Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [3]
“Wrong.” Down the block, Bobby Darin is singing on the radio, “Won’t you come home Bill Bailey,” and that has to be a sign from God to stay put right where I am. I might not have a lot of belief in Him anymore, but I got enough to pay attention to the details.
Still struggling with the laces, Troo says, “I’m . . . I’m not thinkin’ about me.”
Yes, she is.
“I looked up what’s wrong with you in Mother’s medical book. An ocean voyage or a change of scenery is the best cure for people who have lunatic imaginations,” she says in her dolly voice, which is so hard not to give in to even if you know she’s just putting it on to get what she wants; it’s adorable. “Since ya don’t like being near water so much anymore, I figure a boat trip is out.” When I don’t agree, she doesn’t give up. She never does. “I bet you’d sleep a lot better breathin’ in all that country air.”
I doubt it.
Troo hits the hay every night like a bale falling outta our old barn loft. Wrapped in Daddy’s sky-blue work shirt that still has the smell of his Aqua Velva hidden under the collar, she holds her baby doll Annie up to her cheek and I feel her sweaty leg pressed up to mine and sometimes I count the freckles on her nose to see if she sprouted any new ones or walk my bare feet against the bedroom wall because it’s always cooler on that wall and my thoughts go round and round and I flip over on my tummy and stare at the picture of Daddy that hangs over our bed. He’s in a boat holding up a fish. His hair is blown into two horns. Troo says that he looks “devil-may-care” in that picture and maybe he does, but he probably isn’t anymore. I didn’t do that good a job last summer keeping my sister safe the way he asked me to. It seems like no matter how hard I try to be prepared I’m not ready for the bad when it shows up. Take Bobby Brophy. He was the playground counselor who almost murdered and molested me last summer and I didn’t suspect a thing. He hurt my sister, too. Knocked her out cold.
“Hey!” Troo nudges me. “I just remembered. The camp’s in a pine forest. That means it’d smell like Christmas every morning and that’s your favorite holiday.” She brings one sneaker and then the other into my lap and says, “Tie me up.”
Oh, how I wish I could. With a strong rope. I would anchor her to me.
“And ya know what the best part of us goin’ to camp would be, the real pièce de résistance?” she says. “You won’t have to visit Doc Keller while we’re gone!”
Mother makes me go up to his office on North Avenue once a week so he can give me a dose of cod liver oil and a stern lecture with his breath that smells like old vase water. He warns me each and every time that I better get my imagination under control or else. “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop,” he says, but Doc couldn’t be more wrong. My mind is never idle. Never ever. And it’s getting worse. I think all that cod liver oil might be greasing my wheels.
“Whatta ya say, Sal, my gal?” My sister picks up my hand and twines her fingers through mine. She knows I’m a sucker for that. “Ya in?”
“But what about Mother?” I ask. Through the screen door, I can hear the sound of her picking up the house. She’s still kinda wobbly. If somebody you know gets sick with a gall bladder that turns into liver problems and then a staph infection like what happened to her last summer, you better start saying your prayers. Doc Keller told all of us that he’d never heard of a person getting over something that fatal. “Who’s gonna get her nummy and what if she needs something like—”
Troo hawks and throws a loogie, which is something she has started doing lately when she wants to make a point.