The Alley (24 page)

Billy came in. Silently he got up on the other swing. Silently they swung. Then Billy said, "Connie."

"Yes," said Connie.

"Nothing doing today—no smell of Muras, no man asking, 'Does this dog bite?', no sound of 'On the Street Where You Live.' Casing was dull. There has been nothing doing for a long time..."

"Ah, Billy. Too bad, too bad," said Connie. She had had a wonderful day, rounding up piano pupils, creating a music conservatory, much better than a day, another dull day, of casing with nothing happening. Fine to case when you see something. But it tries your patience when you don't. "But you know, Billy," she added, "a watched pot never boils. Why not stop for a while, take piano instead?"

"Well," said Billy. "I'll case for one more week ... just one more week ... just in case." Billy and Connie both smiled at this smart thing to say. "Then," said Billy, "if there is no smell of Muras ... no whistling ... nothing ... I quit!"

"They ... the burglars, are apt to come only when something important is going on," said Connie. "Something like Alumni Day, not an ordinary everyday day ... something really important so they have a clear coast."

"There are no rules for burglaries," said Billy morosely.

"I know," said Connie. "That's life. Billy, soon I have to go in and look for the music for all my pupils. Eight at least! They can't all play 'On the Sand.' There has to be some other tune."

Then, some children streamed out of the Arps' cellar, next door. Katy didn't know yet about the Alley Conservatory of Music or that casing was still being done to keep the Alley safe. "Swingers!" she shouted as she ran out of the Arps' yard.

Billy and Connie were facing the other way swinging. Billy half turned his head toward the Arps' yard. "Yeah? So what?" he said. For a few minutes longer they swung. Then Billy hopped down. "So long," he said. And he went crawling ... it was his habit now ... up the Alley, past Bully Vardeer's garden, where he lonesomely took up his position. "Why did Connie have to go in for piano lessons and conservatories," he wondered, "with so much casing still to be done?"

At last it was the day of the recital. It dawned sunny, bright, and hot. There was no casing going on, for Billy was sick with a cold, and he had to stay in his bedroom. For some days Billy had had to stay in because of his cold. Connie had been able to concentrate on her pupils—all were coming along fine—without her conscience bothering her about whether or not she should join Billy in casing. Everyone could now play "Indian Drum Song" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Some could play "On the Sand" or "The Burly, Burly Bear." All the pupils had been very interested in the idea of a recital. "Poor things," Connie thought. "They don't know how awful recitals are."

During the week, the little boys, Danny and Nicky especially, had wanted to come every half hour or so to play the piano. But Nanny sometimes would not let them in. "Not now," she'd say. "Shoo!" Off they'd run, saying, "Bang-bang-you're-daid!" Then back they'd come as soon as they could, saying, "Bang-bang-you're-daid," or, "Heigh-ho, Silver!" Danny always fired his gun at Connie or into the air as he came into the yard ... an unusual way for coming to piano lessons, but his way. Nicky was always, these days, dressed in his Zorro cape. He always carried a little rope in his hand. He even swung with this small piece of rope clutched tightly in his moist left hand, and he climbed with it likewise. Probably he did not put it down even at mealtime. Perhaps he slept with it. Almost all the time both he and Danny had on their Heigh-ho Silver cowboy boots. Usually, Danny was dressed in a blend of costumes ... a fireman's hat with an Indian feather in it and, like Nicky, the cape part of his Zorro uniform. He could answer the roll call of any famous character, in life or fiction, on the plains, in the city, on a pirate ship, in space. He had his gun with him always, clicking it, saying, "Bang-bang-you're said." Mama did not like this. She daid in her family no one had been allowed to own a toy gun, and especially they had not been allowed to point a gun at anyone if they did get hold of one. Despite this, Danny was a great favorite in the Alley with mothers and fathers, and even with Mama.

The two Zorros ... Danny and Nicky ... were the most eager pupils that Connie had. The only trouble was—Nicky would not let his rope out of his hand. At first this bothered Connie. She'd say, "You must put your rope here on the table."

"Oh, no," he'd say.

"But," said Connie. "It is not possible to play the piano with a rope in your hand."

"I can," he always said. And he did. Well, it was true, he could! He needed only one hand for "The Burly, Burly Bear." That was his piece ... and that was what he was going to play today at the recital. It had five notes for one hand only ... perfect for a boy who always carried a rope in the other.

Before their lessons, Connie always let Nicky and Danny warm up a minute. (Her teacher had always—though impatiently and only for a minute or two—let her play "Chopsticks" or "Heart and Soul" before her lesson.) Nicky could not play "Chopsticks" or "Heart and Soul," but he played loudly and with expression something he made up.

"You have a very good ear," said Connie.

"Yes," he said. "I can wiggle it." Every time Connie praised him, he wiggled his ear.

"He's probably a genius," thought Connie. "His mother should get him a piano as soon as possible. You cannot begin too soon with these little fellows; think of Mozart." Connie thought of Mozart, tiptoeing down the stairs in the middle of the night, when all was still and everyone was sleeping, and of him in his nightshirt, composing a lovely thing. She was convinced that Nicky Carroll was a genius, too.

"You do very nicely, Nicky," said Connie to him. "You may be a genius."

"Zorro," he corrected her. Then, flushed with pleasure over the praise, he would sit politely at the edge of a big chair and wait while Danny had his xylophone lesson. Danny did much better on the xylophone than on the piano, and since Connie called her studio, "Alley Conservatory of Music," any instrument could be included if she knew how to play it and teach it. She could only play the piano and the xylophone. Therefore, so far, that was all she could teach.

Connie's great Aunt Beasie had given her this xylophone for Christmas when she was five. It was a good two-octave xylophone and fine for "My Country 'Tis of Thee," which required a lower note for the "'Tis" than some xylophones, and harmonicas, too, have. Danny had learned "The Burly, Burly Bear" very quickly, so perhaps he was a musical genius, too—on the xylophone, not the piano. That made two musical geniuses in the Alley—rare, but possible, and this did not count Katy Starr, who was practically a genius at everything.

"What a pleasure," thought Connie, "to teach little children on the order of Nicky and Danny. They were so interested, with their ropes and costumes and large round eyes. So, now the training period was over; now was the great day itself. If only her pupils did as well for the recital as they had for plain lessons! And too bad that Billy could not attend as part of the audience. It would be nice to have an audience of one, at least—because probably none of the mothers would come. Mama always came to Connie's recitals; but these mothers with their cups of coffee and their strolling up and down the Alley, chatting, first with one person, then with another, would probably not even know there was a recital—let alone come. Oh, if only Billy was well! He'd come. She knew he'd come, unless he had to case. But there he was—in bed!

If you had to stay in a bedroom in the Alley, you could not be in a better one than in Billy's, for it looked straight down the Alley to the Circle. Also, from its window you could see to the left and to the right to both the iron gates on the top ends of the T. Although Billy was supposed to be staying in bed with his hacking cough, often Connie glimpsed his pale face at the window. Sometimes he wanly waved to Connie as she swung. Today, early, to cheer him up and show him that he was missed, she went to his gate, called up to him, and said, "Billy, today is the day of my recital, I mean my pupils' recital. We're having it at eleven o'clock. Mama's going to serve lunch in the garden afterwards. I'm sorry you can't be in the audience and can't have lunch ... probably hot dogs ... I'll get one to you somehow. At first I was going to have it at three o'clock, but the little ones wouldn't be able to wait that long. So—eleven o'clock is the hour."

"Oh-ho," said Billy. "It's an
important
day, isn't it?"

The meaningful way in which he said "important" reminded Connie that important days, days such as Alumni Days under big tops, were the kind of days on which bullet-head burglars broke into Alley houses. But how could burglars have heard about her recital? They couldn't have ... she hadn't put it in the paper, not even in news of the Campus, and there was no green tent in her yard. In this way, Connie reassured herself. But she had not counted on parents. She had not invited the parents because she had not thought they would want to take time out from their coffee and their chatting up and down the Alley. Just pupils and friends of pupils were what she expected. But the parents came, and it was their coming that made this an important day, a day like under the big top on the campus, a day that burglars, casing, would immediately know was important, seeing one parent after another leave her own little house in the Alley and go into Connie's ... all congregate there. They probably even knew that Billy, their counter-caser, was sick in bed—supposed to be—with an awful cold.

The day had dawned bright and clear and hot. Danny and Nicky had arrived for the first time very early in the morning, about seven-thirty, their faces shining, their hair wet and brushed down. Connie hadn't even gotten out of bed yet, but she had heard the back door bell ring, had guessed who it was, and had raced down in her robe before Nanny could holler at them—say they were waking up the whole family and, besides, that she was listening to the seven-thirty news and had now missed the most important thing, they always gave the most important thing first. Scare them she would (though they were not so scared of Nanny as Billy and Hugsy were because of their costumes, ropes, guns, and trappings, and could always holler back, "Bang-bang-you're-daid." However, today, in their best clothes ... Nicky only had his rope ... they might be frightened.) and they might not come back for the recital.

"Hello," said Connie to them sweetly, to counteract the effect of Nanny's scowls.

"Here's we," said Danny.

"I see," said Connie. "You look so nice. And, Nicky, I see you have your rope." The two tried to come in. "Oh, dear," thought Connie. "I should have had the recital at nine o'clock instead of eleven. How can they wait so long?" Out loud she said, "Nicky? Danny? I haven't had my breakfast yet. And, anyway, the recital is at eleven o'clock. O. K.?" Danny and Nicky left cheerfully. They asked to swing, instead, and tried not to go too high. From then on they came to the back door every fifteen minutes or so the whole morning, asking when it was going to be time.

Then, finally, it was time. At about a quarter to eleven, Greggie Goode, the other Carrolls, little Jane, all the other members of the Alley Conservatory of Music came, including Winifred. All had their good, not their Alley, clothes on, except Winifred, who had on her Alley purple slacks. Quickly, seeing the others, she realized the mistake in her costume and raced home to change. Imagine at the age of three, Danny and Nicky knowing to wear best suits to recitals and not Alley clothes ... not Zorro costumes or cowboy clothes, and to wear ties besides! During the morning, Nicky's mother had bellowed at him, "Nicky!"

"What?" he bellowed back.

"Don't get your suit dirty, or you can't be in the recital."

Well, back came Winifred in a skirt and blouse. Connie asked her if her mother were coming, and she said she didn't know. "Can you imagine," thought Connie, "
my
mother not coming to a recital of
mine
that I was in? But," she thought, "that's life." Anyway, to her surprise, Mrs. Carroll, Nicky's mother, arrived. She came with Mrs. Most, Danny's mother, a fine musician herself. You would think that Danny's mother, not Connie, would have thought of the Alley Conservatory of Music, since she had gone to the Boston one. But she hadn't. Bang-bang-you're-daid Danny was probably all that she could manage to do in one lifetime. You couldn't expect the mother of Danny Most to have the time to give piano lessons ... luckily for Connie and her conservatory. There couldn't be two conservatories in the Alley.

Then came other mothers of other performers. Greggie Goode's mother came. As usual, she looked startled. For some reason, Mrs. Goode always looked startled. Then came Brother Stuart's mother. Brother Stuart was not a student of Connie's, but Mrs. Stuart was one of the sweetest mothers in the Alley, and she just had to come, she said. She had on pretty clothes, too ... a white skirt and a flowered blouse ... whereas, Mrs. Carroll had her Alley slacks on ... she always wore slacks. Connie had never seen her in a dress except at one New Year's Eve party that she gave in her house, when she wore a white flapper dress of the nineteen-twenties. It had fringe on the bottom, and her husband had bought it for her at the Good Will Industries as a joke. Mrs. Carroll looked cute and funny in it. She should wear dresses more often, Connie thought, real dresses of nowadays, not costume dresses of the flapper days. Mrs. Most was likewise dressed in slacks, though she often wore dresses. Then, mother after mother after mother arrived, including mothers without children in the conservatory. All the children in the Alley filed in—Judy Fabadessa, Katy Starr, the Arps, all. How had they heard about the recital? "Well, that's life," thought Connie. News gets around in the Alley of something important ... like a pot-luck supper or a recital. News of this sort also gets around outside the Alley, too. Practically everybody, mothers and children, were congregating in Connie's house, even Arnold, who said music made him sick. But the fathers were not there. Being Friday, all fathers were at work; they were at one of the regular Friday faculty luncheons, which had to be attended by each and every professor-father of the children.