Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [124]
I say to Dave, who musta found them over there when he went to fix the stove light, “I’m really, really sorry. I went to bring Mrs. Goldman a couple of Mother’s old kitty puzzles and I . . . I . . . was gonna lie down just for a minute and I guess I didn’t lock her place back up again and—” I never went back inside the house after that one time, only checked it from the sidewalk.
Dave says, “Calm down, Sally,” the same way he does in the middle of the night after one of my nightmares that a lot of the time feature a certain goombah who is sitting across from me.
Mother shoots me a look, but says to her guests like she’s been reading every issue of Good Housekeeping, “May I offer the two of you something to drink?”
Dottie, who’s patting the baby’s back, says, “I’d love a glass of ginger ale if you’ve got it, Mrs. O’Malley. I mean . . .”
“You can call me Helen, honey. I won’t be Mrs. Rasmussen for a few more weeks. And how about you, Alfred?”
Oh, if Troo was only here to see this and not over at Fast Susie’s! My sister’s never gonna believe me when I tell her. She’s going to roll her eyes and say something mean about my lunatic imagination.
“Ginger ale sounds good,” Greasy Al says. “Thank you.”
Dave, who is watching me rubbing and blinking my eyes, tells me, “They’ve been getting some help from Alfred’s youngest brother for the past few weeks. He’s been bringing formula and diapers and whatever else they need over to the Goldmans’ once the neighborhood settles down for the night.”
Moochie Molinari is on the smallish side and sneakier than an Indian about to raid a wagon train, so I don’t doubt for a second that he could creep around these blocks without getting spotted.
“But . . . but why aren’t you arrestin’ him?” I ask Dave. “He escaped from reform school! He’s wanted! He popped a guard!”
“I didn’t wanna hit Mr. Franklin,” Greasy Al says, forgetting his new manners and using his old bully voice. “I only did it ’cause I had to.”
Dottie places her hand on his knee and gives him a pat. That must be some sort of secret signal she gives her husband when she wants him to pipe down. Mother gives signals like that to Dave, too. She scratches her nose when she wants him to change subjects.
“The baby and I were alone in Chicago and she got sick with scarlet fever,” Dottie slowly explains to me. “I needed Alfred’s help.”
“But once the baby got better, why didn’t the both of you stay hidden down there?” I ask. That’s what I woulda done if I was them. “Why’d you come back?”
Dottie’s eyes go moist when she says, “I . . . my mom and daddy . . . the baby . . .”
Greasy Al puts his arm around her like she’s a flower he doesn’t want to crush.
“These are what are known as extenuating circumstances, Sally,” Dave says. “Alfred will be returning to the reform school to deal with his problem and while he’s there, Dottie is hoping to stay with her mother and father.”
I catch that. “What do you mean hoping? Don’t the Kenfields already know about . . .” I point at the three of them.
Dottie sets the baby in Greasy Al’s arms and comes up to the chair to kneel down in front of me. Up close, she looks older than in her picture except for her smile, that hasn’t changed. She’s still got very good teeth.
She says, “We didn’t know how to . . . we were just talking about the best way to break the news to them and I thought you might be able to help us out. I know what a soft spot my dad has for you,” she says.
That’s true. At least it used to be. I always ask his wife to say hello to him for me when I visit the Five and Dime, but I’ve never heard anything back. And Mr. Kenfield hasn’t invited me once to swing on his porch with him the way we did last summer.
I tell Dottie, “You know . . . your dad . . . he is . . . he’s . . .” I’m trying to prepare her the way you would anybody who’s in for a shock. “He’s different than he was when you were still here. Sometimes he has too much to drink