Al Capone Does My Shirts Page 12

  For a while everything goes okay. But then I start getting discouraged. No baseball. It’s not fair. I’m doing everything right. I look again and again and again. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Maybe there just aren’t any more balls out here, I think for the hundredth time. Maybe this is all a big fat waste of time. I scoot back under the fence, too fast this time, and rip the back of my shirt.

  Then I slide back down the shale to the halfway spot. A gull is pecking at the dirt, scouting for leftover graham cracker crumbs. Five piles of stones are neatly sorted by size. But Natalie . . . where is Natalie?

  26. Convict Baseball

  Same day—Wednesday, April 24, 1935

  “Natalie,” my mouth tries to say, but my throat is closed up tight. No sound comes out. I run down, my arms flying helter-skelter, the shale sliding.

  She has to be here. Maybe she’s out scouting for more stones. That’s it. I look down by the small rocky beach. A crab scuttles out from under a rock. Men on a nearby ferry are laughing; the sound is eerily loud though the boat is far away. She isn’t there. Over by the red berry bushes. No. Back by the greenhouse. No. Which way do I go?

  I stop and listen. A voice . . . sounds. Behind me.

  I spin and run toward the voice. “Natalie?” I crash the thicket. And then I see her. Natalie sitting on a rock with someone. A man. He is wearing a denim shirt and denim pants. A con. Natalie is sitting with a con.

  The scream is stuck in my throat, choking me. Don’t look away. Don’t blink. Do not blink.

  The con is smiling. He’s missing a front tooth. There are dark greased comb marks in his hair. I wonder about this. Inmates aren’t allowed hair pomade. Suddenly this seems very important. Why is he wearing pomade on his hair? Maybe he isn’t a con. Please, God, don’t let him be a con.

  I haven’t even looked at Natalie. I’m afraid to take my eyes off the guy in the denim shirt. I think somehow I can protect her this way. But now I watch her too. She’s smiling. Sometimes Nat looks concerned or sad, or raging mad. The best she ever looks is interested. But here is my sister, Natalie Flanagan, looking happy.

  “Hey, Moose.” The con’s voice is scratchy and an octave too high, like a girl’s almost. “You want this?” He reaches inside the coat draped over his leg. He has a gun. I can’t breathe. He’s going to shoot. But then I see. Information seeps into my brain. It isn’t a gun.

  It’s a baseball.

  Suddenly, my throat opens up. “Get a-way. . . . Get the heck away! Go! Go! THAT’S MY SISTER! GET AWAY FROM HER!” I scream as the four o’clock count whistle blows. The con jumps and Natalie’s smile, like some kind of rare bird sighting, slips away.

  “Take it easy, fella. I got your baseball, didn’t I?” the con says. He nods at me and turns to Natalie. “Bye, sweetie.” He closes Natalie’s fingers around the baseball and fast walks away.

  “DO NOT. DO NOT CALL HER SWEETIE,” I shout. His pace is uneven, like one leg is shorter than the other. Then I see the number stamped on the back of his denim shirt: 105.

  27. Idiot

  Same day—Wednesday, April 24, 1935

  “Nothing happened.” I say this out loud to shut up the voice in my head. My teeth are chattering like I’m cold. They were just sitting there. There’s no law against that. But I can’t stop thinking what the warden told me the first week we came here. “Some of these convicts haven’t seen a woman in ten or fifteen years. I think you’re old enough to understand what that means. . . .” I was only gone two minutes, three minutes, maybe. No more. N-O M-O-R-E. N-O-T-H-I-N-G H-A-P-P-E-N-E-D. The words go round and round in my head like the wheels of a car rolling over the slats of a bridge.

  But it was more than three minutes. Way more. I left right after the three o’clock count whistle, I returned before the next. I was probably gone forty-five minutes. NO. I left way after the three o’clock whistle. It was only ten minutes. NO MORE.

  Calm down, I tell myself. Nothing happened. My mind flashes on the greasy-haired con holding my sister’s hand, and a sick feeling comes over me. My mouth tastes like curdled milk.

  I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there.

  I’m so upset, I hardly see where I’m going. Natalie is pulling back, trying to go slow. I tug her along. I don’t care what she wants.

  We’re almost to the west stairs now and I’m not even sure how we got here. It’s like I dreamed the distance.

  How did he know my name? How did he know what I was looking for? He had that ball with him. He must have known before. 105, that was the number that didn’t make sense. IDIOT. I AM AN IDIOT. Natalie must have said something the last time. THE LAST TIME WE WERE OVER HERE. COULD THAT BE? He must have left before I saw him then. Probably meant to today. But he brought the ball. Insurance, I guess. Figured he could buy me off.

  I grip Natalie’s arm so tight, it feels as if I’m holding bone. She tries to twist her arm away, but I’m not about to let go. Ever. She balks. Stops. Refuses to be half-dragged when we both know she follows just fine without this. But I won’t give her even this much freedom. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know the first thing about anything?” I scream. “Come on! Can’t you just walk with me for once?”

  Almost there, almost there. I’m going to cry and I sure as heck don’t want to do it out here. I pray Theresa isn’t there waiting. I don’t want to find her sitting outside our door. We turn the corner to our landing and my chest falls.

  Someone is there. Piper. Oh, man, just what I need!

  Piper’s hat is tipped to the side. She’s watching me out of the corners of her eyes.

  “You were chewing out Natalie. You were yelling at her,” Piper says.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were! I heard you. You never yell at her. What’s going on?” she demands.

  I keep my mouth shut and stare at the doorknob, wishing I could get Piper out of the way.

  Piper looks at Natalie. Natalie is rubbing her chin on her shoulder, her chin on her shoulder, faster than normal, as if she’s upset too. Have I done this or was it 105? She seemed happy with that greasy-haired con, so it was probably me.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Piper whistles one long note. “You found a ball. That’s one of ours, isn’t it?”

  She holds her hand out to Natalie.

  Natalie can be very possessive with her things. She would never give anyone a rock or a button. I think Piper will be in for a fight. But no. Natalie plops the ball in Piper’s hand, easy as can be.

  “Where did you find it?”

  I don’t look Piper in the face. I feel like I held my sister hostage for that stupid baseball. I won’t touch it. It’s dirty. The last thing in the world I want is to tell anyone how we got it. And Piper is ten times worse than just anyone. How could I have let this happen?

  “105,” Natalie says.

  I say nothing. It feels like all the blood is draining out of my face. I’m light-headed. Please, Piper, be as stupid as I was.

  Piper is frowning. She’s trying to understand. Do not figure this out. Do not figure this out.

  “105 what?” Piper asks. She pushes the brim of her hat back, as if to see better. She is staring intently at Natalie.

  Natalie says nothing. Good Natalie.

  “We gotta go inside.” I touch the door. It feels good, that door. I can almost hear the sound it will make when it slams shut.

  “Come on! 105 what? Is that how many places you looked? What?” Piper asks. She’s standing firm between me and the door. Her hands are crossed in front of her and the frilly blouse she wore to school is tucked inside her overalls. Even as upset as I am right now, some part of me registers how cute she is.

  “Because I haven’t heard of a ball going over in months. I didn’t think you’d find one,” Piper says.

  “Thanks a lot.” I snort. “You could have told me that. You know I’ve been looking.”

  “I’m your baby-sitter now too?”

  “Pocket,” Natalie says, picking w
ildly at her shoulder.

  “Pocket?” Piper asks me.

  Usually I don’t like when people talk to Natalie through me. I’m not a ventriloquist and Natalie isn’t my dummy, but today I want her mute. “She doesn’t mean anything by that,” I lie.

  “Yellow buttons,” Natalie says, taking two buttons out of her pocket.

  “Natalie’s upset. We need to go inside.” I try to edge Piper out of the way. But Piper isn’t budging.

  “Stop, Natalie. You have to tell me.” Piper recrosses her arms in front of her chest. She’s pulling rank. Only Natalie couldn’t care less whose daughter Piper is.

  “105,” Natalie says.

  “105 buttons?” Piper squints. She looks at Natalie, then me, then Natalie again. A big slow smile pours across her face. “Oh, sweet Jesus, you don’t mean . . .”

  I twist the knob and try to knee open our door.

  “You got a con to give you a ball, didn’t you? How did you do that? And who the heck is AZ 105? Somebody on the dock? I HAVE TO KNOW!”

  I have the door open and I’m trying to pull Natalie inside while keeping Piper out.

  “Was it a waiter at the Officers’ Club? Was it?”

  “Natalie, come on!”

  “Wow, Moose, I never thought you’d do something like this!” She smiles big.

  My insides boil up and I barely restrain myself from slugging her. I push Natalie inside our apartment, then I try to get past Piper.

  “What did you give him for the ball?” Piper asks.

  I’ve got my shoulders in and I’m trying to close the door now. If only I can get Piper’s fingers out of there.

  “C’mon. You must’ve given him something,” Piper asks.

  “Move your hand! And shut up,” I cry.

  “This is amazing!” Piper says, her eyes glowing. I’ve never seen her so excited. “Think maybe he could get autographs too, Moose? Because Al Capone’s signature, that is worth a fortune! This is the beginning, Moose!”

  “NO! THIS IS THE END!” I shut the door in her face.

  28. Tall for Her Age

  Same day—Wednesday, April 24, 1935

  The thing to do is come clean. Talk to my mom. Talk to my dad. Tell them. They’ll understand. It was an accident. Three minutes. Five at the most. My mom said to treat Nat like a regular sister. Well, I certainly would leave a regular sister for five minutes. My mom can’t be mad. Together we’ll work out the right thing to do so this will never happen again.

  I can hear my mom’s footsteps on the landing. She bursts in the door.

  “Look, Moose!” She waves a newspaper in the air. She slaps it on the table. “See! Didn’t I tell you what a wonderful program they have? It’s world famous! Look, it says right here.”

  NEW HOPE FOR KIDS WITH MENTAL DEFICIENCIES, the headline reads. There is a picture of Mr. Purdy standing in front of the Esther P. Marinoff and a small close-up of a boy. Tom, age 10, was mute when he came to the Esther B. Marinoff, but now he speaks in simple sentences and reads at a third-grade level, the caption reads.

  The article is filled with quotes from experts. The program is quite extraordinary. It’s modeled after a school in Switzerland run by the behaviorist Emil Binder. I skim down to see what Mr. Purdy has to say. “Entrance in the school is highly selective. We have a small number of spaces for kids who are truly ready for the kind of opportunities we offer. Children start at the Esther P. Marinoff when they are 7 to 12 years of age and typically graduate at 18,” Mr. Purdy says.

  How old does Mr. Purdy think Natalie is? Does he really believe she’s ten?

  My mom has taken off her green hat and her green coat and she has begun to make supper. Every minute or so she comes back to the table to read a part of the article again. It’s as if the newsprint is warm and my mother’s hands are very cold.

  Natalie is on the living room floor, reading my math book like it’s the newspaper.

  “Mom, I need to talk to you,” I say.

  “Okay, honey.” She smiles. “I can’t wait to tell your dad about this! And do you know what else?” My mom claps her hands. “Mrs. Kelly says Natalie is really improving. She’s going to write her a flying-color recommendation. That’s what she said. Flying colors!” My mom hugs me. She’s so happy, she would hug the saltshaker if it were only taller. “Your sister is going to be okay! She’s going to be fine!”

  “But, Mom,” I say, “it says no kids are accepted after the age of twelve!”

  My mother freezes. She’s so still, it looks like she’s stopped breathing. “Natalie is ten, Moose. You know that.” Her voice has a catch in it.

  “You can’t be ten for five years in a row,” I whisper.

  “MOOSE!” my mother cries. Her eyes are like teeth tearing into me.

  I remember that funny look Mr. Purdy had on his face when he asked if Natalie was ten. All I see in my head is Natalie holding hands with a grown man. “I can’t stand this anymore, Mom,” I say.

  “She’s tall for her age. What’s got into you?”

  I look down at the article. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Fine, we’ll talk tonight, your dad will be home any minute. Didn’t I already say that?” She slams down a square pan. It makes a tinny sound against the counter.

  Now I wish I hadn’t said anything at all to my mom. I should have just talked to my dad about this.

  When my father walks in the door, my mother rushes to meet him. “Cam, look!” She hands NEW HOPE FOR KIDS WITH MENTAL DEFICIENCIES to my father.

  “This is a red-letter day,” my father agrees. He takes my mom in his arms and does a little jig in the kitchen.

  I can’t stand to watch this. I head for my room.

  “Hey, Moose,” my father says later that night when Natalie is in bed. “Mom says you want to talk to us.”

  “Yeah,” I say, my heart beating loud and guilty in my chest. I close my book, wishing they had forgotten.

  “I don’t think it’s safe for Nat to follow me around,” I say.

  My mother stares at me like she can’t believe what I’ve just said. “But, Moose . . . she’s doing so well. Carrie Kelly thinks we shouldn’t change one thing, because being out with you kids and working one-on-one with her is the best possible—”

  “Something happened.” I feel nothing when I say this, like my mouth is talking all by itself.

  They wait.

  “What happened?” my dad asks. He touches my arm, gently.

  My mind is scrambling. How can I tell them without really telling them? “I don’t think it’s safe for her on this island. She doesn’t understand stuff. It’s dangerous.”

  “What happened?” my father asks again.

  “A con noticed her today,” I say. My words feel like they are weighted down with stones.

  My father sighs and sticks a toothpick in his mouth. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, Moose, but I understand how upsetting that would be.”

  My mother glares at him. “A con whistled at her. Is that it? She’s a pretty little girl, your sister. I wish I had a penny for every time some guy whistled at me. Let’s not lose sight of what’s important here.”

  “Honey, wait.” My father takes her arm again.

  “No, you wait. Natalie is getting better. Do you know what she said yesterday? She said, ‘You made me sad.’ Do you think I like making her sad? I don’t. But she’s never said anything like that before. ‘What is 55,031 times 59,032.’ ‘Does May 16 fall on a Wednesday in 1914?’ This she’s said. But never you—not Mommy—you, a pronoun. I’ve been trying to get Natalie to use pronouns her whole life. And feelings . . . she said something she felt. Natalie is communicating with us . . . this is so important! There’s no way she’ll be turned down at the Esther P. Marinoff now—”

  “It’s dangerous, Mom.”

  “Dangerous? Nothing on this island is half as dangerous as having her locked in her own world. Not one half, not one fourth, not one tenth as dangerous as that. So, I am not, do you two hear
me, NOT GOING TO CHANGE ONE SINGLE THING ABOUT NATALIE’S DAY! Things are going too well. And, Moose, I won’t have you sulking inside with her all afternoon!”

  This smarts. I can’t believe she said this. “I’ve been taking her with me everywhere! I haven’t been sulking!”

  “No, of course not.” My father’s hand cups my neck. “You’ve been a major reason why Natalie is doing so well, and your mother and I understand that.”

  My mother glares at my father. She’s really angry now, but I am too. No matter how hard I work, it’s never enough. She walks out of the room, then back in. “The entrance interviews for the Esther P. Marinoff are only four weeks away. We’re so close. I don’t want anything to go wrong.” Her voice cracks.

  “Calm down, honey. Nothing’s going to go wrong,” my father says. “It’s not.

  “Moose”—he turns to me—“thanks for bringing this to our attention. But I need to talk to your mom for a minute alone.”

  29. Convict Choir Boy

  Wednesday, May 1, 1935

  The next week I do my best to stay away from Piper. But the more I steer clear, the more she seems to want to be around me. “She’s planning something. Watch yourself,” Annie tells me on Monday.

  On Wednesday I find out Piper has given Scout 105’s baseball, and then she’s stopped talking to Scout. I guess she doesn’t need him anymore. And Scout doesn’t seem to care, which surprises me even more. “You can have her, Moose,” he tells me while we’re warming up for our lunch game. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

  “Oh, great,” I say. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I think she’s googly-eyed for you, anyway,” he says.

  “No, she isn’t,” I tell him.

  Scout nods his head. “You like her too, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him. It isn’t possible to like someone I dislike as much as Piper. It didn’t used to be possible, anyway.