Whistling in the Dark

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We were standing on Mrs. Galecki’s front porch. After we rang the doorbell, nobody answered and I got worried that they might all be asleep. From where I stood I could see the top of our house and the Kenfields’ and I knew there would be some Dottie ghost-crying going on in her bedroom. And, of course, I could see Rasmussen’s house because I was standing ten feet away from it. His house was bigger than Mrs. Galecki’s. Not a duplex, but a house where only one family lived, like our old one out in the country. I so missed that house. Even peeing Jerry Amberson. Things seemed a lot safer out there, if you didn’t count the farmers that were always getting an arm or leg whacked off by an International Harvester like what happened to Mr. Jerry Amberson, who had a hand that was hard and hollow and the fingernails were painted a fancy lady pink. But at least out in the country there wasn’t a murderer or a molester. Who was a cop. Whose house I could touch right this minute.

“You know, it’s gonna be the block party soon,” I said to Troo, who looked awfully tired from our seven-block walk over from Granny’s. I always mentioned the block party when I wanted to cheer her up because it was her favorite thing about summer. That’s when she’d been crowned Queen of the Playground, her favorite part being that rhinestone crown I had told her more than once did not look good with her snowsuit.

Troo didn’t answer.

“And the state fair.” I added on her third favorite thing about summer.

Troo was sniffing the air. The wind was blowing those chocolate chip cookie smells our way. Those ovens baked day and night, night and day up at the Feelin’ Good Cookie Factory. Mother always said the smell of those cookies gave her a stomachache. Maybe that smell was what had made her gallbladder so bad.

“Troo?”

“Shhh… I think I hear something.” She stepped back down off the porch and looked back up at the house. Then I heard something, too. I followed her around the side of Mrs. Galecki’s that was so close to Rasmussen’s. Laughter got louder with each step.

Sitting in the screened porch that Mr. Gary Galecki had built for his mother right after the Fourth last summer, so she could enjoy the rest of the summer nights without getting bitten up by the skeeters, were Ethel and Ray Buck Johnson and Mr. Gary. Me and Troo had watched while Mr. Gary built that porch for his ma. The wood smelled so good when he cut it on that buzzing saw. We would get him drinks of water when he asked us to and he told us stories about California and how he had oranges that grew on trees right in his backyard and that he had the loveliest rose-bushes, over twenty of them. Mr. Gary said that maybe someday Troo and me could come out there to visit him and he would take us to Disneyland.

“Well, who do we have here?” Ethel said when we came around the corner, even though she darn well knew who we were.

Mr. Gary got up and opened the screen door to let us in. He was on the tallish side and a lot stronger than he looked. And he had the most beautiful hands you’ve ever seen. Narrow, with strong clean fingernails. Of course, he had those ears that were a lot like Dumbo’s, so God had to give him those hands to make up for those ears. Ray Buck was sitting on a little straw couch and smoking a cigar. Ethel was waving a punk back and forth to keep the skeeters away just in case one got in there because Ethel absolutely despised skeeters and called them God’s worst idea. They had the record player on in the house and Nat King Cole was singing “Mona Lisa” through the kitchen screen door onto the porch.

Mr. Gary gave us both a really good hug. “It’s about time you showed up. Thought maybe you didn’t like old Mr. Gary anymore.” He wasn’t old, he was just making a joke. He was the same age as everybody in the graduating picture in my hidey-hole. The same age as Mother. Thirty-eight years old. “My, how you two have grown,” he said like he was surprised and maybe a little disappointed.

We hadn’t seen Mr. Gary for a whole year. The last time he was here was last summer, right around when Junie Piaskowski turned up dead, that’s all anybody could talk or think about so we hadn’t really gotten to spend much time with him. Mr. Gary only came to visit during the summer because the winter cold made his teeth ache, which was why he’d moved to California in the first place.

“How old are you two now?” Mr. Gary placed his hand on Troo’s shoulder. He had no way of knowing that she didn’t like to be touched unless you were part of her family or one of her very, very best friends. But Ethel knew that so she jumped right up off the chair cushion and said, “My Lord, Troo, what happened to your nose?” She pulled Troo over to the light that was coming out of the kitchen. Troo tipped her head up toward Ethel. “Oh my goodness. Who did that to you, darlin’?”

Since Troo was looking too pooped to participate, I told them the story about what had happened with Greasy Al and how Hall was in jail and we weren’t sure where Nell was and how Mr. Fitzpatrick drove us to Granny’s but (I lied here, so I’m sorry about that, God and Daddy) Granny didn’t answer her door so we came over here.

“Well, of course you did,” Ethel said, and gave a worried look to Ray Buck and Mr. Gary. “I’m sure it’d be fine if you slept right out here on the porch tonight.”

Mr. Gary said, “Absolutely. We wouldn’t want you wandering the streets with all that’s been happening around here.”

Ray Buck got up and gave Troo his seat on the straw couch when Ethel went back into the house, probably to check on Mrs. Galecki. The fireflies had come out. Ethel told me once that fireflies had followed her up from Mississippi. And it was true, wasn’t it? How special people more than others attracted special things like fireflies and crickets and shooting stars and four-leaf clovers.

Ethel came back out with a plate. Ray Buck took a brownie but Mr. Gary said no thanks. Me and Troo had two each of those best blond Mississippi brownies.

When he was done chewing, Ray Buck kissed Ethel on the cheek and said, “Must be goin’. Early bird catches the worm.” We all said good night to him and then Ethel walked him to the front of the house, where he’d catch the bus that stopped on the corner. It would take him home to the Core, where all the other Negroes lived. Ray Buck got to ride the bus for free because he was a bus driver, so that was good for him.

Mr. Gary stood and stretched his arms up and when he did his shirt rode up and I could see his stomach, which was as flat as an ironing board and sunny California brown with black curls around his belly button that went down in a line to the top of his pants. He said, “It’s getting late. Gotta hit the sheets. How about some old maid tomorrow, girls?”

“Sounds good, Mr. Gary,” I said, already planning to ask him if he knew my mother and if they were friends in high school. Maybe I’d even ask him a few questions about Rasmussen. “Night.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said and walked toward the porch door, but then he turned and smiled kinda sadly at us. Mr. Gary looked like he had something on his mind, but he didn’t say nothing. He just rubbed his hands on his pants and went in, passing Ethel when he did.

In her arms, Ethel had pillows with pillowcases that were ironed and smelled of Tide laundry soap, and even though it was warm out she covered our bare legs with a clean white sheet. Troo asked if she could please have a glass of milk and Ethel went and got that for her. Then Ethel lowered herself down in the chair and all the lights were out except for the fireflies and all the noise was low except for the crickets that got loud on those hot summer nights and the Moriaritys’ barking dog, and then she said, “Little gals, you’re havin’ a hard row to hoe right now. Let’s pray some together.”

Ethel was not a Catholic. She was a Baptist. So every Sunday afternoon she went down to church in the Negro neighborhood while Rasmussen kept an eye on Mrs. Galecki, and wasn’t that ever so nice of him to do? Bah.

When I grew up, that was what I was going to be-a Baptist. Ethel let me go with her every so often during the summer. It was the most fun I ever had at church. Reverend Joe preached with such pep. Even peppier than Barb the playground counselor, who was a pretty darn peppy paper shaker. After the service there was always a get-together in the backyard of the church, which really wasn’t a church but an old appliance store that still had the sign hanging out front that said in worn away letters: JOE KOOL’S SMALL AND LARGE APPLIANCES FOR THE DISCRIMINATING. They had a ton of fried chicken set out on top of red-checkered tablecloths next to some colored greens, which were like spinach but better. On the number 63 bus on the way back home I once asked, “Ethel? When we come down here again, could we please bring Mary Lane along because fried chicken is her absolute favorite?” Between laughs, Ethel said, “That’s a real thoughtful idea. Miss Mary Lane could use a little fattenin’ up. That girl is skinnier than a poor relation.”

Now, I closed my eyes and so did Troo as Ethel said in her praying voice, “Dear God, these little gals sure could use some help.” Ethel went on to tell Him that we were good girls and that our mother was sick and maybe could He please spare her for a little while longer so she could come back and take care of us. I got so sad in my chest then. A deep sadness, more like a wanting so badly of something. A starving sadness. I must’ve started crying because Troo kicked me.

Ethel got up with an aaahhhmen and kissed both of us on our foreheads and went back into the house with a slam of that screen door, her sweet lilies of the valley perfume staying behind to sit with us a while longer.

My head was on one end of the straw couch and Troo’s on the other and her bare feet were next to my tummy, so I rubbed them a little for her until she fell asleep, which was almost right away. Then I got up as quiet as it is when you can’t sleep at night. I stared down at Troo’s red waves streaming out of her coonskin cap. It was a full moon night and some of its glow was falling across her face and made her look like a saint. I pulled the sheet right up to her chin and then walked over to the edge of the screen porch so I could get a good look at Rasmussen’s house. It was all dark except for a light on in what I thought might be the kitchen. Maybe Rasmussen was out looking for Greasy Al Molinari like he told Mr. Fitzpatrick he would. Or maybe he was hiding right around the corner, waiting and watching for me like he had that first night when he chased me down the alley. After Rasmussen did away with me, Troo would be all alone. Even though she acted so tough sometimes, I remembered what she was like after Daddy died. She couldn’t take something like that again. She’d turn into a nutcase and have to go out to the county looney bin and live there with Mrs. Foosman from over on Hi Mount Street, who had tried to drown her two kids in the bathtub because God had told her they were little devils. I couldn’t let that happen. I could never let Daddy down like that. I’d rather be dead, that’s how much I loved my Trooper.

To keep her safe, I needed to make my scheme come true. I was going over to Rasmussen’s house and look around a little to see if I could find Sara’s other tennis shoe or Junie’s St. Christopher medal she got for her First Holy Communion, which Fast Susie Fazio said had never been found. And then I would come right back to the house and wake up Mr. Gary and he would take the shoe and the medal and drive them over to the police station and then the cops would come to get Rasmussen and electrocute him ASAP.

I wanted to ask Ethel for help, but I didn’t. Because I knew she really liked Rasmussen. She even did charitable things for him. Like watering his garden if it had been a hot day and he couldn’t come home from the police station. Or if he had to leave very early, Ethel would bring his milk and butter in from the chute and put it in his refrigerator.

One night, I asked Ethel while we were playing go fish why she liked Rasmussen so much. She leaned forward, quickly plucked three cards out of her hand and placed them facedown in front of me. The first card she flipped over was the jack of hearts. “See that?” she said. “Let’s say that’s Dave Rasmussen.” Then she flipped over the middle card. “And then let’s say”-she tapped the queen of hearts-“let’s say that’s…” She almost said a name, but caught herself. I slit my eyes at her. Ethel had her no-how-no-way look on her face, so I knew there was no use asking who had just been sitting on the tip of her tongue.

“You know why that jack of hearts has such a sad-lookin’ face?” Ethel asked.

I studied the card. “Because he has to wear those dumb-lookin’ clothes?”

Ethel snorted. “ ’Sides that.”

I am usually very good at guessing games because of my imagination, but for the life of me I couldn’t come up with anything. “I don’t know, Ethel. Why’s he look so sad?” He really did look awful.

“Well, it’s all because of this here queen.” Ethel picked the card up and waved it at me. “She was deep in love and wanted to marry this jack.” She put the cards together like a couple walking down an aisle. “But this jack”-she put it right up to my face-“even though he was deep in love, too, he told the queen he couldn’t marry her.” She tsked… tsked… tsked. “So the queen done went off and married someone else.” She turned over the last card. It was the king of diamonds. “So now the poor ole jack has got a permanent fracture of the heart.”

Sometimes I had to pay very close attention to Ethel and her stories. They could be as confusing as one of those soap opera stories she listened to on her kitchen radio while she was ironing.

“Ethel, are you tellin’ me that Rasmussen loved a woman with all his heart and soul and all the stars in the sky and starfish in the sea and she married somebody else?”

“That’s ’xactly what I’m tellin’ you, Miss Sally,” she said. “Truth be told”-she leaned in so close I could see the hairs in her nose-“that queen got married to somebody ’sides that jack more’n once.” And I could tell by the wrinkle that came between her eyebrows that the whole story had made Ethel, who was a real romantic woman, feel just terrible for Rasmussen.

Oh, poor Miss Ethel Jenkins from Calhoun County, Mississippi. Rasmussen had even fooled the smartest woman I knew. But he couldn’t fool me. I pulled carefully on the creaky screen door that led out of the porch so it didn’t wake Troo. Then I walked out of Mrs. Galecki’s yard into the alley because a white picket fence full of sleeping yellow roses separated the two yards and I didn’t want to come back later all scratched up. That would make Ethel suspicious in the morning. I held my breath and looked around. Nothin’ seemed like it shouldn’t, so I walked around Rasmussen’s garage and tried to peek in. I bet when he stole girls he brought them here to molest them. Because those girls were both taken right off the sidewalk. Sara had been on her way to get that milk for her mother and Junie, I heard, had been on the way to her dance class at Marsha’s Dance Studio, where they had children’s tap and ballet lessons. And they weren’t found right away after they disappeared. So Rasmussen had to have brought them somewhere after he grabbed them. He probably had a car like Mr. Gary. Hardly anybody had one around here. Most people took the bus or walked to where they had to go every morning, like to the Feelin’ Good Cookie Factory or to church or to the Kroger.

I snuck into Rasmussen’s backyard, slowly, slowly closing the gate but leaving it unlatched in case I had to make a fast getaway. I couldn’t believe my eyes! There was the garden Rasmussen had told me about. Oh, it was a sight. There was a birdbath with water and a little birdhouse on a stick. And carrots and tomatoes and radishes in rows. And small green beans growing on large poles that looked like a tepee. And so many different kinds of flowers, some I’d never seen before. It was truly a Garden of Eden. Mrs. Goldman would just go crazy for this garden. So would Daddy.

I walked on the grass real quietly up to the house. I leaned against his back door waiting for my heart to stop fluttering like a kite on a windy day. Then I crossed myself and slowly pulled the handle down. And it was then that the whole backyard lit up like daytime. A car was pulling into Rasmussen’s garage. I dropped down and belly-crawled as fast as I could toward the garden because that was about the only place to hide. It seemed like forever until Rasmussen pulled that garage door down with a clickety clickety clickety. I could hear his footsteps, but I couldn’t see him. I’d gotten inside the green bean tepee to wait for him to go into his house, to hear the slam of the door, but nothing happened. After a few minutes or so, I peeked. I shouldn’t have. They always tell you not to do that when you’re hiding from someone, but I had to know where Rasmussen was because he was tall enough to look over his fence and there would be Troo sleeping in the screen porch. Easy pickin’s, as Ethel would say. I held my breath and looked through the green bean leaves. And in the light of the moon, right next to the yellow roses, Rasmussen was sitting in his glider, rockin’ slowly back and forth. Crying his eyes out.