Good Graces (30 page)

Mr. Gary wolf whistles, picks up the trophy and lets his hand drop almost to the floor. He’s pretending it’s too heavy for him. At least I think he is. He takes his tortoiseshell glasses from his shirt pocket and reads the writing stuck to the side. “First place . . . Heap Big Talent Show . . . Camp Towering Pines 1960.”

“And I’m going to be Queen of the Playground this year, too, right, Sal?”

When I say, “S
aaa
right,” just like Senor Wences on the
Ed Sullivan Show,
that makes Mr. Gary crack up, which was exactly what I was trying to do. His face is longer than it usually is. I’ve already given him plenty of lanyards, so the next time I come over here I’m going to give him one of those leather coin purses I made at camp and a matching one to take back to Father Jim. Because they’re going steady, they should match. Those purses could be the silver lining of the dark cloud that’s hanging over him.

Mr. Gary says, “Ethel tells me there’s going to be a wedding in September. You must be so excited. Helen will make a lovely bride. She’s got such beautiful coloring.” He went to high school with her so he’s known Mother for a long time. They weren’t friends because he wasn’t popular like her. Mother told me Mr. Gary was kind of a twerp. “I always liked Dave. Great basketball player. He was smart, too, and kind. Different from the other boys.” He plucks a card outta Troo’s hand, but winks at me. “You know what they say, Sally, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

I want to ask him to tell me more about Dave, but Troo says, “My turn,” and changes the subject because she still is not thrilled about the wedding, but most of all because the sun isn’t shining unless it’s on her.

“How’s your mother feelin’?” I ask. That’s the same thing everybody always asked us when our mother was in the hospital, even more often than they do now.

“Mom . . . she’s . . .” When Mr. Gary leans forward with his elbows on the knees of his nice slacks, I can see all his cards, which I will try not to use against him. “Do you understand what’s going on, girls?”

I take a sip of milk out of my favorite lilac metal glass that Ethel so thoughtfully also left out on the counter next to the brownies and say, “The only thing we know is what Dave told us.”

“Your mother’s in a comma,” Troo says. I don’t want to embarrass her and Mr. Gary must not either because neither one of us corrects her. “Her heart’s on its last legs.”

Mr. Gary runs his fingers through his hair, which is even lighter than mine. Nell told me his comes out of a bottle. “The doctors don’t think it’s her heart this time.”

Like she’s been studying Mother’s maroon medical book day and night and is quite the authority, Troo says, “Really? Huh. I thought for sure it was.”

“It must be her tummy then,” I say. I’m sure Ethel already told him how sour his mother’s stomach has been on their every-Sunday long-distance phone calls. “It’s really been botherin’ her no matter how much Pepto she takes.”

Mr. Gary lays down his cards, picks up his whiskey drink and gives Troo and me such a serious look. I am getting the feeling that he didn’t just invite us over here to play Old Maid. “I want . . . I need to ask you two a couple of questions,” he says. “Is that okay?”

The O’Malley sisters can only nod because we’ve got bites of Mississippi brownies in our mouths.

“Have you seen or heard anything unusual going on around here lately?”

I gotta try hard as I can
not
to see or hear anything unusual going on around here. Things are getting unusualer by the hour, the minute, the heartbeat.

Troo swallows and says, “What do you mean by unusual?”

“You know . . . have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? Especially you, Sally. You’re so observant,” Mr. Gary says. “For instance . . . would you say that Ethel’s been doing her usual excellent job of taking care of Mom?”

“A course she has!” I say. “She never even complains about having to wipe drool or puttin’ together strawberry shortcake every week or pushin’ your mom for walks around the block even though her bunions are just killin’ her and she can hear people call her names even though they don’t think she can and . . .” I could go on and on, but listing every single one of Ethel’s virtues could take days.

“The reason I ask is,” Mr. Gary says, “you know I think the world of Ethel, always have, but . . . there’s been some talk about her being negligent. Not giving Mom her medicines or too much of one—”

“No! No! She would never do that,” I say much louder. “She’s so careful!” Mrs. Galecki’s bottles are lined up on the sill above the sink. Ethel takes out what she needs, puts them into a little cup and hands them to her patient every day at two o’clock with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade. She even stands watch until she’s sure she’s swallowed them down and doesn’t hide them in one of her cheeks, which she has tried many times.

Mr. Gary says, “And Mom called Jim and me a few times complaining that Ethel was stealing her jewelry. I put that off to old age, but now . . . I don’t know.”

“That’s right. I’m sorry, but you don’t know. You don’t see her every day the way I do. You should go look under your mother’s bed,” I tell him, almost frothing at the mouth. “I bet you find her emerald necklace that’s been missing right off the bat.” I made Troo put it back already when he was up at the hospital.

“And Father Mickey has made quite a few comments to Doc Keller,” Mr. Gary says like he didn’t even hear me.

At the mention of Father’s name Troo and me raise our eyebrows at each other.

“Mickey’s been casting aspersions on Ethel’s abilities. He told Doc that during his visits he noticed that Ethel doesn’t seem up to the task of caring for Mom anymore. That she’s falling down on the job.” And then more under his breath, he says, “Not that I’d take anything he’d say to heart.”

“I don’t know what aspersions are . . . but the rest of it . . . that’s a doggone lie! She never falls down,” I out-and-out shout. “She’s tripped a couple of times on the back steps, but she’s never landed hard. Ever.”

Troo, who is remaining a lot calmer than me for once, says, “Why wouldn’t you take anything Father Mickey says to heart?”

“I . . . uh . . .” Mr. Gary says. “Let’s just say that Mickey and your uncle Paulie were quite the pair when they were kids. They used to lie in wait for me right back there.” He lifts his finger and crooks it toward the alley. “Your uncle would hold me down and Mickey would kick the sh . . . stuffing out of me.” Mr. Gary tries to smile, but doesn’t quite make it. “Of course, that was a long time ago. Before Mickey was called to the priesthood.”

“He didn’t have a true calling,” I say out loud, not meaning to.

“No, he certainly didn’t.” Mr. Gary doesn’t seem surprised that I know that, but Troo’s mouth has turned down on the corners. I’m supposed to tell her when I hear gossip that I think she’d be interested in hearing, too, but I never told her what Aunt Betty told me up at the Five and Dime that afternoon. I knew she’d get mad if I did. That was back when she was still playing Scarlett to Father’s Rhett. “Do you know the whole story, Sally? Why Mickey became a priest?” Mr. Gary asks. His words are getting a bit fuzzy around the edges. He’s had three of those whiskey drinks.

Troo sticks her tongue out at me ever so slightly and says, “I know! Aunt Betty told me that in the old days Father got caught bettin’ for a third time by the police and was supposed to go to jail, but then he got told by the judge that if he became a priest he wouldn’t have to do time.”

I cannot believe she didn’t tell me the minute she found that out! She can be so, so secretive.

Mr. Gary says, “That’s not all there was to it, but close enough.”

The three of us sit for a while listening to Mr. Moriarity’s dog bark down the block. Troo is twirling her hair and Mr. Gary looks like he’s trying not to break out in tears. “I always forget how the smell of the chocolate chip cookies hangs over the neighborhood,” he says. “When we were kids, we could go up to the factory and stand in line. You could get a bag of the broken ones for a nickel. They still do that?”

“Ethel goes up there
every
Friday afternoon because your mom loves dunkin’ them in a glass of milk before bed,” I say, reminding him one more time how hardworking and sacrificing Ethel is. How tender and caring. That she’s thriftier even than Mrs. McDougal.

Troo says to Mr. Gary, “Your turn.” She has the Old Maid. The first day we got the deck, she folded over one of the corners so she could spot it easier. She tugs it up a little higher than the rest of the cards to make it more tempting.

Falling into her trap, Mr. Gary plucks the card out of my sister’s fanned-out hand and asks, “Do you girls remember when I told you last summer that Mom had left Ethel something to remember her by in her will?”

After he had too many cocktails on this very same porch, he sloshed out that secret and made Troo and me promise not to tell anybody. I kept my word. I’m not sure if my sister did.

“Yup, we remember when you told us about all that money,” Troo says, pleased as all get out that she pulled a fast one on him.

“Well . . . Mom’s lawyer, Mr. Cooper?” Mr. Gary says. “He called to inform me that . . . if she should . . .” He reaches for his glass on the table and gulps the rest of it down. “In the event of her passing, Mother of Good Hope will be receiving quite a tidy bundle. Mom cut Ethel out of her will.”

“No! No! She can’t do that! Ethel . . . she deserves . . . her dreams . . . we gotta get up to the hospital and pour cold water over your mother’s head. Right away,” I say, throwing down my cards. “When she comes to, we’ll set her straight. Tell her that Ethel would never mix up her medicines or steal her jewelry or anything else bad.”

Mr. Gary snuffles and says, “I’m sorry, Sally. I feel as bad about this as you do. But other than a few gifts for the orphanage and St. Joe’s, the bulk of Mom’s estate will be going to the church. Mickey has been named executor of her will and unless Doc Keller agrees that Mom’s not of sound mind, which he doesn’t seem willing to do, there’s not a thing I can change about that.”

“But Father Mickey, he’s . . .” It’s my duty to mention the godforsaken things we know about him. I’m sure of it. “You should know that Father Mickey—ow!” Troo gives me the hardest pinch on the back of my hand.

“I’m sure Mom had her reasons, I . . . I just can’t figure out what they could be,” Mr. Gary says, looking toward the alley again. “Doesn’t she remember how Mick beat me over and over and . . . and . . . how the church has gone out of its way to make Jim’s life a living hell since he’s left?”

I don’t think he expects me to answer that question, but even if I could, Troo sets her last pair down on the table and says, “I win. It was great to see you again, Mr. Gary.” She stands, brushes the brownie crumbs off her legs and picks up her shopping bag. “Thanks for the refreshments. We hope your mother gets better really soon. We gotta go right away, Sally.”

I don’t know what her hurry is, but she’s already out the door.

I don’t rush right out after her. Troo stuck our host with the Old Maid. I can’t leave him sitting here by himself feeling so defeated. Ethel wouldn’t like that. So I say, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite and if they do, beat ’em black and blue with your shoe.” That’s the same thing she would tell him if she was here. I’m being charitable. But I’m also reminding him one more time how Ethel has slaved over his mother for so many years, just in case he should believe for one second those terrible things Father Mickey told him about my good friend falling down on the job. “And by the way, just so you know, Doc Keller is not the end and be all. He can’t even cure his own stinky breath. ’Night.”

Catching up to Troo in our backyard, I get her by the arm and say, “Why didn’t you let me tell him about Father Mickey doin’ what he’s doin’? Didn’t sound like Mr. Gary’s nuts about him either. He mighta believed us.”

Troo yanks outta my grip. “So what if he does? What do ya think he’s gonna do about it?”

“He could tell Dave. He could explain to . . . somebody would have to listen to him. He’s a grown-up and—”

“A fairy who’s livin’ with our old pastor in the land of fruits and nuts! Nobody ’round here is gonna take anything he says seriously. You saw the way people were makin’ fun of him after Mass on Sunday.”

They really were. When Mr. Gary walked past the St. Francis-is-a-sissy statue sorta up on his toes, more than a couple people snickered.

As I go through the back door of our house, another reason comes to me why my sister didn’t want to tell Mr. Gary about the bad stuff that Father Mickey is up to. There’s always the chance Mr. Gary really
could
do something to help us. That would mean Troo wouldn’t get her revenge and she wouldn’t like that at all. She
needs
to do that plan.

Both of us call out “Good night” to Mother and Dave, who are on the living room davenport with their arms around each other, and head straight to our room. Troo peels off her grimy shirt and shorts, switches on the fan and swan dives into our bed. Her head hits the pillow like a brick, so she doesn’t hear Mr. Gary crying from next door the way I do. I feel plenty bad for him, but his feelings are not what I’m thinking about. What’s rushing around in my mind is what Mr. Gary told us about Ethel not getting Mrs. Galecki’s money when she dies. How his mother is leaving it all to the church instead of to the hardworking woman who so rightly deserves it. Mr. Gary told us he doesn’t know why she would do that, but I think I might.

During his many visits next door, slippery Father Mickey musta slowly but surely put a bug into Mrs. Galecki’s ear. The first thing he would have to do is convince her that Ethel was the one who stole her emerald necklace after he rolled under Mrs. Galecki’s bed, opened up her hatbox and helped himself. After he was sure she fell for that lie, he probably picked another rose from her bush and set it in her lap before he said so charming with his black Irish smile, “It would be very charitable if you left your money to me, I mean, the Church, dear Bertha, and not to an outsider, who is also a Negro and a thief. It’s your chance to guarantee a spot for yourself in heaven.”