Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [127]
After I planted that seed in Mother’s brain, I ran next door and told Ethel what I wanted to do. She nodded her head and said, “Bless your heart.”
She can’t enter the contest because she’s not one of us. She didn’t say so, but I could tell by the way her eyes crinkled that she thought it was funny that we were going to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes. Over the past few days, we’ve baked dozens and dozens of brownies in Mrs. Galecki’s kitchen. On our last batch, I asked her if it bothered her that after all this hard work, she wouldn’t get a lick of credit. Ethel slid the pan of blondies outta the oven with a knowing smile and said, “It’ll be different someday, Miss Sally, but’til then, it’s a smart cat who knows how to use the back door.”
When I get to where they’ve set up, Dave is standing by Mother’s side at her cook-off table. She looks outstanding tonight in a pink blouse and pleated beige slacks. She wore her hair my favorite way. Long and loose, just flowing. Dave, who looks good, too, in a very Danish way, is handing out the brownies as fast as he can. I can’t even get close, that’s how long a line there is for Ethel’s delicious something-somethings.
“You made these, Helen?” Mrs. Latour asks from the next table over and helps herself to three. There is not one person standing in front of her and her dish. Not even Mary Lane.
Mother gives me a wink when she says back to Mrs. Latour in her most charming voice, “So sorry that your cow tongue in turnip sauce is such a flop, Dolores. You might want to go easier on the lard.”
Down the block, in front of their house, Mrs. Kenfield is set up with a ton of candy from the Five and Dime, and her face . . . it’s beaming like a saint’s on a holy card. Dottie is by her side and from up on the porch, little Sophia is crying on her grampa’s lap, which has to be music to all their ears. Greasy Al is not here. When we were working together in the garden this morning, Dave told me Molinari was returned to the reform school yesterday. I’m not sure when he’ll get out, but until he does Dottie and the baby will be staying in her old room.
Of course, every lip in the neighborhood is flapping about Greasy Al and Dottie. That news spread faster than melted butter. (I wish you coulda seen Troo’s face when I first told her. She rolled her eyes into the back of her head and said, just like I knew she would, “Married? Dottie and the goombah? That’s nothin’ but a fig newton of your lunatic imagination!”)
When Mr. Kenfield spots me stopping at their table to pick up Oh Henry! bars and Snirkles for Mother and B-B-Bats for Dave and wax lips for Troo, he calls down, “Load up your pockets. Take as many as you want, Sally.” That is a happy ending, which I admit I am a sucker for. Since they pay a visit to you so rarely, you just gotta throw down the welcome mat when they show up, right?
The Vliet Street gang has settled into our usual spot on the O’Haras’ front steps, eating until we can barely breathe. Except for Willie. He gets butterflies before he has to perform so he just drinks Kool-Aid.
From across the street at the playground, cheerful Debbie the new counselor—I really have to hand it to her, she has not lost one ounce of her pep no matter how many times Mary Lane ties her shoelaces together or sticks gum in her hair or calls her Roy—announces into a microphone from the stage that’s set up especially for the party, “It’s time for the further festivities to begin! Will all the contestants who are participating in the talent show please join me?”
Troo picks up the Jerry Mahoney ventriloquist doll that Dave bought her at the toy store for doing so good on her extra religious instruction. (I told him to do that. Troo likes people better when they give her things.) “Here goes