Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [57]
This is the way he always starts out. I don’t know where Willie gets them, but he always has a new one all warmed up for us.
“What does it say on the bottom of a Polish Coke bottle?” Willie says.
“What?” we ask like we’re half of the choir at Mother of Good Hope, which we are.
“Open other end,” Willie says.
Everybody laughs louder than the kid sitting next to them.
Maybe that’s what I could do for the talent part of The Queen of the Playground contest. Being funny always goes over good around here. I would have to ask Willie to teach me a coupla new jokes, though, because everybody already knows what’s black and white and red all over. (A nun with a bloody nose.)
Troo’s not supposed to be lying out on the step in front of me with her feet up on the iron railing. She snuck out of our bedroom, where she is supposed to be right this minute saying a rosary on her knees. Mother found a pack of squishy cigarettes in Troo’s shorts when she was doing the wash after supper. She came up the basement steps, yelling, “Margaret O’Malley! Goddamn it all!” Once she got a hold of her, she slapped Troo on the back and sent her to our room. My sister’s French laughing did not help matters and neither did her teasing Mother the way she does at least once a day about not getting her annulment letter yet. “Love and marriage, love and marriage, go together like a horse and carriage? Uh-oh. Looks like your horse fell down and broke its leg, Helen. Ya know what they do when that happens, right? Bang . . . bang.”
I’m smooshed between Artie and Wendy Latour on the steps. Because there are thirteen of them, the Latour kids always outnumber us no matter what we’re doing. Artie lacks luster. Wendy is her normal smiley self. She has her tiara pinned in her hair that is freshly washed and almost looks waxed, it’s so shiny. If Wendy wasn’t a Mongoloid she could be a Breck girl. Mimi Latour, who is planning on being another kind of sister when she grows up, is two steps down, right below Troo. They’re in the same grade together, one back from me.
There is plenty of room on the step, but Mary Lane is crowding Mimi. She’s trying to talk her into giving her some of her grape Popsicle. She’s always asking you for some of whatever you got.
She tells Mimi, “They don’t let greedy girls into the convent, ya know. That’s their number one rule. They even got a sign posted out front that says no selfish brats allowed. You better gimme some of that before it’s too late.”
I’m watching Mimi struggling to crack the melting Popsicle in two, when Artie Latour taps my shoulder and points up the block. Uncle Paulie is coming toward us on his way to work at at the Beer’n Bowl. His head is down like it always is and he’s whistling Pop Goes the Weasel, which is his all-time favorite song.
My sister gets the oddest look on her face when she sees our uncle coming our way. She looks sorta . . . guilty? She must be feeling bad about making him a half-wit, but she’s never seemed remorseful before. I always thought she knew that in a funny kinda way she saved him.
When he gets in front of where we’re hanging out, Uncle Paulie stops and stares with his mouth open. He’s wearing blue jeans and a white shirt that’s got Jerbak’s embroidered above the pocket in gold. He’s got a load of freckles on his pretzel-skinny arms, but he’s not bad-looking elsewhere. You can tell he’s related to us. To Troo anyway. His hair is thick red, but our uncle’s starts back farther so you can also tell he is related to Peggy Sure, who also has one heck of a forehead.
Mary Lane, who can pick a Popsicle clean faster than a piranha fish, hands over the leftover stick to him and says, “Don’t spend it all in one place,