Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [116]
After one final scoop, Troo says, “That should do it. Grab one a his feet.” She takes the other one and we drag Father into the hole that isn’t six feet deep, maybe only three. Deep enough so the man driving the cement truck tomorrow shouldn’t notice anyway.
After we get done patting the last bit of dirt back into place, my sister wipes the sweat off her forehead and tells me something that surprises me. “We should say some words. You first.”
Together the O’Malley sisters bow our heads and I say the only thing I can think of, it’s what Daddy always said in the spring after he finished planting. “Ye shall reap what ye shall sow.”
But when it’s Trooper’s turn to say good-bye to Father Mickey, she does me one better. She says very solemnly, “His mean justified his end,” and I don’t bother correcting her.
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