Al Capone Does My Shirts (20 page)

She’s crying now, but watching me. Looking at me. I take a swallow of air, like suddenly I have to remind myself to breathe. My mother never does this. She never tries to imagine how I feel. I take another swallow of air and pretend interest in a big barge moving slowly past Angel Island. I don’t want to cry.

“Did you tell Mr. Purdy?” I ask. My words come out deep and rich. I hardly recognize my voice.

“No.” My mother looks directly at me now. “He didn’t ask. And I didn’t say. But it’s a conversation we need to have. I know that now, Moose.” Her voice squeaks. “I do.”

 

That night, my mother makes a wonderful dinner. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, green beans with almonds, orange salad, corn bread and cream of asparagus soup. She is just cutting into the lemon meringue pie when we hear the knock.

“Mrs. Caconi!” my dad whispers.

Natalie stops eating. My mom takes a deep breath. She hands me the pie server. My father takes her hand. Together they follow Mrs. Caconi.

Our apartment is suddenly so silent, so empty. Natalie’s head moves down close to her plate the way she always used to eat. I only realize now it’s been months since I’ve seen her eat this way. She shovels her pie in one bite after another with no time to chew. I keep eating, but now the pie tastes dull and cold like baby food. I cut myself another piece, but I can hardly chew. My neck stiffens. It turns to stone. My stomach feels as if I’ve swallowed a quart of vinegar.

Where are they?

My father’s footsteps on the landing are slow and heavy. When he opens the door, his face is sagging and deeply wrinkled. “The decision is the same.
Not ready,
” he informs the floor. My dad’s shaking hand finds his toothpicks. He pops two in his mouth, goes in his room and closes the door.

 

 

I’m in bed, listening to the sound of my mother crying and the deep even rumble of my father’s voice trying to comfort her.

The Esther P. Marinoff is a crummy place. A cruel joke. I never did like that Mr. Purdy.

I try to go to sleep. But I keep thinking about Natalie at home in Santa Monica—living her life in the back room of our house and on the steps of Gram’s. I rode bikes with Pete, played ball, did my homework. She did not. I will graduate from high school, go to college, get married, have kids. She will not.

My mom’s done a million things to help Natalie. The aluminum treatments, the voodoo dolls, UCLA, the psychiatrists, the Bible readings, Mrs. Kelly. What good were they?

Nothing has helped. But suddenly I see this isn’t true. One thing has helped. Carrie Kelly. Natalie has been more a part of things here on this island than she ever has before. She’s had a life here, for the first time. Maybe just a little bit of a life. But a life just the same.

When I wake up the next morning, I find Mrs. Kelly’s number in my mom’s phone book. I borrow a nickel from my dad and head down to the phone outside of Mrs. Caconi’s. I put the nickel in the coffee can Mrs. Caconi keeps by the phone and tell the operator the number.

“Mrs. Kelly,” I say when the operator signs off, “this is Moose Flanagan, Natalie’s brother. I’m calling to thank you. You’ve really helped my sister.”

“Why, dear. I appreciate you saying that.”

“And I wanted to ask you. Do you believe the Esther P. Marinoff will help Natalie?”

She sighs. “Yes, I do. I worked there for five years. I saw kids improve in ways I never saw anyplace else I’ve ever been. Natalie wasn’t ready in January, but I think she is now. I’d like her to start in June and I’d like to keep working with her for the first year at least. But unfortunately Mr. Purdy doesn’t agree with me.”

“Is there anything we can do to change his mind?”

She sighs. “I wish I knew. As I explained to your mother last night, I expected her to be accepted.”

“Did her, you know, age . . .” I squeeze the words around the lump in my throat.

“Hard to say. I can certainly understand what your mother was up to with that. There’s a real bias against older children. And I can’t swear I wouldn’t have tried the same thing if I were in her shoes. Sometimes with these kids it’s difficult to tell exactly how old they are, but in the case of your sister I’m afraid it’s pretty clear she’s at least fourteen.”

“Yeah,” I say in a small voice.

“I will keep working on this, Moose. I promise you I will. But I don’t want to give you folks false hope.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“And, Moose? There’s something I wanted to tell you too, dear. When Natalie and I are working together and I see I’m starting to lose her, I always say, ‘What do you think Moose is doing right now?’ And lately, she’s been able to stay with me. She talks about you at school or playing catch or talking with Theresa and she’s able to keep herself with me that way. I thought you might like to know how important you are to her.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I wipe the tears off my face.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

 

When I hang up the phone, I know I have to do something. Have to. I have no idea what. I wonder if this is how my mother feels. How she has always felt.

Now I understand. When you love someone, you have to try things even if they don’t make sense to anyone else.

After breakfast I march up the hill to the warden’s house. I don’t know why I’m going there, except he’s the most powerful person I know. If anyone can change this, he can.

But the closer I get to the warden’s house, the slower my feet go. The warden will be at work in the cell house. If I want to talk to him, I’ll have to knock on
that
door. I stare at the big steel cell house door, unable to move forward or back. My heart beats in my ear and my hands are ice cold.

I stay stuck until a voice calls my name. “Hey, Moose! What are you doing up here? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

I spin around to see Mr. Trixle. He has a cigarette in his mouth and a clipboard in his hand.

“Sorry, Moose. Didn’t mean to scare you. What’s up?”

My mind is whirling. What am I doing?
What am I doing?

“Moose?” Officer Trixle asks.

“Uh. Yeah. Uh. I need to talk to Warden Williams,” I say.

“Can’t it wait till tonight, son?” Officer Trixle takes a drag from his cigarette.

“Yes, I mean, no,” I mutter.

“Yes, you mean no. Which is it?” He smiles kindly.

“No,” I say.

Officer Trixle grunts. He drops his cigarette on the cement and stamps it out with his foot. Then he buzzes the entry bell. The big steel hinges squeak shrill and sharp as the door opens.

“Wait here,” Officer Trixle says, and the door slams a solid steel closed behind him.

I wait a long time, wondering if they’ve forgotten about me. I’m considering giving up when the cell house door squeaks open again and Officer Trixle and the warden appear. The warden is as neat as ever, like he just came out of the barbershop. He smells of soap and cut grass.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning, sir,” I say.

He looks around as if he doesn’t know where to sit. He seems to decide on the bench, gives his trousers a tug and sits down. Officer Trixle walks back to the cell house door and stands stiff and straight, not smoking now.

“So . . .” He folds his hands in his lap. “What’s this all about, Moose?”

“W-W-Well, I, uh,” I stammer, my forehead suddenly sweaty. “I know you know important people . . . in San Francisco. I was just wondering if you might call some of your, you know, friends and maybe they might ask the Esther P. Marinoff to reconsider. Natalie is doing much better. She should have gotten in.”

“Influence, is that what you’re after, son?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“I’ll give it some thought, but offhand I can’t come up with anyone who might be helpful with this.” He sighs and shakes his head. He seems truly sorry.

We sit silent for a moment.

The warden looks at his watch. “Now, it’s time you were in school! Bet you can make the eight-thirty if you run like the dickens.” He pats my arm and gets up.

“Thanks, sir,” I say. “But you know, I had an idea.”

He makes a pained noise in his throat.

“I was thinking.” My voice cracks. The idea is crazy, but I can’t stop myself. “How about Al?”

“Excuse me?” the warden asks.

I clear my throat and try to say it louder, but it still comes out in a croak: “Al Capone.”

The warden squints his eyes, just like Piper does. He makes an annoyed sound and shakes his head. “Oh, please don’t tell me this is another stunt.”

“No, sir. I’m serious. He’s the only one who can do this.”

“Moose, that’s nonsense and I think you know it.”

“I think he could.”

He sighs a long and labored sigh. “First off, that’s doubtful. But even if he could, do you really think I’d allow it? I’ve built this place on fairness. On treating all of the convicts the same. If I were to ask Al Capone to do me a favor, what kind of precedent would that be setting? He was sent here because he got preferential treatment in Atlanta. Ran his empire from prison while the government footed the bill. Brought his own furniture, Oriental rugs, silk underwear . . . treated him like royalty behind bars. Do you think I want to pave the way for something like that here? It would make a mockery of everything I stand for.”

I look directly into his blue eyes. “Remember you said we should think hard about going against the rules? Remember you said that. Well, I have thought hard.”

The warden meets my gaze. “I see that,” he says. “But in this case you’re asking
me
to bend the rules. And I’m not about to. You may think it’s the right thing to do, but I do not.”

“You don’t have to give him anything. Just ask him. What’s the harm of asking, sir?”

The warden takes a deep breath. “Look, Moose, you want to help your sister and that’s admirable. But I can’t help you with this. Your parents will work something out. Now, run along.”

Run along?
Run along?
He can’t tell me to act like an adult one moment and treat me like a kid the next. This makes me so furious, my mouth shoots off before I can stop it. “You didn’t mean it, did you, sir? It was just a speech. You don’t really want us to think, you want us to obey.”

I can see the anger flash through the warden’s eyes. He takes his foot off the bench and stands straight. “I know you and your family have been through a lot, so I’m going to ignore that comment. But if you speak to me like that again, I will have you and your family off the island in the blink of an eye! Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. My whole body trembling.

He continues to stare, then seems to decide I’ve gotten his point. He sighs and crosses his arms. “Look, son, it isn’t that easy. The world isn’t going to kiss your boots because you learned to think. You have your answer. It’s no. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

 

 

My mother calls in sick to her piano students and stays in her room. Now when the door opens, a stuffy stale smell comes out and I see her in her bathrobe, her hair tangled like seaweed.

My father is a terrible cook. I look down at my supper plate, fried beets swimming in a pool of bright pink juice, half-cooked hash browns turned pink where they border the beets and cold oatmeal.

My father seems to notice my reaction to his cooking. “If she’s still in bed tomorrow, I’ll bring home convict cooking. I promise,” he says.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

Natalie is quiet. She has counted the shredded beets on her plate and organized them so they are lying in a line like twenty men in sleeping bags. She seems to be trying to decide what to do with the oatmeal when all of a sudden she blurts out, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“I dunno,” I say.

“His buttons rolled to the other side,” Nat says, picking at her napkin. She looks at me and runs her tongue over her upper lip. Then she wraps her arms around herself, as if she needs them to hold her chest together, and begins to rock. “What happened? What happened?” Natalie asks.

“Nothing happened, Natalie. Mommy isn’t feeling well. And we’re just not sure the Esther P. Marinoff is the right school for you,” my father says.

“Mommy is angry,” Natalie says.

My father and I look at each other. His lip quivers and his voice gets gritty. “No, she’s not mad at you, honey! You did everything right, Natalie.”

“Not mad at you, honey,” Natalie says, digging her chin into her collarbone. “Not . . . mad . . . at . . . you . . . honey,” she repeats, adding extra pauses between the words.

“Oh, God,” my father says. “Natalie, sweetheart, you were great! No one is mad at you!”

But Natalie doesn’t look at him. She looks at the butter. Not past it, not through it, but at it, as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.

 

“You won’t believe what I did,” I tell Annie and Theresa the next day. “I asked the warden if he’d get Al Capone to help us get Natalie into school.”

“You didn’t,” Annie says.

“I did.”

“He said no,” Theresa says.

I nod.

“Well, that’s a big surprise,” Annie says. “You didn’t really think he’d say yes, did you?”

I shrug.

“What’s Capone going to do, anyway? It’s not like he gets out on the weekends to run around town, breaking people’s legs,” Annie says.

“He could help if he wanted. This is small potatoes for him,” I say. “He can do anything.”

Annie shakes her head. “The guy’s in prison. He can’t do
anything.
You’ve been spending too much time with Piper.”