“You must learn a lot living there,” a skinny girl says. She’s taking in my every word.
“Oh, yeah, on weekends there are special classes the cons teach us . . . you learn how to blow safes, make silencers, steal cars . . . thieves school, we call it. Homework’s tough, though. Ever tried to get a dead body in a rumble seat?”
Everyone laughs. They all know I’m kidding now. Then the bell rings, thank God, because I’m out of stories. I look around and see Del has disappeared. He comes back a few minutes later with his sweater on but nothing but bare skin underneath. He rolls his shirt up and hands it to Piper, who is busy talking to Scout, sign in hand.
When we are all settled in our seats, Miss Bimp starts rattling on about the importance of good posture and how no cultivated lady or gentleman would dream of slumping during oral reports the way certain members of this class are doing. She is just getting warmed up when the notes start appearing.
How about tomorrow? one pencil-rolled scrap of paper asks.
No. Only today, Piper writes back in her back-slanted cursive.
How much for socks? another says.
Two cents, Piper writes back.
Will my blouse come back bloody? My mom will kill me if I ruin my blouse.
No.
Can you advance me a nickel?
No.
PLEASE! The note comes back again, this time written in pencil-grinding capital letters.
NO! Piper scribbles mercilessly.
When class ends, two lines form outside the bathrooms. One by one Miss Bimp’s students come out, sweaters over bare chests, shoes with no socks, jumpers with no shirts beneath. I watch from a distance as they hand Piper their clothes and their money.
“Please, Piper, I can’t take off my dress! Can’t I bring something tomorrow?” Penelope begs Piper.
“I’m sorry,” Piper explains. She rolls her lips together and shakes her head. “Our arrangements simply won’t allow that kind of flexibility.” She looks really sorry too, as if she would change the rules in a second if only she could. The girl marches off to the bathroom and returns, slip in hand.
“Can’t do it. Too, you know, personal,” Piper tells the girl whose face is now as red as her hair.
At the end of the day, I see two eighth-grade guys walking home bare-chested, shivering in the gray foggy afternoon. Piper limited her sales efforts to the seventh-grade class, but probably they had a friend in the seventh grade send their clothes in. I’ll bet Piper got twice as many eighth-grade kids this way. I have to admit . . . Piper is pretty smart. But she’s going to get in trouble for this, I just know it.
13. One-woman Commando Unit
Wednesday, January 9, 1935
I hear something funny when I get up the next morning. And when I go outside, I find Piper stuffing extra clothes in our laundry bags.
“What are you doing?” I ask her.
“What does it look like? You won’t help. What am I supposed to do?”
“You’re just lucky that I caught you and not my mom or dad,” I say. But as soon as this is out of my mouth, I’m sorry I said it. It sounds pretty lame.
“I’m lucky, huh.” She smiles—so pleased with herself, she can hardly stand it. “I guess that means you won’t tell.”
My ears are hot. I feel big and stupid and I don’t know what to say, so I go back inside, hoping someone else will catch her.
While I’m in the bathroom looking for my toothbrush, my mom corners me. “Moose, honey,” she says, “I have some good news for you.” She’s smiling like she wants something. “Things are going to change around here.” My mom takes a lock of hair that’s supposed to be on one side of my part and puts it on the other.
“Mom!” I raise my eyebrows. Sometimes she needs reminding that I’m not five anymore.
She smiles and nods her head as if she understands she’s made a mistake, then gives me a once-over. “Have you grown out of your trousers?”
I look down at my feet. A good four inches of sock are showing.
“Go put your other ones on. The brown ones,” my mother says.
I go in my room, happy to have an excuse to put a door between us.
“I met with Carrie Kelly yesterday,” my mother calls through the door.
“Oh.”
“She says we need to do a clean sweep. Throw away Nat’s button box. They’ll be no more counting for her. No more obsessions.”
My gut tightens. I come out with the brown corduroys on. “Mom.” I squeeze the word out of my throat.
“Mrs. Kelly said we can’t let ourselves get in Natalie’s way. She said we’re the stumbling block. If Natalie’s going to change, we have to change first.”
I blow air out of my mouth like I’m whistling with no sound. “So now it’s our fault?”
“Moose,” my mother insists. “You know what I mean.”
“You only met with her once, Mom. Did she even meet Natalie?”
“Of course. She spent all afternoon with her,” my mom says, and then natters on about how Nat’s not supposed to count. Not supposed to rock. Not supposed to play with her buttons. Not supposed to do anything she actually likes to do.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, searching the medicine cabinet for my toothbrush. Then I figure out where it is . . . Natalie.
My mother follows me as I march into Natalie’s room. Nat isn’t here. My father has taken her out to the parade grounds to give my mom a break.
Yep, here’s the toothbrush. Natalie has stacks of buttons in perfect lines all around it, like little soldiers guarding something precious. I reach for my toothbrush, but I can’t make myself disturb her perfect button world.
“Well, actually . . .” My mother’s voice has softened. There’s a wheedle in it now. I freeze, my hand on Nat’s door.
“This involves you. I’ve lined up some piano lessons to teach in the city. The warden is very well connected and he was kind enough to introduce me to a number of families who were looking for a piano teacher. We need the money, Moose. Carrie Kelly costs a small fortune and so does the Esther P. Marinoff, so . . . I’ll need you to come straight home from school. I have to be on the four o’clock boat and that is probably cutting it too close. . . .” She shakes her head and bites her bottom lip.
“I’m supposed to watch Natalie?”
“Mrs. Kelly says you can take her with you wherever you go, just like any other sister.”
This stops me. I face my mom. “Mom, nobody takes his sister with him everywhere he goes.”
My mom’s shoulders hunch down and a little excitement drains out of her face. “Well, they could,” she says.
I stare at her. Suspicious now. “What do you mean, wherever I go?” I ask, waving the tooth powder at her.
“Wherever you go.”
“Mom, it’s dangerous. You’re the one who’s always telling me how—”
“That’s what I mean.” My mother is all excited again. I am back in the bathroom mixing the tooth powder and water in the palm of my hand. My mom has followed me. Her eyes are shining and she’s smiling at the end of every sentence. “That’s what’s changing. Mrs. Kelly says this is just what Natalie needs. We need to help Natalie join the human race.”
“Mom”—I brush my teeth with my finger—“we live on an island with 278 murderers, kidnappers, thieves . . . maybe this isn’t the exact part of the human race we want her to join. . . .”
“Funny you should mention this, because I was talking to Bea Trixle about this yesterday, and you know what she said? She said we are so lucky to live here because Alcatraz is a lot safer than any neighborhood in San Francisco. She says she never locks her door. She never has to. Our bad guys are all locked up. You know how your dad’s always saying the ratio of inmate to guard is three to one here compared to ten to one at San Quentin, which makes Alcatraz a much safer prison. And in the city . . .”
“Oh, great,” I mutter as I make a cup with my hands and run water into it, then rinse the tooth powder out of m
y mouth. “It’s safer than San Quentin, the second worst prison in the state.”
“And in the city”—my mother says this louder, as if to drown out my comment—“Bea Trixle says those same criminals are out free.”
“Does the warden even know Natalie’s here, or does he still think she’s at the Esther P. Marinoff?”
“Of course he knows, Moose. But that doesn’t mean I want you to parade her around in front of him. I won’t lie to you. He isn’t wild about the idea of her living here.”
“Then she should stay inside.”
“Don’t be silly. You don’t need to hide. Go about your business like you would if Nat wasn’t with you. Just don’t go looking for the warden, all right?”
“Natalie doesn’t know how to swim, Mom. What if she falls in?”
“Well, we do have to be careful of that. But I don’t want you near the water either. Anything that’s not safe for Natalie is not safe for you. So if you really think it’s so dangerous here, Moose, then we should move back home.”
“Good idea,” I say, my voice low and hard.
“Moose!” My mother’s eyes are like the lit end of a cigarette burning into me.
Then I remember. Baseball. “You don’t really mean every day. . . .”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I can’t Monday. I’m playing ball after school.”
She sighs. “I have lessons scheduled for Monday, Moose. But I have nothing for Tuesday. What do you say I try to keep that day free for you. . . .”
“Monday is when they play, Mom. Not Tuesday. Scout said.”
“Well, ask this Scout person to play on Tuesday.”
“I hardly know the guy. How am I supposed to get him to put together a whole game just for me?”
“Ask him. That’s how,” my mother says, and then softens. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for you. I know you’d rather not have any responsibilities. But the fact is, you do. If you play baseball on Alcatraz, you can play every day.”
“Almost no one plays here.”
“Gram doesn’t live down the street anymore, honey.” My mom sighs. “We can’t do this without you. Being around kids is good for Natalie. Mrs. Kelly says so. And if she’s to get accepted in the Esther P. Marinoff . . .”
My mom is like a one-woman commando unit. She could win land battles, air battles, water battles, outer space battles too, probably. I wonder if there would be time to get Natalie and then get back to school in time to play ball with the guys. It would be embarrassing to have her there, but at least I could play.
“Could I take her to San Francisco?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not? You just said . . .”
“I just said it isn’t safe there.”
“It isn’t safe there, but it’s safe here, crammed right up close with America’s worst criminals?”
“We’ve been through this already, Moose.”
“How long will you be gone?” I ask.
“Even when I’m here, you’ll need to take her outside with you, Moose. What kind of a kid experience is she going to have following me around?”
She can’t mean this. Please someone tell me she didn’t say this.
“Moose.” My mother reaches for my chin again and tips my face toward her. “I need you. Your dad needs you and Natalie needs you most of all. Let’s give this a try, shall we? Let’s just see how it goes.”
I pull my head away and walk toward my room. “What if I don’t want to see how it goes? What if I’ve been seeing how it goes my whole life?” I whisper.
“Tuesday. See if Scout can play on Tuesday. Is that too much to ask?”
14. Al Capone’s Baseball
Same day—Wednesday, January 9, 1935
I’m so mad at my mom, that’s all I can think about. I don’t care about whether Piper got caught or Jimmy or Annie had any trouble getting the extra clothes by their moms. I don’t care about anything except figuring out how I’m going to get Scout to change the baseball day.
When I get to Miss Bimp’s class, Scout’s already in his seat. We chat for a minute, then I take a deep breath and blurt it out. “Do you think maybe we could get a game together for Tuesday after school, instead of Mondays?”
“We play Mondays,” Scout says, working a hole in his ledger book with his pencil.
“Yeah, I know, but I can’t come Mondays. . . . How about Tuesdays?”
“Do they lock you in on Mondays?” He laughs. I don’t.
“My mom teaches piano. I got to go back to watch my sister.” I leave out the part about my sister being older than me and nutty as a fruitcake.
He nods like he understands.
“Maybe we could play, you know, another game on Tuesdays. . . .” I say, trying again.
“Piper said they play ball on Alcatraz. The prisoners, I mean. Maybe you could play with them. Or better yet, get us both in the game.” He smiles. His smile is the only part of him that doesn’t move fast.
“We’re not allowed.”
“Oh, well, wouldn’t want to play with them anyway. Probably steal all the bases.”
I laugh.
“Think Capone plays?”
My throat tightens. Who knew not talking about Capone was going to be so hard? “I dunno,” I say.
“I heard he plays first base. I’d like to see that. Do they let you, you know, watch?”
I shake my head. “Nope. But if the baseballs come flying over the prison wall, you get to keep ’em.”
“Really? Al Capone’s baseball?”
“I don’t guess you’d know it was his.”
“You have one?”
“Nope.”
“Well, if you get one, I’d like to have a look-see. Beats getting my shirt washed, that’s for sure.”
“Yep.” I smile at this.
“Anyway, I can’t play next Tuesday. I gotta watch my kid sister and my two little brothers. But maybe Tuesday after next. It was fun playing with you. You were great on second. I’ll try, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. Miss Bimp is here now.
“You get a convict baseball, you’ll show it to me first, right?” Scout whispers.
“Sure.” I nod.
“Will I have to pay?”
“Nope. I get one, you’ll see it free and clear,” I say.
“You’re all right, Moose.” He smiles his warm slow smile and I scoot back to my seat.
15. Looking for Scarface
Thursday, January 10, 1935
The next day it’s hot out. It was like this at home in Santa Monica sometimes. In the middle of winter all of a sudden we’d get a summer day.
On the way home from school Annie told me we’re meeting at the parade grounds, then we’re going to head down to some secret spot where you can watch the convicts walk up to the cell house at four o’clock. Annie says they do this all the time, it isn’t against the rules and sometimes they even see Capone.
When I get to our apartment, my mom’s music bag and her hat are waiting at the door.
“I forgot to ask, what did Scout say yesterday?” she asks.
“He said he’d try.”
“See.” She smiles at me. “Was that so bad?”
Natalie paces back and forth in front of the window, digging at her collarbone with her chin.
My mom stops and looks at me. She seems to be thinking of saying something about this, but changes her mind. “Remember, just treat her like you would a normal sister. This isn’t baby-sitting.”
“Whatever you say, Mom,” I say, watching Nat fuss with her clothes like something’s too tight.
“What’s the matter?” I ask Natalie.
“She’s fine,” my mother answers for her. “We’ve been all over. We’ve had a lovely day.” My mom glances quickly at me and then away.
“She looks upset.”
“It’s just hot, that’s all.” My mom rubs her neck.
“She wants her buttons.”
“Well . . . yes . . . ,” my mom a
dmits. “But I’m sure once you take her out, she’ll forget all about it. Mrs. Kelly says it’s just a matter of redirecting her attention.” My mom’s voice isn’t quite so sure as her words are. She and Natalie have clearly had a hard time today.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of mean, taking her buttons away?”
My mom stares at the curtains. “We have to try this. You’ll take good care of her?” she asks, her gloved hand on the door.
“Sure.”
“I’ll be back on the six-thirty,” my mom says.
In my room, I dig through my drawer for my swim trunks.
“Come on, Nat,” I say.
Nat jumps up, motors to her room and shuts the door.
I knock, a hard rap-rap. “Natalie, let’s go!”
She doesn’t open the door.
I knock again, then push it open a crack. She’s standing in her bathing suit.
“Oh, no!” I say. “You can’t wear that!”
The warden was very clear about this. No girls are allowed to wear suits on account of the convicts. But how in the world do I explain this to Natalie? It’s hot and she wants to wear her bathing suit. That’s what we did at home.
“Natalie, you can’t wear that.”
“Hot,” she says.
“Yeah, I know, but you can’t wear your bathing suit. Put on something cool, but not that.”
“HOT!” she shouts.
“Okay, okay, you’re hot, I’m hot too.”
“Moose cool. Moose bathing suit.”
“You’re a girl, Natalie. And it’s . . . it’s, you’ve got, you know, girl parts you have to keep covered up. It’s not like home.” How do I explain this to her?
“Moose cool!” she repeats.
There is no arguing with this.
Back in my room, I put on my corduroys again, which is like deciding to bake each of my legs. I find Nat’s dress and hand it to her. She hands it back. “Moose hot. Natalie cool.” She is almost smiling, her face full of victory. She’s not about to change. She’s not that crazy. I would laugh if it wasn’t so frustrating. I don’t want to miss the cons, because I’m curious, first off. But also because now I have to prove I’m not a goody-goody.
Al Capone Does My Shirts Page 7
