Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [126]
After a few back and forths on the still-creaky swing, Mr. Kenfield says in a sticky voice, “My wife tells me that you’re doing well.” I’m glad to hear that he’s been keeping track of me the same way I’ve been trying to keep track of him. “I understand your mother and Detective Rasmussen are planning to get married.”
“Yessir, they are.”
“Dave will be good for Helen,” he says, taking a drag off his cigarette. “She could use a steady influence.”
We don’t say anything else for a while, just rock and listen to the night sounds. Across the street they’re turning the lights out at the playground and kids are calling to each other, “See ya tomorrow, same time, same station,” and somewhere down the block a radio is playing a song I don’t recognize and a girl laughs.
When I think enough time has gone by for Mr. Kenfield to be used to me again, I pick up his hand and say, “I like where you hung Dottie’s picture.”
He doesn’t turn to look over his shoulder at it. He has to know it by heart.
“I been thinkin’ . . . how about . . . what if . . .” I can’t figure out the best way to tell him, so I just come out with it. “Wouldn’t it be great if all of a sudden Dottie came walkin’ around the corner of the house with her little baby in her arms? Wouldn’t that be something?”
Mr. Kenfield brings his hands up to his face and makes a noise that I know so well. It’s the same sound people make when they come to the cemetery to visit the graves of their dearly departed.
That’s all I need to hear.
After I put my fingers between my lips and give a whistle to Dottie and Greasy Al, who are waiting in the alley, I pat Mr. Kenfield’s knee and say, “I want you to know that I’ve really missed you, Mr. Kenfield. See ya at the end-of-the-summer party.” With that, I hop down the porch steps and head toward home, knowing that I’m leaving them in good hands. Up to now, I could only hope that love was standing by all this time, waiting to give them a push in the right direction. I don’t get sure of it until I hear their happy crying all the way down the block.
Chapter Thirty-five
Red balloons are waving off the playground fence and Christmas lights are twinkling from everybody’s front porches. There was some talk of calling the block party off because of Father Mickey’s disappearance, but that didn’t last very long. Everybody in the neighborhood really looks forward to this night and after all we’ve been through the past three months, I think we need it the way you do a drink of water after you’ve run a long race. It’s still warm and muggy tonight like it has been all summer, but the sky is clear and the moon will come up with a little orange around the edges. I know that means the leaves are getting ready to change and harvest time is not far off. I wish Daddy was here to see this. He always did like a lush party.
The end-of-the-summer shindig is always held on Vliet Street because we can all spread out at the playground after they declare the Queen and King. We really do need room to dance to the Do Wops’ music after we get done stuffing ourselves with food from the cook-off. Card tables are lined up on the sidewalk and you can just grab a plate and eat as much as you want. My stomach is going to have to wait, though. I’m in a big hurry to get to where Mother has set up. I want to make sure the surprise I planned is going the way it’s supposed to.
Troo’s not the only one who can come up with a plan, ya know.
Last week, so Mother wouldn’t send half the neighborhood to the hospital, I fibbed to her. I told her I heard Mrs. Latour was also bringing cow tongue in turnip sauce to the cook-off. (I slipped Artie the recipe. He’s supposed to talk his mom into that. I’ve got my fingers crossed.) I warned