Whistling in the Dark

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

On the ride over to Granny’s, Henry and I sat in the backseat of his Rambler that still had that certain smell of newness about it. I had not let go of Henry’s hand and it was beginning to sweat but I didn’t mind that at all. That was how I knew I was in love with him, because I didn’t even like to hold Troo’s hand when it got that clammy. Troo was feeling better. Her nose was just a lot bigger. She was sitting in front with Mr. Fitzpatrick, her head resting against the back of the seat. The breeze coming through the car window was drying off the sweat that had popped up on her forehead below her coonskin. She looked like she was almost asleep.

“Sally?” Mr. Fitzpatrick said quietly. He was looking at me in the rearview mirror. Henry’s dad was a white-looking man so it made me wonder if Henry got the homofeelya from him. Mr. Fitzpatrick wore thick black glasses and was almost bald so he had the forehead of a baby but a chin made of stone. I wanted to say to Troo, “Fitzpatrick?” And I hoped she’d say, “Irish.”

“Yes, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I said.

“Officer Rasmussen just told me that there’s been a little problem with Hall. You need to stay at your granny’s tonight and then tomorrow Nell and Eddie will come and get you.”

I knew this was going to happen. Hall was dead, I bet.

Henry squeezed my hand a little tighter when I rolled down my window to get some of that nice thick summer night air. When I was ready, I asked, “What happened to Hall?”

I looked at the back of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s neck. He must’ve just had a haircut because there was a red rash running along the edge of his white pharmacy jacket. Mother used to tell Daddy that Vaseline was good for that.

Mr. Fitzpatrick put his eyes back on the road. “Hall got himself into a little bit of trouble and he’s down at the jail right now.”

Troo, who it turned out was not sleeping at all, said, “Did he get in a fight?”

Mr. Fitzpatrick said, “Hall hit Mr. Jerbak over the head with a beer bottle and now Mr. Jerbak is in the hospital.”

“And he’s in jail for that?” Troo asked, surprise in her voice. Kids were always getting hit and nobody had to go to jail.

“Charges are being pressed against Hall,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. He turned on his blinker, which made that soft tick tick tick noise. We turned down Fifty-ninth Street and went past Delancey’s Corner Store, which made me think of poor Sara Heinemann going to get her mother some milk and maybe have a glass of Ovaltine before she got tucked into bed and instead she ended up dead. A couple people in shorts and T-shirts were still sitting out on their front steps, drinking out of beer bottles and listening to the radio that was playing some boogie-woogie. One of them waved to Mr. Fitzpatrick and he waved back.

“Can I press some of those charges against Greasy Al?” Troo asked.

Mr. Fitzpatrick shook his head and frowned. “Don’t you worry, the Molinari boy won’t be bothering you again, Troo. Officer Rasmussen will see to that.”

I could tell from the way he had talked to him at the drugstore that Mr. Fitzpatrick admired Rasmussen. I so wanted to tell him how it was Rasmussen who had murdered and molested his niece Sara. Because of that rash on his neck and because his boy had homofeelya, it made me think he’d understand about some things. “Officer Rasmussen…,” I started to say.

Mr. Fitzpatrick’s eyes moved back to the rearview mirror. “What about Officer Rasmussen?”

“He’s… he’s…”

“Yeah… he’s a great guy, isn’t he?” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “Dave’s been a real help to the family during this hard time.”

I squeezed Henry’s hand so hard that he yelped out.

“I want to go home,” I said the second he parked in front of Granny’s.

Mr. Fitzpatrick put his arm along the top of his seat and turned toward me and Henry. He had a nice gold watch and his arm was hairy on his white skin. I had to keep myself from laying my face on that arm because it looked so much like Daddy’s. “I’m sorry, Sally. Officer Rasmussen doesn’t think it’s a good idea for you to go home right now.”

I bet he didn’t. Rasmussen just wanted to know where I was so later, when it got good and dark, he could tell Granny he’d come to take me home, and because she was so old she’d just hand me over to him like a day-old newspaper.

Mr. Fitzpatrick looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go pick up my wife now, girls. You’ll be fine here for tonight.”

Troo, who must’ve gotten punched a lot harder than I thought because she was being way too quiet, said, “Okay.” Mr. Fitzpatrick got out of the car and opened Troo’s door for her and gave her nose a quick look-see and said, “Keep ice on that tonight. It should feel better tomorrow.”

I turned to Henry and gave him my best smile, the one where my dimples got so big you could hide a piece of Dubble Bubble in ’em. Henry said, “See you at the funeral tomorrow, Sally.” And out the window he called, “Don’t worry about your bike, Troo. Pop put it in the store to keep it safe. And your ice cream cone, too.”

Troo said, “It’s not an ice… aw, forget it,” and turned toward Granny’s.

I felt astounded, because suddenly I knew why Troo wanted to do that smooching with Willie. More than anything I wanted to feel my lips against Henry Fitzpatrick’s fuzzy pale cheek and whisper thank you for rescuing us from Greasy Al. But Mr. Fitzpatrick was right there and I wasn’t sure how he’d take that.

After the car pulled away from the curb, Troo said, “You like him?”

“Yes,” I said. We watched the Rambler go down the street. Henry’s white hand was flapping good-bye out the back window.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, looking at her nose.

“I’ve had worse.”

She was thinking about the car crash because she always got this look on her face that was different from all her other looks. A sort of Statue of Liberty look.

“Do you miss him?” I asked.

She knew I meant Daddy but she pretended she didn’t. She threw the ice down on the grass and reached into her pocket for an L &M. She lit it and then took a deep puff, blowing it into a ring that floated over my head. She grinned at my amazement. “Fast Susie showed me how to do that. It’s called a French smoke ring.” The smoke floated above her head like a halo. “Let’s go see Ethel. I wouldn’t mind playin’ some cards with her and Mr. Gary. In fact, that would be a fantastic thing to do right now, go play some old maid. And maybe we could get Ethel to give us some of those blond brownies. I’m famished.”

I was so relieved. Troo was feeling lots better because she had just said four f words. I was also relieved that I would not have to sit in that old chair of Granny’s by the window and watch Uncle Paulie gluing Popsicle sticks together while he whistled old-timey songs, knowing that Rasmussen knew where I was sleeping. So I said the one thing my sister never got sick of hearing. “Troo genius.”