Good Graces

Chapter Thirty-one

By the time Dave and Mother got home from Music Under the Stars last night, Troo and me had already cleaned all the digging dirt off in the tub, talked some more about what happened over at the rectory and got our stories straight. When the lovebirds came in the back door, laughing like they had a great time over at the park and didn’t want it to end, the O’Malley sisters were in our bed pretending to be asleep.

After Dave went upstairs to turn in, Mother slipped into our bedroom. I breathed in the smell of Blatz and her Chanel No. 5 when she bent down and gave us each a kiss, which is the only time she likes to show that she loves us-when we’re asleep. (She thinks she’s being tricky, but Troo and me find her lip prints on our cheeks in the morning.)

I spent most of the night going over in my mind what Wendy accidentally did to Father Mickey. And how Troo and me buried him. But when I finally fell asleep, I didn’t have any nightmares, which I took as another thumbs-up from God.

Troo decided it would be best if we make ourselves scarce today, so we are up and at ’em early, even before Mr. Peterson gets here with the milk. So that Mother doesn’t get sore at us, I scribble a note for her and tape it to the coffeepot before we take off:

Good morning! Sorry. I forgot to tell you. Mary Lane invited us to go see the new zoo today. Be back later! xxxoooxxx P.S. You looked swankier than Mamie Van Doren last night at the fish fry.

My sister is riding me over to the Lanes’ on her handlebars. When we pass by our neighbors’ houses, I picture them snuggling together in their beds, dreaming sweet dreams. What a surprise they’re in for this morning when Father Mickey doesn’t show up for Mass.

When Troo pedals past the Molinaris’ house, she says into my ear, “What the hell do ya think happened to him?”

I don’t answer her because the reason that Greasy Al never showed back up to get his revenge against my sister for sending him to reform school even I can’t imagine.

After rounding the corner of 58th Street, two houses down, I hop off and Troo dumps her bike on the Lanes’ front lawn. We know which room is Mary Lane’s. We’ve done this a million times before. After Troo gives me a boost through our friend’s window, she stands on the hose faucet and slithers over the sill after me.

Troo wants to get some warm water out of the bathroom so she can stick Mary Lane’s hand in it, but I stop her. I’m feeling a smidge disloyal for not telling our other best friend the truth about what happened to Father Mickey, but I guess Troo’s right, we need to keep it to ourselves because it is better to be safe than sorry. She is Mary Lane, after all. There is no one better at keeping secrets, but she might work the story of what happened last night into a no-tripper tale with gypsy priests and wieners and blood-dripping altar boys, not even realizing she is doing it. We can’t take that chance.

I gotta be careful when I shake Mary Lane awake by her bony shoulder because, I’m not kidding, it’s so sharp she could use it to open tin cans. “Mary Lane. Mary Lane.”

“What?” she says, sitting up straight from the waist and reminding me again of that actress in The Bride of Frankenstein when she’s on the doctor’s table right after she’s brought to life. Mary Lane’s permanent wave hasn’t settled down at all.

Because of our mental telepathy, I know Troo’s about to crack wise about her electrified hair, so I hurry and tell Mary Lane, “It’s a matter of life and death. We need to go out to the zoo with you today. I can’t wait anymore. I gotta see Sampson.” That’s not a lie I’m telling her just to get out of the neighborhood for the day. I really do need to see him bad. It’s been almost three months. He must be missing me as much as I’m missing him.

Mary Lane, who smells like her pillow, which I’m sure is stuffed with potato chips, says, “Fine by me, but we gotta ask my dad.”

After she pulls on her usual high-tops, T-shirt and shorts, the three of us go out to the kitchen and beg Mr. Lane to take us with him to work. Being the nice man that he is, he swigs down his cup of breakfast java and says, “Yeah, sure. The more the hairier.” (He is known for these kinds of animal jokes. I think telling them is part of his job the same way shoveling poop is.)

Mary Lane was right when she told me at the beginning of summer that it would take at least three buses to get out to the new zoo on Bluemound Road. It takes almost a half hour by car. It kills me to say it, but it was worth it. It’s really nice. And HUGE. There’s an all-the-time pony ride and the hot dogs they sell are the Oscar Meyer wiener whistle kind and the critters have a lot more room to roam. I want to see Sampson right away, but Mary Lane wants to show us around. She is a big believer in saving the best for last.

We’re her guests, so that’s what we do. Spend the whole day, running here and there. The polar bears’ area looks like the North Pole and Monkey Island is something straight out of a jungle. There’s lots of animals that we didn’t even have at the old zoo, like seals and reindeer. The Reptile House is full of snakes. The boa constrictor sticks his tongue out and makes me think of Bobby Brophy. The only out-of-place cage we come across is the one that belongs to the camel, who doesn’t look like he lives in the desert of Arabia, but the dirt lot on the corner of 53rd Street.

When I ask her why, Mary Lane tells me, “That’s the best Dad could do. Bringin’ in all that sand costs a lot of money and camels are really stupid and they spit worse than your sister. What’d ya do to your tooth, by the way?”

I forgot all about it. “Ah… I… tripped and um… can we go see Sampson now?”

Troo and me follow her past the flamingoes and the penguins over to the Primate House. Mary Lane pulls open the door and says, “He’s got a big yard all to himself, but he’s indoors today. This way.” She leads us past the chimps and the mandrills and all the other monkeys doing their shenanigans until we get to the biggest and busiest cage of all.

Mary Lane clears her throat and announces very professionally, “Zoo business. Comin’ through,” and we push to the front of the crowd.

Seeing him in all his glory, it makes my knees go floppy. I tenderly press my hand against the glass and wait for him to do the same, the way he always did, but Sampson stays where he is, looking at me with his fudgey brown eyes the same way he’s looking at everybody else. He isn’t singing Don’t Get Around Much Anymore or Take Me Out to the Ballgame. He’s not beating his chest because he’s so happy to see me, after so much time apart. He just hangs there for a while from his ceiling rope and when he gets tired of that, he starts looking for that thing in his ear that he’s still not found.

Troo says, “Doesn’t look like he remembers you,” and I can’t get mad because it seems that way to me, too.

I think Mary Lane knows how let-down I’m feelin’ because she says very kindly, “C’mon, we gotta go. Time to meet Dad in the parkin’ lot.”

On the ride back home, I’m wondering if Sampson acted cool toward me because he’s living in a much better place than he used to. Sorta the same thing happened when Troo and me went to visit our old Vliet Street friend Louise Greely after she moved to a much bigger house near Enderis Park that had a huge yard and a swing of her own hanging off a tree. We didn’t have much to say to each other anymore either.

Sampson’s snub woulda cut me to the core in the olden days, but for some reason I’m going to have to think long and hard about, when Mr. Lane pulls up in front of our house I notice that my heart isn’t feeling shattered into a million pieces. More like one of its wings fell off.