Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [81]
Troo rests her head against mine. “I couldn’t tell you about the costume. I . . . I wanted to surprise everybody,” she says. She really does love a good bushwhack. Next to scaring people, that’s her favorite.
“So, you must like him a lot better now,” I say, rolling over onto my side so I can get a better look at her.
“Who?”
“Uncle Paulie.” I sure would if I were her. That costume is going to go down in neighborhood history.
“He’s all right.” Troo plucks a fat blade of grass, positions it between her thumbs and makes that kazoo sound you can get out of it sometimes. “He’s better than he used to be. Don’t ya think?”
I say, “Sure,” but I’m not. That was nice of him to help Troo out with her costume, but I haven’t forgotten what Ethel told me about Paulie Riley in the old days being “nastier than chicken poop on a pump handle.” And also how Granny says, “A leopard can’t change his spots,” or maybe she says, “A leper can’t change his spots,” oh, I don’t know. She’s got so many of those darn sayings and most of them don’t even make sense. Who would want to skin a cat in the first place?
I look back to check on Mother and Dave, but they aren’t paying us a bit of attention. They’re tapping their feet to the sounds of the Do Wops who are playing Be Bop A Lula Be My Baby.
I pick up Troo’s hand and twine her fingers in mine. “I need to talk to you about what you did.”
“Whatta ya mean?” she says, clamping down.
“Givin’ Artie the coonskin cap back. You can definitely write that in your ‘How I Spent My Charitable Summer’ story.”
“Oh, that,” she says, going limp again. “You bonehead.”
From out on the lagoon island, there’s a high whistle and a boom . . . deboom. . . . boom and after the explosion, the first firework rains down red. From around the lagoon, our neighbors say all together, “Aaaa,” the same way we all say, “Aaaamen” together at Mass at the end of a prayer.
“Just so ya know, I’ve been keepin’ a coupla other secrets from you, too,” Troo says.
“What kind a other secrets?” I ask her even though I’m sure she’s about to fess up about how she slipped outta our bed and wandered the neighborhood looking for Greasy Al, which is great because now I won’t have to pry it outta her.
Troo sneaks a peek at Dave and Mother to make sure they aren’t listening, which they aren’t. They’re locking lips. “Father Mickey is doin’ something with the altar boys that he shouldn’t be doin’.”
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
Down at the creek today when they were gabbing away, I was afraid Artie was telling Troo the same thing he told me that night in the Kenfields’ backyard about Father Mickey commiting a bad sin with the altar boys.
I tell her, “I know you’re happy that ya got back together with Artie, but . . . but you can’t listen to what he’s saying about Father.” I’d like to wring Latour’s scrawny neck right about now and that’s not like me at all. “He’s not thinkin’ straight lately because he’s upset about Charlie Fitch vanishin’ and he was jealous about you spendin’ so much time with Father Mickey. Artie’s imagination, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, has taken a long walk off a short pier.”
Another firework goes off, but I don’t look up. I’ve still got my head turned to Troo. That’s when I see him out of the corner of my eye. About ten feet behind and to the left of us, Father Mickey is leaning against a tree pretending to listen to one of his parishioners, but he’s not. He’s watching us, staring straight at Troo and me.
My sister says, “I know ya left Artie a jar of cod liver oil on his porch, but he doesn’t need it. He’s not imaginin’ anything. He’s not a fanatic like you. What he told ya about Father Mickey bein’ up to no good is the truth. I got proof.” Troo