Al Capone Does My Shirts Page 15

  My father laughs. “Yes, you’re right, honey. That’s your brother’s other girlfriend, isn’t it?”

  I go into the kitchen to get a hat. Natalie is running her hand over and over the orange streamers attached to the pitcher.

  Piper is right behind me. She looks at the cake with the big “10” on it and then back at Natalie through the doorway.

  I feel my face get hot. I’m suddenly so angry at my mother, I can barely speak.

  “Theresa, Theresa, Theresa,” I hear Natalie say.

  “Why’s she saying that?” I ask my mom.

  “Don’t ask me. Shame on you, Moose. Go ask your sister,” my mother says.

  Natalie looks up. Not quite at anybody, but up just the same. “Theresa here,” Natalie says. “Theresa.”

  My mother’s face lights up. “Did you hear that, Moose? Did you? Now you move those overgrown feet of yours and invite Theresa over.”

  I knock on the Mattamans’ door. Theresa answers, already in her pajamas. “Of course Natalie wants me, silly! We’re friends!” she informs me when I tell her what Natalie said.

  “Jimmy!” Theresa hollers. She ducks into Jimmy’s room and drags him out. Jimmy looks dazed, like he’s been living underwater.

  “Mommy!” she calls to Mrs. Mattaman. “Jimmy and me are going to the Flanagans’.”

  Back in our kitchen, we start singing, but before we even get through “birthday,” Theresa puts her hand up like a policeman and yells, “Wait! We forgot Annie.”

  We all look at her.

  My mother’s cheek twitches a little, like she’s not pleased about this. She opens her mouth to object, but too late. Theresa is already out the door.

  When Annie arrives, she smiles at us and we all begin singing again. This time we get all the way through.

  “Hey, Natalie, did you know your birthday is four months and ten days after Al Capone’s,” Annie says as my mom cuts the cake.

  “January seventeen,” Natalie says, “seventeen.”

  “That’s his birthday all right. I made a card for him too,” Theresa says. “I cut out little circles to look like bullet holes and everything.”

  “How did he get that scar, anyway?” I ask.

  My father winks at me. “Girl trouble,” he says.

  My mother starts to open Natalie’s presents. I’m not sure why we bother wrapping them. Natalie doesn’t understand why presents should be wrapped. If you give her a wrapped gift, she takes it and puts it on her shelf that way.

  “Mrs. Flanagan, what are you doing?” Theresa asks.

  My mother gets a little red. She flashes her pinched smile. “Natalie doesn’t really”—I can almost see her searching for the right word—“care to open her own gifts. . . .”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Flanagan, but that’s my job.” Theresa snatches the half-wrapped present out of my mother’s hand and rips the rest of the wrapping off.

  “Oh,” my mother says. She and my dad exchange a big smile. My mom moves the presents over to where Theresa is sitting.

  The first gift is from me. It’s a math workbook I got at school. From Piper she gets a bag of buttons. “Thank you, Piper. These will be for later.” My mom winks at Piper, then slips the bag of buttons in her apron pocket.

  Theresa gives Nat my father’s gift—a book about birds with an enormous index. And from my mother a book bag with NATALIE FLANAGAN, THE ESTHER P. MARINOFF SCHOOL embroidered on the front. My mom doesn’t embroider. I don’t think she even knows how. “Convicts in the tailor shop,” my dad whispers in my ear.

  The gifts are all unwrapped now and Natalie is looking at them. She touches each with her fingertips and then sniffs every one. We talk for a while, and when it’s time for everyone to leave, my father says, “Moose, walk your friends home, please. Or maybe I should say your harem,” he whispers in my ear. “Yours and Jimmy’s, that is.”

  “Give it a rest, Dad,” I say.

  My dad rumples my hair. His eyes are bright and hopeful.

  We all walk together. First we drop off Jimmy and Theresa, then Annie.

  “Good night, you two,” Annie says to me and Piper. I don’t like the way she says this. I pull at my shirt collar, which is pinching my neck.

  We walk up the steep road to Piper’s house. It’s beautiful out. The blue-black night all around, the black, black water, San Francisco like a bright box of lights. This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. Then I look at the cell house, sad and silent. The lights are dim. I don’t hear anything except from deep inside the sound of one metal cup clanking the length of the bars and one lone voice calling for help.

  “What’s that?” I ask, careful not to sound spooked.

  “They do that now and then. Usually it’s a bunch of them, that way it’s hard to tell who’s doing it.”

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Who knows,” Piper says. When we get to her house, she stops. “How old is she really?” she asks.

  I don’t say anything.

  “Fifteen?” she asks.

  “Sixteen,” my voice answers. My whole body flames hot and sweaty, then cold.

  Piper nods. “That’s what we figured,” she says.

  I walk back down the hill, the word we buzzing inside my head like a fly in a small room.

  35. The Truth

  Same day—Monday, May 27, 1935

  When I get home, my mom is doing the dishes. Natalie is sitting in the living room, paging through a magazine. For a second there’s something so normal about this, until I realize the pages are turning too fast and she’s holding the magazine too close to her face. It’s the breeze from the spinning pages she’s after.

  My mom seems more relaxed. The party went well. The day is almost over. Natalie seems fine—as calm as she ever is. I try to walk away. Shut the door of my room. But I can’t. Something inside won’t let me.

  “You can’t do this,” I tell my mother.

  “What?” My mother looks up from the pot she’s scouring.

  “She isn’t ten,” I say, my voice hoarse.

  My mother winces and turns away. “Yes, she is,” she says in a tough voice.

  “No, she’s not, Mom. She’s not and everybody knows it.”

  My mom continues to stare at the pot. Her face is quivering. Her hands are scrubbing. “She is,” she sputters.

  “No. Mom. You know she’s not.”

  “Eleven.” My mom gulps. She sounds like a very little girl. “I’m going to say she’s eleven.”

  “It’s her birthday today. She looks sixteen. She is sixteen.”

  “NO. JUST NO!” my mother roars.

  “People know, Mom. They know.”

  “They don’t know!” she cries, tears streaming down her face. “You don’t know! She won’t have a chance at sixteen. No one will take her. No one cares about an adult that isn’t right. It’s only kids who have a chance. It’s too late if she’s sixteen. Don’t you see?”

  “Yeah, but Mom, you can’t pretend! It’s worse. People know—”

  “No one knows. They don’t know and they don’t care. Put her in an institution. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Lock her up with all the nuts. She has to be TEN. It’s the only chance she has!”

  “Don’t you think they know at the Esther P. Marinoff? Don’t you think Mr. Purdy can tell? Everybody can tell, Mom!”

  “No, they can’t. She’s tall for her age. You’re tall too!”

  “She’s not going to be like everybody else, Mom. This is her only chance and it’s no chance at all if you’re not honest.”

  “Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say anything!” My mom’s hands are pressed over her ears.

  My father rushes inside. He had been out on the front balcony, chewing his toothpicks. He must have heard us. He looks at my mom, then me. “What the heck is going on here?”

  “Natalie is sixteen, Dad. We can’t pretend she’s not anymore. She isn’t ten. She just isn’t!”

  My dad bites his lip ha
rd. “Let’s not do this now, Moose. Not with the interview tomorrow!”

  “We have to do it now! Mr. Purdy knows. Everybody does. We can’t try to fool them. It won’t work. She won’t get in.”

  My father’s eyes get big. He shakes his head, but so slowly, he seems to be saying no to what he’s thinking, not to me.

  It’s quiet in the kitchen. My mother is sitting on the step-stool, her face buried in her hands.

  My father turns away. I can see by how he covers his head with his hand how ashamed he is of crying.

  “Moose,” he says, trying to wipe the tears away with his handkerchief. He takes a big noisy breath.

  “NO!” My mom cries. “NO!”

  Natalie is in the living room, silently rocking.

  My dad presses his lips together and wipes at his eyes. He seems to get himself together and breathes a half breath, half sigh. “Moose . . . is right, honey.”

  “DON’T YOU DARE!” my mother cries.

  “Yes,” he says again. He puts his arm around my shoulders and walks me out to the living room, where Natalie is sitting, rocking.

  “Natalie,” he asks softly, his voice breaking. “How old are you?”

  “I am sixteen at two thirty-one today,” Natalie says, her eyes focused on the table lamp.

  My father presses his lips so hard together, they turn white. The tears are falling again, so fast, it looks as if he can’t see. He puts his arm around me and pulls me to Natalie. He puts his other arm around her. “I am”—he wipes at his eyes with his shoulder so he doesn’t have to let go of us—“so very proud of my children. So very proud.” A sob escapes his chest. “What wonderful people you’ve grown to be.”

  36. Waiting

  Tuesday, May 28, 1935

  The next morning I feel my mother watching me as I rinse my cereal bowl, search for my history homework, put on my socks. She has her makeup on, but her eyes look puffy, her face swollen.

  “What?” I ask her.

  She says nothing, busies herself getting Natalie ready to go.

  When I get home from school, Theresa, Natalie and my mother are sitting in the living room. My mother is radiant. Natalie was wonderful. She spoke clearly in the new Natalie way. She tried her best to look at Mr. Purdy when she spoke. She even told a joke. A joke!

  “Why did the chicken cross the road?” my mom said Natalie asked Mr. Purdy.

  “Well, I don’t know, Natalie,” Mr. Purdy had said.

  “Because one of his buttons rolled to the other side,” Natalie said.

  Okay, it wasn’t funny. But still.

  Even as happy as my mother seems about this, she is still watching me in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

  “Come on, Moose,” she says after I polish off a stack of cold pancakes from last night’s supper. “I want to talk. Just the two of us.”

  Theresa chatters on about tomato juice. Natalie seems to be listening. I even see her look up at Theresa once or twice. Theresa has a real instinct for what Natalie will find fascinating.

  “Who’s going to watch Natalie?” I ask. Though really what I’m wondering is what my mom wants to talk about. I don’t have talks with my mom. Only with my dad.

  “Me, of course,” Theresa says.

  My mom nods. She smiles at Theresa, but not at me. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want to look at me.

  We walk down the stairs to the dock. She fiddles with the button on her sweater.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she says.

  What do I say to this? Nothing. I say nothing. I’m too angry to make this easy for her.

  She looks across the water to Berkeley. “I didn’t like it. I didn’t like what you said.” She shakes her head.

  She dragged me all the way out here to say that? This has to be the biggest understatement in the world.

  “You didn’t care that it made me mad,” my mom says in a quiet tone of voice. “You didn’t care that it upset your father. You didn’t care that it was the night before Natalie’s interview. You didn’t care about anything. I have never been so furious with anyone in all my born days.” My mom’s voice is strangely calm. She isn’t angry, but I am. I am seething inside. I open my mouth to tell her how wrong she is, how unfair she’s being.

  “Wait.” She holds her finger to her lips. “Let me finish.”

  “But I see how much you care about Natalie. That’s the part that didn’t make sense. All night I tossed and turned. I kept asking why. Moose, of all people. Why did he say that? Why? And you know what? I could only come up with one answer.

  “You did it because you believed in your heart it was the right thing to do. You were doing what you thought would help your sister.” She stops. Tears spill down her face.

  “I can’t imagine how I could ask for anything more from you. I can’t imagine how I could.”

  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.

  37. Carrie Kelly

  Same day—Tuesday, May 28, and Wednesday, May 29, 1935

  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 Fla
nagan, 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.