Once I’m down at the dock, I begin to stew. What if Theresa doesn’t come? Luckily, it isn’t long before I see her dark uncombed head poke out of her front door, her church coat and hat in her hand.
But wait. What’s she doing now? She’s going upstairs, not down. Uh-oh. She’s not headed for Annie’s house . . . is she?
She is.
Theresa’s decided not to come? But then why is she wearing her good clothes? Okay, she’s back outside now, tugging on Annie’s arm. Annie has her church clothes on too.
Annie’s coming? Uh-oh. And what’s Annie have with her? A bag with her baseball bat sticking out of it. She’s wearing her church clothes and she has her baseball gear?
By the time they get down to the dock, Jimmy appears. He must have been watching from the canteen. “Where are you going?” Jimmy asks Annie and Theresa.
“Gonna visit Natalie,” I tell him.
“Me too, and Annie’s coming, aren’t you, Annie?” Theresa smiles up at her.
“I thought you were never leaving your room,” Jimmy mutters.
“I had to,” Theresa explains. “Moose needs my help, don’t you, Moose?”
“And you?” Jimmy’s eyes dart to Annie. His tongue pokes his cheek out of shape. “You got your baseball gear?”
“Don’t look at me,” I say. “I have no idea why she’s bringing her baseball gear.”
“Like I believe that,” Jimmy says.
“I don’t,” I insist, watching a gull land with a live crab in its mouth. The bird sets the crab down gently, then snaps a leg off and swallows it.
“I thought I’d just see, you know, if he was at the field,” Annie explains.
“He, meaning Scout?” Jimmy asks.
“Scout’s not going to be there,” I tell Annie.
“How do you know?” Annie asks.
“I just do,” I explain, watching the gull snap another leg off the still-moving crab.
Annie grinds her teeth. Her lids lower on her pop-out eyes. “You just don’t want me to play with him.”
“I don’t want you to pull a stunt like you did the last time, if that’s what you mean.”
She shrugs, her eyes focused on her trousers, which I see she is wearing under her dress. “I can’t stop you from playing in the city.”
“You can’t stop me? What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Annie shrugs. “It was for your own good what I did. But maybe I know more now.”
“What are you talking about?” Theresa demands.
Annie looks over the top of Theresa’s head. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“Sure doesn’t feel that way,” I say as the gull swallows the crab’s legless body whole. Is this what Capone’s hit men are going to do to me?
The boarding whistle blows.
“Look, go get your gear. Hurry or we’ll miss the boat!” Annie puts on her bossy voice.
“Yeah, Moose, hurry,” Jimmy echoes dryly.
No way I’ll be playing ball today. I’m just hoping I don’t end up like that poor crab, eaten alive one leg at a time. Still, I go get my gear. I never say no to baseball. On the way up to my apartment, I try to sort out this mess. How am I going to get roses for Mae if Annie’s with me? How am I going to get back on the 2:00 boat with Theresa and the flowers if we go to visit Natalie and then go to the Marina to play with Scout?
I should have told Annie she couldn’t come with us because Natalie isn’t allowed that many visitors. Is it too late for this? I could say I forgot this rule. People forget . . . don’t they? Then maybe Jim won’t be mad because he won’t feel so left out.
This is a good plan I decide. But when I get back to the boat, Jimmy is gone, and my father, in his officer’s uniform, and Mrs. Mattaman, in her apron, are both standing with Theresa and Annie.
My dad pats my back. “What a good idea, Moose. Natalie will love having a whole Alcatraz contingent come visit her.”
What am I going to do now? I could say my hives are bothering me and I can’t go. But then how will I get on the boat an hour later? I could send Theresa and Annie off to find Scout, while I get the roses. Or maybe I could . . . I could . . .
“Natalie’s going to be pleased as punch to see you three,” Mrs. Mattaman says as the key sails down the guard tower guy wire. She hands me a package all tied up with string. “You eat the others already, Moose?”
“Might have.”
My father laughs.
Mrs. Mattaman’s eyes glow with this information. “Glad you’re not my son. Between you and Jimmy, you’d eat me out of house and home,” she coos.
“You girls keep a close eye on him, okay? Make sure he saves some for Natalie.” My father winks.
“Probably should have baked a lemon cake.” Mrs. Mattaman winds her finger around her apron string. “You tell her I will soon as she gets home. You betcha.”
“Last call ten a.m.,” Trixle bellows, his bullhorn directed at us.
“You heard the man. On the double, you three.” Mrs. Mattaman shoos us down the gangplank. She stands on the dock watching us as we push off. The boat rail gently moves up and down. The motor rumbles under my feet.
“My mom sure likes Moose,” Theresa tells Annie.
“Everybody likes Moose,” Annie says. “That’s the trouble.”
“Why is that the trouble?” I ask.
Annie shakes her head. “It just is.”
14.
DEAD TWELVE-YEAR-OLDS
Same day—Sunday, August 18, 1935
The whole way to the Esther P. Marinoff School I try to plan everything out. I’m going to take Annie to the wrong field, so we don’t run into Scout. I hate the idea of missing out on a pickup game, but this is my life we’re talking about. I’m not sure what kind of pickup games they have in heaven. I don’t think there are that many dead baseball-playing twelve-year- olds up there.
The more I think about this, the harder I work to wiggle the string off the cannoli box and worm my big hand inside. I’ve just managed to eat two when Annie rips the box out of my hands. “What’s the matter with you, Moose?” she asks as we walk up the steep San Francisco street with the cables rumbling underground and the cable car bell clanking in the distance.
We’re almost to the Esther P. Marinoff now, which is good because my legs feel wobbly, like I just climbed up twenty flights of stairs. We didn’t have hills like this in Santa Monica. We didn’t have mansions like this either.
Up ahead is the familiar white house with its large, well-cared-for garden full of flowers. Orange flowers drape from a trellis and tiny pink and purple flowers the size of a lady’s thumbnail spill over the side of a planter. It smells sweet like honeysuckle. A metal placard reads in elaborate cursive The Esther P. Marinoff School.
I look around for roses. Just my luck, there are none.
“Es-thur. Pee. Mary-noff. Lookee, you guys! This is it!” Theresa runs around behind me and gives me a shove, head-butting me up the stairs to the massive front door. Annie laughs as I ring the doorbell and Theresa pounds on the solid oak door.
It takes a while, but eventually the big door is opened by a small woman with hair the color of tarnished nickels and a velvet dress thick as movie curtains. Her eyes are a clear gold, the color of beer.
“We’re here to visit Natalie Flanagan,” I tell her.
“And you are?”
“Moose, I mean Matthew Flanagan, her brother, and Theresa Mattaman and Annie Bomini, her friends.”
“Ahhh, the Alcatraz kids!” The woman smiles, takes my hand in her tiny one, and pumps my arm. “I’m Sadie,” she says.
Though she must be my grandma’s age, there’s something about her that seems young, like the graying hair and wrinkled skin are a costume change and not the real person at all. We follow her inside.
“I’ve heard a lot about you kids. Natalie talks about you all the—”
“Yes, ma’am.” I cut her off before I can stop myself. I don’t want to hear about Nat missing me w
hile I’ve been home with my mom and my dad all to myself.
Sadie blinks like she has dust in her eyes. “Well then, you must be anxious to see Natalie. You wait right here. I’ll bring her up.”
Annie’s watchful blue eyes take everything in. The room reminds me of Sadie herself: full of once-elegant things that are well worn. Chairs with old-fashioned carved legs and threadbare seats. Brocade curtains, faded smooth in spots. But nothing about this place seems like gangsters, and Sadie sure doesn’t look like the kind of woman who would mix it up with mobsters. How did Al Capone do it? How did he get Natalie into this school?
Theresa bounces on the lumpy seat of her straight-back chair. She jumps up when she hears the sound of Natalie approaching, dragging one foot along the carpet. Step, drag. Step, drag.
“She’s here!” Theresa cries, clapping her hands together.
When Nat appears she’s wearing the yellow dress my mom and the convicts made for her, but the belt is gone and there are two extra buttons sewn to the front.
For a second Nat’s clear green eyes flash past me, then flip down to the carpet again.
“Sun get up okay today, Natalie?” Nat mutters.
Sadie’s thick velvet dress sweeps past us. “Natalie. Look at the person with whom you’re speaking. And speak in proper pronouns, please.”
I don’t like Sadie’s tone. What gives her the right to talk to Natalie this way? “Natalie loves the sunrise. She gets up for it every morning,” I explain. “When I get up, I always ask her if the sun got up okay.”
“She loves the sunrise and the garden too, but she can speak more directly,” Sadie informs me, her eyes trained on Nat.
“Three and oh. No hits, no runs. A fly ball. Ten base hits. A runner on third,” Natalie mumbles, digging her chest with her chin.
Sadie cups her hand under Natalie’s chin to prevent the digging. “No baseball talk,” she says.
“What’s the matter with baseball talk?” I ask.
“She’s just repeating random phrases. We’re working on the art of conversation,” Sadie explains. “Say what you mean. I am . . .” Sadie prompts Natalie.
Natalie tries to dig at her chest again, but Sadie’s hand won’t let her chin dip down. Nat looks quickly and fleetingly across the tops of our heads. “Moose, Theresa, Annie hello, hello, hello,” Nat mutters.
“Hi, Natalie,” we all say.
“You have new buttons.” Theresa points to the two extra mismatched buttons sewn to Natalie’s dress.
Natalie runs her hands over the new buttons, carefully, lovingly, tracing the outline of each one. “Good day new button,” she whispers.
“Who are you addressing, Natalie?” Sadie barks. “When I have . . . ”
Nat doesn’t respond.
Sadie motions for us to be silent. We wait a painfully long time and then suddenly Nat offers: “When I have a Sadie nice day, I get a new button.”
“Good, Natalie!” Sadie’s voice is buoyant.
Nat rubs her hand over one of her sewn-on buttons.
“Maybe you’ll get more buttons,” Annie offers. “When you come home next weekend, maybe you’ll have more.”
“More buttons, more,” Natalie repeats. “I am—”
“I am what?” Sadie pounces on this beginning. Her face is up close to Nat’s.
But Natalie lets it drop. Whatever she is right now, she isn’t going to say.
“What we’re working on here, Moose,” Sadie explains, “is keeping her engaged and a part of the conversation. We can’t let her float off into her own world.”
“She doesn’t float off in her own world with me,” Theresa says proudly.
Sadie smiles. “You’re the neighbor girl, right?”
Theresa beams. “Do you want to play button checkers?” she asks Natalie, laying out her hand-drawn checkerboard.
Natalie touches each button as Theresa sets it out. When she finishes, she starts again, following the exact same pattern of touching as before. When she’s done this time, she nods, almost to herself, and she and Theresa play.
After Natalie has won two games—even with our coaching, Theresa is no match for her—she begins twisting the buttons on her dress one way, then the other.
“I am—I am—” Nat’s voice is stiff with unnatural pauses. She drags her toe against the carpet and against the carpet again. Her eyes move back and forth in her head like she’s trying to make the room spin away.
Sadie looks up from her paperwork. “I am what?” she asks.
“I am . . . Natalie angry,” Nat says in the same mechanical way.
“She says she’s angry,” Theresa explains.
“I am angry,” Sadie corrects.
“I am angry,” Natalie repeats.
“Yes, you surely are,” Sadie says, her eyes keen and clear on Natalie. “Who are you angry with?”
Natalie’s head goes down again. She pinches the skin of her arm. “Angry at Mommy. Angry at Moose.”
“Me? What did I do?” I ask.
Nat doesn’t answer.
“You made her say that,” I tell Sadie before I can stop myself.
“I did nothing of the kind,” Sadie replies.
“Moose,” Annie warns in a low voice.
“Why is she angry?” I ask.
“You just left her in this place,” Annie murmurs.
“Yeah, but it’s for her own good,” I shoot back defensively.
“Doesn’t mean she won’t be angry,” Annie explains.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “But I don’t think she’s really mad at me.”
“I sure would be mad at you if you sent me away.” Theresa makes puppy dog eyes.
“You don’t understand,” I insist.
“We ask an awful lot of our students here, Moose.” Sadie neatens her stack of paperwork. “When you’ve spent your whole life one way, it isn’t easy to change. We are proud of how well Natalie is doing with us. She’s made a remarkable start.”
“Yeah,” Annie whispers, “she has.”
“She’s trying. I hope you see that. Part of what we’re striving for here is to give Natalie a way to control herself. Because once those blades inside her get to spinning, it’s just too hard for her to stop herself.”
“Why is she mad at me though?” I demand. “Natalie never gets mad at me. Natalie, you never get mad at me,” I tell her.
“Natalie never gets mad at me,” Natalie echoes.
“Use your words, Natalie. Your words, not someone else’s. I . . . I . . .” Sadie opens her mouth and enunciates in a way that makes me want to slap her face.
“Moose . . .” Nat dips her chin down before Sadie can stop her. “Moose, I missed Moose,” she says in a voice so low I almost don’t hear it.
15.
MAE CAPONE IS A LOOKER
Same day—Sunday, August 18, 1935
We’re almost to the field where Scout plays. Actually, we’re almost to the field where Scout doesn’t play. My plan is to see that Scout isn’t there, get some roses, and somehow manage to convince Theresa to give them to Mae without Annie knowing. I try to focus on this and not on Natalie. But Nat’s words have crawled inside my head: Moose, I missed Moose.
What was so disturbing about seeing her today was I suddenly realized how hard she was trying. I thought she didn’t try. But it’s much more upsetting to realize she actually does try. She tries very hard for what seems like such a small result.
I force myself to stop thinking about this. Right now I’ve got to figure out how to keep Al Capone from hunting me down. I can’t allow myself to think about anything else.
I’m just turning my plan around in my head when two girls in white gloves and hats start waving wildly to Annie.
“Dolores! Peggy!” Annie hurries to catch up with them. The girls’ heads cluster together like three birds with one cracker. They peek up at me and duck down again for more whispering.
“Is it? Is it him?” I hear one ask.
Annie blushes all the way d
own to the roots of her yellow-moon-colored hair.
I look around to see who they’re talking about. Theresa skips over to the girls to find out what’s going on.
Annie’s still-pink face appears. “Moose. These are my friends Dolores”—she points to the one with buckteeth—“and Peggy.” She nods to the short girl.
I raise my hand in a wooden wave and drop it again.
Dolores and Peggy smile at Annie like they’re all in on a secret.
“We better get going,” I tell Annie.
“Have fun, Annie,” Peggy giggles.
“Yeah, Annie,” Dolores, the one with the buckteeth, chimes in.
Now wouldn’t it be nice if Annie decided to go off with them. I can’t imagine how I’ll get Theresa to help me with Annie around.
No such luck. Annie stays.
How am I going to do this? I could leave the roses for Mae in the visitors’ section of the boat, but with Mae Capone on board, won’t there be extra officers on the Coxe? There always are on visitors’ day, and I’ll bet there will be twice as many when the visitor is Scarface’s wife. Trixle will be there for certain. He’d never miss this. I can just imagine what would happen if he found the roses.
Theresa skips ahead. I walk with Annie.
“Where do you guys play exactly?” Annie asks, looking down the long expanse of grass at the Marina Green.
“On a back street a few minutes from here,” I tell her.
“You know, Moose, I’ve been thinking . . . are you sure Al Capone got her in that school? It doesn’t look like a gangland operation to me,” Annie says.
“Which would look how?” I ask, stepping off the curb to avoid the man selling apples. This is what men do when they can’t get work. If I get caught, will this happen to my father?
“More silk and whiskey. Glamorous stuff . . . you know. No way Capone had anything to do with that place.”
“Maybe not. I don’t know if I like the place, anyway. I don’t like it when they put words in her mouth,” I confess.
Al Capone Shines My Shoes Page 8
