Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [125]
Mother and Dave don’t disagree with me or remind me to mind my manners. Everybody knows what bad shape Mr. Kenfield is in. It would be wrong to pretend we don’t.
Dottie takes my hands in hers and says, “If you could just pave the way . . . I’m sure that Daddy . . .” She looks like she is about to start choke-crying. “It would mean the world to us.”
I think about what she is asking me to do. I’m pretty sure that Mr. Kenfield isn’t furious at his daughter anymore. If he was, he wouldn’t have moved that picture out of her bedroom and hung it in his living room. It might be too much to expect him to feel the same way about his new son-in-law, Greasy Al.
Molinari says, “If ya could do this for us . . . the sooner the better. If things go smooth, I can leave without havin’ to worry ’bout my girls.”
My girls? Did he just say that so loving? I doubted Dave, but I guess he was right when he told me at the beginning of the summer that all Greasy Al needed to straighten out was some TLC.
Dottie gives my hands a squeeze and says, “Please, Sally.”
I can see what she’s feeling. It’s that awful missing that never seems to get better. I know what it’s like waiting around for time to heal all wounds.
I look down at Daddy’s watch on my wrist and make up my mind. “Let’s go,” I say. “He should be out on the porch by now.”
Dave thought the fresh air would do us some good, so Dottie, Greasy Al and me and the baby took the alleyway. I didn’t want Mr. Kenfield to see us coming down the block. Just appearing without any warning might make him have a heart attack or something. Miracles can do that. At least twenty people musta died the day Jesus turned loaves into fishes.
We’re standing together back by the tipped-over garbage cans when I tell them, “Wait here.” I decided on the walk over that they should stay hidden for a while. I might have to peel Mr. Kenfield off the porch swing and wouldn’t want Dottie and the baby to see him sloshed to the gills. “If you hear me whistle, come to the front porch. If you don’t hear me whistle, maybe you two”—I point to Dottie and the baby in her arms—“could stay in the upstairs of the Goldmans’ until”—I point at Greasy Al—“he comes back after serving his time. It’s empty and I’ve got the key.” Our old landlady won’t mind one bit. She was heartbroken when Troo and me moved out. She told me she would miss hearing the pattering of little feet.
There are a couple of lights on inside the Kenfields’ when I wade through the backyard where the grass is almost up to my knees and over to the side yard where the bushes still need trimming. I peek around the corner of the house real quick to make sure he’s out there the way he usually is, then I stand there for a minute, waiting for my courage to kick in. “Mr. Kenfield? Sir?” I can smell his cigarette smoke and see him in the shadows.
He doesn’t answer right off, but then he asks, “Is that you, Sally?” When he leans forward toward the sound of my voice, he doesn’t fall off the swing and his words don’t sound like they’re mushing together, so that’s good.
“Yessir, it’s me,” I say, coming a weensy bit closer. If there is one thing I’ve learned in life it’s that there is just no telling with people. I’m mostly sure Mr. Kenfield is going to be overjoyed to have his girl back again and his wife will be happy that she can take that stick outta her butt and maybe—this is a slim chance, but just maybe—finding out Greasy Al Molinari is part of their family now won’t make the two of them run out of the house screaming. But . . . Mr. Kenfield could also jump offa that swing and chase me down the block, so I gotta be prepared to run. I’m keeping my knees bent. “Can I . . . would you mind if I sit with you for a while? Ya know . . . like the old days?”
He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either, so I climb the front porch