs. Mattaman jumps in. “This isn’t the time or place for this.
We’ll sort it out in the morning.”

“I got a right to know where the Flanagan girl is sleeping tonight,” Bea Trixle says,
her hands on her hips.

“I’d like to know that too,” Mrs. Caconi joins in. Some of the other folks from 64
building nod their heads.

“They’re sleeping at our apartment,” Theresa says.

“Oh, my. I think I have a migraine coming on,” Mrs. Caconi says, tightening the belt
of her bathrobe.

“C’mon Mama, you’ll feel better when you lie down.” Donny puts his arm around her
and walks with her back to the Caconis’ apartment.

Bea Trixle’s eyes find Mrs. Mattaman. “The Flanagan girl is staying with you, Anna
Maria?” she asks.

I don’t think Jimmy and Theresa consulted her; still Mrs. Mattaman doesn’t skip a
beat. “That’s the plan.”

“Who’s going to keep watch, then?” Bea has her nose right up in Mrs. Mattaman’s face.

“Keep watch?” I ask.

“So’s she don’t burn the rest of the building down,” Bea says.

Donny is back outside now, without his mom. “I’m sure there’s another explanation
for how the fire started,” he says.

Darby scowls at him. “I doubt it.”

“Could be an electrical fire,” Donny offers.

“In the electrician’s apartment?” Bea Trixle asks.

“Old rags soaked with cleaning fluid or linseed oil. Old wiring on the stove. Could
have been a lot of things,” Donny tells her.

“Cam runs a loose ship. Can’t even control his own kids. I been saying that all along,”
Darby snarls.

I glare at him, pushing away the thoughts of Nat making sandwiches by herself.

She wouldn’t have tried to make something on the stove, would she? Tea maybe? She
likes lemon tea.

I can’t believe I let myself fall asleep.

Bea stamps her foot like she’s trying to shake the ash off. “An ounce of prevention
is worth a pound of cure. If somebody’d kept an eye on her tonight, we wouldn’t have
spent half the night shuttling water buckets.”

“Ma’am,” I say as she turns and walks away, her steps clipped and dangerous.

“I’ll tell you what!” Bea shouts over her shoulder. “Somebody better watch her. Or
we all ought to sleep with our shoes on. She could set the place on fire all over
again, yes she could.”

“She doesn’t like to sleep with her shoes on. I like to. It’s fun,” Janet offers.

“One hundred and sixteen windows,” Natalie says, rocking back and forth, her eyes
down at her shoes. “One hundred and sixteen windows in the front.”

“No funny business,” I whisper.

“What? What’s she saying?” Bea demands, circling back to Natalie.

“How many windows there are in 64 building,” I explain.

“What’s that got to do with the price of peaches? See, that’s what I’m saying. She’s
unpredictable. And in an emergency—” Bea drills in.

“You know, Mrs. Trixle, ma’am,” Donny says, “seems pretty important to me. I sure
would want to know how many windows if 64 building was burning down.”

Bea’s face blanches. “Well,” she tut-tuts, “you keep an eye on her, you hear. I won’t
have my family burned alive because of a retarded girl.”

“She’s not retarded.” My voice cracks.

“Well, she isn’t normal, that’s for sure.”

I rise up inside myself. “You’re dead wrong, ma’am. She’s better than normal. You
just can’t see it, that’s all.”

Sunday, January 19, 1936

Nat curls up on the floor in Theresa and Jimmy’s room and falls asleep before Mrs.
Mattaman has the milk poured and the cookies on a plate. After everything that happened
tonight, I’m so keyed up I may never close my eyes again.

Jimmy and I have made beds in the living room with pillows and blankets. We can’t
stop going over everything we saw tonight. I can almost pretend it didn’t happen to
my apartment but someone else’s instead. It’s easier to imagine that, than picture
how I will tell my parents.

“But how did it start? Fires don’t start on their own,” I tell Jimmy.

“Either it was arson or an accident.”

“Arson?”

“Could be. Who knows?” Jimmy says.

“But if it was arson, who could have done it? The cons were on lockdown.”

“Okay, you two.” Mrs. Mattaman comes by and sits on the arm of the couch. “We aren’t
going to figure it all out tonight. Don’t you have something else to talk about? Stamp
collecting maybe.”

I don’t want to talk about stamp collecting.

“I do have a new hobby,” Jimmy tells me when she’s gone.

“Besides the cockroaches?” I ask. Jimmy used to raise flies but now he’s moved on
to cockroaches. I don’t get the fascination with weird bugs.

“Belly button mold,” he whispers.

This is the thing about Jimmy . . . he might actually be serious. “C’mon, mold doesn’t
really grow in there, does it?”

Jimmy nods firmly. “Yes it does.”

“So . . . you’re making cheese in your belly button?”

“Belly button cheese,” Jimmy confirms with a straight face. “Turns out you can grow
anything you want in there.”

“Yeah . . . show me the cheese.
This
I have to see.”

Jimmy shakes his head. “Not ready yet.”

“So what are your plans?” I ask. “Mac and belly button cheese? Parmesan belly button
cheese? Or maybe blue belly button cheese—which is extra-stinky?”

Jimmy has his head on his elbows, his pillow facing mine. A smirk spreads over his
face. “I’m not sure yet. If you’ve got ideas, you should tell me.”

“Won’t it overflow?” I ask.

“You got to harvest,” he explains.

“So anybody can start their own cheese factory?”

“It’s a competitive business,” Jimmy says.

“The bigger the belly button, the better the harvest?”

We’re both cracking up now. The idea of Jimmy farming his belly button is too much.
I could actually see him do it. That’s the funniest part.

Of course, that’s when my parents burst in the door still dressed in their evening
clothes, my mom clutching her shiny green handbag.

“He’s laughing,” my mother snaps. “Apparently he’s fine.”

“Moose.” My father’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp. “Where’s Natalie?”

“She’s fine. She’s in Theresa’s room,” I say as Mrs. Mattaman comes out of the kitchen.

“They’re just slaphappy, Helen. I told them to talk about something besides the fire.
They were so wound up. But you’d have been proud of your Moose, I’ll tell you that.
He kept his head and got Natalie out of there.”

Mr. Mattaman comes out of the bedroom in his undershirt.

“Riv, Anna Maria.” My dad steps forward. “’Preciate you helping out like this.”

“Of course, Cam, you’d of done the same for us,” Mr. Mattaman’s deep voice resonates.

“Go on. Go see your girl.” Mrs. Mattaman puts her arm around my mother and gives her
a squeeze.

My parents head for Theresa and Jimmy’s room, then stand watching her from the doorway.

“You talk to Darby?” Riv asks when my dad comes back.

My father shakes his head. Mr. and Mrs. Mattaman exchange a worried look.

“Okay with you if I steal Moose for a minute?” my father asks Jimmy as my mom slips
off her high heels and sinks into the Mattamans’ sofa.

“Sure, Mr. Flanagan,” Jimmy chirps.

“Helen, you go on now. Probably best if I talk to Moose on my own. I’ll be up in a
few minutes.”

“You need me?” Riv asks my dad.

“No thanks, Riv,” my dad says.

“I’m gonna stay with the kids, then. Anna Maria wants to check in on Betty Bomini.
She’s pretty upset Annie went with Bo instead of her. You know how Betty is with the
fainting. But then I guess Annie got to the hospital and they wouldn’t let her in.
Got to be sixteen.”

“Where is Annie now?” I ask.

“She’s at Bo’s brother’s house. She called in and Mrs. Caconi talked to her. She’s
fine. That Annie’s got a good head on her shoulders,” Riv tells me, then turns to
my dad. “You and Helen are welcome to stay with us, you know that.”

“The warden found us a spot. Gonna bunk up at the Chudley house, but you got the better
part of the family, that’s for sure,” my father says.

Mrs. Mattaman smiles. “No doubt there.”

“Warden Williams is back, then?” Riv asks.

My father nods.

“Piper was scared to death, poor thing,” Mrs. Mattaman reports. “She was watching
little Walty all by herself in this hullabaloo. She’s not used to babysitting the
way your Moose and my Jimmy are.”

“Scared everybody, I imagine,” my father tells her.

I follow my dad outside, but the cold, damp night air makes me want to return to the
Mattamans’, where it’s warm and cozy and everything is like it always has been. We
look at the blackened front of #2E, though neither of us walks over there.

“I hope Mr. Bomini’s hand is okay.”

“It can’t be good if Ollie couldn’t get him patched up here,” Dad says, his eyes liquid
with worry. “Tell me what happened, Moose.”

My dad chews his toothpicks as I explain how Theresa and Annie were there and then
the fire started and I got Natalie and her button box out, even though she didn’t
want to go.

I stick with the stuff I feel confident about and skim over the part where I messed
up. I’m trying hard to convince myself I didn’t fall asleep. That I’m not really to
blame.

“Sounds like you did a hero’s job getting Nat out like that,” Dad says.

I can’t look him in the eye. I focus on the dirty watermarks on the balcony floor
and then out at the water, black as olives with the same shiny skin. I know he’s going
to ask me why I didn’t notice the fire until it got out of control.

“We done here, Dad? Could I go back to the Mattamans’?”

“I still don’t understand what happened,” my father says.

I stare at the Mattamans’ door, imagining myself buried in the blankets on the living
room floor. “I don’t want to keep the Mattamans up,” I say.

My father puts his hand on my shoulder. “All right, son,” he says. “Suppose it can
wait till tomorrow.”

I duck out from under his hand.

I know he’s looking at me. I can feel the heat of his gaze as I pull open the Mattamans’
door and disappear inside.