Whistling in the Dark

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saaally… Saaally.” The sound of her scream chased my dream away. I tried to jump out of bed, to get to her, to help her. Was Hall after her? Rasmussen? “I’m coming,” I yelled back, fighting to get untangled from Mother’s yellow nightie.

Troo came running from the back stairs into Mother’s room and flew up onto the bed next to me. “Wake the hell up, it’s almost seven thirty and we gotta be at the park by eight sharp.” She smacked me in the head with the pillow and then walked over to Mother’s dressing table. She didn’t ask me what I was doing sleeping in Mother’s room, but from her reflection in the mirror I thought maybe she already knew and was just daring me to say something about what she was doin’. She slid some blue eye shadow over her lids and ran a bit of the cherry red lipstick across her pouty lips and tipped the Evening in Paris bottle upside down and put some on her wrists. And then she got up and hit me one more time with the pillow and said, “I’ll meet you downstairs. Hurry. I got something to show you,” and ran off.

Just like Hall, Nell hadn’t come home last night. (Troo added that to her tattletale list with a bunch of patriotic stars.)

I pulled Mother’s nightie off and kissed Daddy’s watch and put them back where they belonged. When I was all dressed, I chased down the back steps, pushed on the screen door and had that radio weatherman ever been wrong. July Fourth, 1959, was beautiful. Today my Troo would win that bike-decorating prize because, boy oh boy, did her Schwinn look grand! She musta got up early and worked on it some more. I didn’t think she’d be able to ride it over to the park cuz it was so covered in flowers and streamers and crepe paper.

Troo was standing in front of the bike holding on to something that looked like a giant ice cream cone made out of that old Kroger bag she’d found down at the lagoon. She also had a crown or something on her head made out of aluminum foil that came to a bunch of points that reminded me of Butchy’s old dog collar.

She stood up extra straight and looked off into the distance with a serious face and when I didn’t say anything, she said, “Don’t you get it? I’m the Statue of Liberty.”

“Ohhhh,” I said, not wanting to get too close to that pointy crown, which looked like it could definitely poke your eye out.

“It’s the pièce de résistance, non?” Troo laughed. “I looked up a picture of it over at the library and Mrs. Kambowski has been teaching me some more French words. Did you know the statue was a present from France?”

I wished I had a Brownie camera. I would’ve taken a picture of Troo and run it up to the hospital to Mother. Troo looked so beautiful and so… foreign.

“Do you like my chapeau?”

I searched around for whatever the heck a chapeau was.

She pointed at the crown.

“Ohhh,” I said again. “But what’s the ice cream cone got to do with it?”

Troo shook it at me and said, “It’s not an ice cream cone, you nitwit. It’s her torch. I found an old sheet for her dress but I took it off because I kept trippin’ on it and fallin’ down.”

She carefully wheeled her bike through the backyard and down the front hill, me trailing behind. Looking at Troo that morning as we walked toward the park, the sun bouncing off her shiny chapeau, I knew what I had to do to protect her. I had to come up with some sort of a plan for my little Statue of Liberty. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Because if Rasmussen murdered and molested me, she would never be able to stand it. Nobody could whistle in the dark that loud, not even my Troo. So a scheme was what I needed. Like in one of those movies at the Uptown. Just like that Humphrey Bogart. He always had a scheme.

Yes, what I needed to do was get the goods on Rasmussen. Spy on him, catch him doing something that he shouldn’t or find some evidence, and then I could reveal him to everybody for what he really was. But maybe I wouldn’t start that until I had a chance to talk to Mary Lane, because she was the best spy in the neighborhood. Mary Lane was a regular Mata Hari. Or maybe I’d wait until after Sara Heinemann’s funeral, which was going to be tomorrow. Would Rasmussen go to the funeral? Sometimes in movies after somebody murdered somebody they would go to the funeral. Mary Lane always hung around after she lit a fire. Just stood there and watched it burn until there was nothing left but the smell and the smile on her face.

What a show!

Hundreds of kids and bikes and dogs with bows around their necks and even some baby buggies covered the big grassy area that ran along the banks of the Honey Creek. There were balloons hanging from the trees and picnic benches scattered around with paper tablecloths the same color as the flags on little sticks that everybody was waving around. The day was the hottest yet this summer and everybody was saying thank God for the shade. The Fourth was always hot around here, you could count on that. But this was even hotter than what you could count on.

The Everly Brothers were blaring out of loudspeakers, trying to wake up Little Susie, until someone came on and said, “All children under twelve should meet under the oak tree with the red ribbon around it.” Troo jumped up off the grass and said, “One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go, cat, go.”

I trailed behind her as we shoved through a crowd of older kids, one of them being Greasy Al Molinari, who was probably just there to steal some kid’s bike when they went to the bathroom.

Greasy Al pointed at Troo’s crown and torch and said, “What ya s’posed to be, O’Malley? A TV-antenna-eatin’ ice cream cone?” His beady greasy eyes stared out from beneath his clumpy black eyebrows. His mouth hung half open like it always did. “I been lookin’ for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Troo smiled and said, “What would a spaghetti for brains like you want with me?”

The big muscles in Greasy Al’s arms twitched. He and his brothers liked to lift weights in their garage on this bench they had sitting below this picture of Ava Gardner in a leopard-skin bathing suit. “What did you just call me, you little mick?”

Troo smiled her even better smile, the one where she shows every single one of her teeth. “You heard me. Or are your ears as gimpy as your polio leg?”

Greasy Al pushed off the tree and walked up to us. “Nice bike.”

“Don’t even think about stealing this bike,” Troo snarled. “And if you ever come after my sister again, I’ll-”

The voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Last call for the under-twelves bicycle-decorating contest. At the oak tree with the red ribbon.”

“Let me by, you dago,” Troo said, trying to push past him. Greasy Al had her front bike wheel in between his legs.

And then real fast, Greasy Al took out his switchblade knife from his back pocket and cut all the white Kleenex flowers off Troo’s handlebars with one hand and with the other ripped off her crown. He hunch-limped away laughing, smashing the shiny aluminum foil between his fingers.

“Last call for the under-twelves,” the voice said again.

If this had happened to anybody else but Troo, like me for instance, I’d be bawling my head off. But not my Real Trooper. She stared after Greasy Al, and if looks really could kill, Greasy Al woulda been deader than a doorknob.

Then out of nowhere Rasmussen showed up with a ribbon on his T-shirt that said JUDGE. No matter where we went or what we did, it seemed like Rasmussen was just around the corner.

“Morning, girls,” he said. He looked different out of his policeman’s uniform. More like some of the other men from the neighborhood. “You better get over there, Troo, the judging is about to begin.” He took out some Scotch tape from his pocket and then quickly picked up the white flowers off the ground and taped them all back on to Troo’s handlebars.

Troo pushed her bike past him and made her way over to the oak tree. She forgot to thank Rasmussen because I knew she was busy thinking about how she would find Greasy Al later and do something really hideous to him. My sister had her cruisin’ for a bruisin’ wild look on her face.

Rasmussen smiled down at me and said, “You feeling okay? Recovered from last night?” I didn’t look up, but I nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said, and him and his clipboard moved over to a group of mothers with decorated baby buggies. Too bad Rasmussen liked to murder and molest girls because if he didn’t he probably would’ve been considered a good egg. That’s why Junie and Sara went off with him, because I also learned from those movies that when a crime was committed it was always somebody that nobody suspected. Like Jeeves, the good egg butler.

The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers and Italian sausage and bratwurst on the grills hung in the air even though it was early in the morning. After the sack races, Troo and me planned to eat so much food they’d have to take us home in a coaster wagon. Like camels, we’d be able to go a few more days without eating, and then on Thursday night Willie had invited us to have supper with him and his ma and Officer Riordan, who I thought I would tell about Rasmussen after all. If the timing was right.

Over thirty kids had entered but everybody there could tell right off that this was a two-horse race, just like it’d been last year. Troo was smiling at one of the judges, who was Mary Lane’s father. I guessed since the zoo was right next door, maybe since he wasn’t feeding Sampson, they made him come over and judge the bike-decorating contest.

Mr. Lane was looking over Artie Latour’s bike. Holy Ma gillacuddy! Artie had really gone all out. Way out! He had streamers trailing off his handlebars and baseball cards in the spokes and sitting in his basket was a giant cardboard picture of Abraham Lincoln, who looked-I’d never noticed this before-quite a lot like Nana Fazio, but much, much taller.

Mr. Lane came up to us and said, “How’s your mother feeling?” He bent down to look at the flowers that Rasmussen had taped back on Troo’s handlebars.

Putting on her absolutely best manners and her dolly voice, Troo said, “She’s doing fine, Mr. Lane. Thank you so much for asking.”

“Top-notch decorating, Troo. Top-notch.” Mr. Lane wrote something on his clipboard and moved down the line.

The loudspeaker crackled again and the man said, “Five minutes, judges. Five minutes left.”

Greasy Al Molinari was sitting on a picnic table using his switchblade to carve something into the brown wood. Troo couldn’t take her eyes off of him even after Rasmussen went over and started talking to him. I watched as Greasy Al slapped his switchblade knife into Rasmussen’s hand and limped off toward the Honey Creek, kicking Troo’s crushed-up crown along the ground.

“Before the sack race, let’s go down to the creek and cool off, okay?” Troo said, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her arm.

“Yeah, the creek sounds real good.” I knew she might lose this year because Artie’s bike was a lollapalooza and I would’ve done anything to make her feel better, even go down to the creek with her and throw stones at Greasy Al.

The loudspeaker buzzed back on. “All right, everybody, all the judging is final. If you hear your name, please go over to the judges’ table next to the picnic area to pick up your prize.”

Wendy Latour won the prize for the best-decorated wagon. When she saw me she sang, “Thally O’Malley. Hi… hi… hi,” and then threw me some of her Dinah Shore USA kisses.

Mr. Mahlberg, who was doing the announcing, told everyone that some kid I didn’t know named Billy Quigley won for best tricycle. And then he said, “The twelve and unders were tough this year. Real tough.” Oh no. Oh no. Poor Troo. “Will Artie Latour and Troo O’Malley please come to the judges’ table?”

Of course I went with, and when we got there, Mr. Lane smiled and said, “Congratulations, Troo. You and Artie tied.” I thought the judges made it into a tie like that because our mother was dying, because Artie really deserved that first place. But a tie was good. That way nobody was going to spend the rest of the day shooting daggers out of their eyes at one another. But Troo wasn’t any too happy with that tie. I could tell by her too-wide, fake smile. “Go claim your prize,” Mr. Lane said, pointing behind us.

A big Kenfield’s Five and Dime banner hung behind the prize table. Mrs. Callahan was congratulating the winners.

“Hello, girls,” she said when we came up. “Congratulations, Troo.”

Betty Callahan got up from the folding chair and put her arms around us. She had on a sleeveless white blouse, navy Bermuda shorts and gold earrings. She also had a lot of oomph in her hair that she had recently changed. “You two doin’ all right?” she asked.

Mrs. Callahan smelled so good that I almost started crying, but then I looked over at Troo and she shot me a don’t-you-dare look. She must’ve also smelled that Evening in Paris.

“I visited your mother yesterday,” Mrs. Callahan said.

Troo was getting antsy, looking over at the prize table and not even listening. I knew what she had her eye on. It was a genuine Davy Crockett coonskin cap. Being the lover of hats that she was, she’d been admiring them up at the Five and Dime for the last week and now Artie Latour was running his hand through the fur.

“My sister, Margie, who’s a nurse up at St. Joe’s, told me that Helen is holding her own,” Mrs. Callahan said.

Troo wandered toward the prize table and got up right behind Artie and whispered something in his ear. Probably threatening to drown him in the Honey Creek if he didn’t let her have that coonskin cap.

“You sure everything is okay at your house, Sal?”

“Everything is fine, Mrs. Callahan.” Now Artie had that coonskin in his hand and Troo was grabbing the coonskin tail and if I didn’t do something, this would turn into the kind of roll-around-on-the-ground fight that Troo had a bad reputation for.

I started to hurry toward them, but then I stopped and turned my head back to Mrs. Callahan. “Is that true what you just said about Mother? That she’s holding her own?” I wasn’t sure what that meant but it sounded pretty good and I wished she really was holding her own. Mrs. Callahan looked me directly in the eye and couldn’t say another word, so I pretty much knew she was just saying that to make me feel better.

“Fight!”

I turned and there were Artie and Troo wrestling and rolling in the dirt. She had the coonskin cap tucked under her arm and wouldn’t give it up, and then she kicked Artie a good one in the leg right before Mr. Lane came by to pull her off. Mr. Lane picked up the coonskin and set it on Troo’s head. I looked back at Artie Latour doubled over on the ground holding his leg. His shirt had got ripped and dirt caked his sweaty arms, and I thought in some special way our mother dying was working out okay for us because we were gettin’ cut all sorts of slack.

Troo was thinking the exact same thing. Because she got up off the ground, flipped the coonskin tail at Artie and took off laughing, waving her ice cream torch back and forth and yelling, “Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled messes.”