Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [50]
2. Not brushing your teeth regularly.
3. Smiling or laughing at times or places when you’re not supposed to.
It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if somebody told me tomorrow that they saw Nell running down the street chortling at dead birds on the sidewalk with her tan teeth. Mark my words, one of these days the men in the white jackets will be coming to move her out of her apartment and over to the county loony bin.
Stepping over feet on my way back to my bleacher seat, I catch a glimpse of Mr. Kenfield. He hasn’t come across the street to cheer with the rest of us, but is watching the game from his porch swing. The tip of his cigarette is glowing in the dark. I’d like to head over there to have a visit with him after the ninth inning the way I woulda last summer, but I just don’t know anymore if my old friend would be happy to have me rocking next to him. He told me once during one of our visits that he loved children and wished he coulda had a whole houseful, but I think he mighta changed his mind. I heard he’s been chasing kids outta his yard.
His wife, Mrs. Kenfield, is sitting ramrod straight on the other side of Mother, who looks particularly pretty tonight in gold hoop earrings and a sleeveless white blouse that shows off her summer brown-sugar skin. I can hear the two of them talking, but not what they’re saying. I scoot closer, afraid that Mrs. Kenfield might be ratting Troo out for stealing from the Five and Dime, but the only thing I catch her saying is “. . . so upsetting about Charlie Fitch. I asked Father Mickey to say a novena for Lorraine and Ted. To lose that boy . . .”
I could tell she was trying to hold back tears. And not just for the Honeywells. Mrs. Kenfield had to be thinking about what she’s lost. She must miss her disappeared daughter and her granddaughter, and her husband, who is still here, but not really, not the way he used to be anyway, which in some ways I think has gotta be worse.
Seeing that awful lonely look on Mrs. Kenfield’s face makes me want to go sit next to Henry in the worst way. He’s two rows in front of me in the bleachers, keeping his mother company. Maybe he’s not so special to a girl like my sister, but there’s something about the way he listens to me without rolling his eyes and sometimes when he looks at me in a certain kind of way, I wish Henry could bottle himself. I would buy him by the case.
Troo uses her mental telepathy on me and says, “Well, lookee-lookee. Onree got a fancy new haircut.”
She’s right. Since I saw him last, he got it cut short and is making it stand up straight from his skull with butch wax. I already adore it and I’m sure that my sister does, too. She likes all things modern.
“I love him . . . I mean . . . it. The flattop,” I tell her, hoping I can find some time soon to meet him at the drugstore and run my hand across the top. It’s gotta tickle.
“Ya know what I think . . . Peaches ’n Cream?” Troo leans down and says with so much snide. “I think he looks like the Kenfields’ hedge. Hunh . . . hunh . . . hunh.”
Hearing her wild French laugh makes me remember that I forgot to do what I was supposed to be doing. I got caught up thinking about Daddy and Nell and Peggy Sure and Mother and Dave’s third base playing and the Kenfields and adorable Henry that I forgot to pay attention to the details. During my flight of imagination, I betcha any money Greasy Al slunk right past me.
Chapter Fourteen
The smell of the chocolate chip cookies baking in the big ovens on 49th Street got stronger during the top of the seventh inning. It was like the cookies were giving the men a two four six eight who do we appreciate cheer. I thought that might make the Feelin’ Good men get a second wind, but that’s not what happened. Living up to their name, the cops clobbered the factory team, 10–3.
Snatches of different songs are coming out of the cars driving past us with all their windows open or, if they are lucky enough to own a convertible, with the top down. No crickets yet, but the fireflies are out. Troo loves