Then he goes to the icebox and opens a beer. He looks over at me, seems to think a minute, opens another and pours a full glass for himself and half a glass for me. My father rarely drinks and never with me. I had a few sips once at Pete’s house, but I didn’t like it much. That doesn’t matter. What matters is he seems to understand.
In the living room, he sets his beer down, picks up the vase and puts it back where it belongs. I set my beer by his and get the broom. The room is silent except for the clock ticking on the mantel, the sound of sweeping and the clink of china pieces as my father drops them in the metal trash tin.
“Dad,” I ask. “How come you always do what Mom tells you?”
My dad makes a funny sound, a kind of laugh through his nose. He says nothing and then, a full minute later, “I don’t always.”
“Most of the time.”
My father swallows, considers this. “Yeah, most of the time I guess I do.”
“How come?” I ask, sweeping a glass piece off the rug to the floor and up the incline to the dustpan.
My father takes a sip of his beer. “Things matter more to your mother than they do to me.”
“What things?”
“Everything . . .”
“Everything?” I ask. I’m watching him now. Searching his golden brown eyes.
“Everything . . . except you.” My father bites his lip. The tears well up. He turns away and busies himself tugging the rug back in place.
I strain my eyelids open and try to breathe the tears back in my head. I look down, then take a breath. “Dad?” I ask.
I’m going to tell him what happened now. I am.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Did I cause Natalie to be the way she is?” The question seems to come from somewhere deep inside of me.
“Moose?” My father freezes, his eyes riveted on me.
“Something I did? You said she got worse when she was three. That’s when I was born. Was it me?” I concentrate on the rug.
“Moose.” My dad grabs my shoulders and he looks straight into my eyes. “I don’t know,” he says, taking a teary breath, “what caused Natalie to be sick. I don’t think anyone knows that. But I do know this.” He bites his lip, his voice so full of feeling, he’s having trouble speaking. “Absolutely . . . absolutely for sure it had nothing, nothing at all to do with you.”
32. The Button Box
Same day—Wednesday, May 8, 1935
When my mother comes in, Natalie’s button box clattering against the sides of her purse, she sees me with the beer. Her eyes register the shock.
“What happened? Where’s Natalie?” she asks, her voice sharp and tight in her throat.
“Natalie’s fine. She’s asleep in her room,” my father says. “But I need to talk to you.”
“Me?” my mom asks, her voice high and childlike.
“Yes,” my father says.
My mother’s eyes dart to me and then back to my dad.
“Just you and I,” my father says, cocking his head toward the bedroom. “I don’t want to talk here.”
My mother nods. She follows my father into the bedroom. At first it’s quiet in there. Hushed voices muffled by the closed door. Then the voices get louder and more angry. My mother cries. My father is angry and firm. I hear my name. I walk closer to the door.
“Look,” my mother says, “I’m not taking any chances with this. Mrs. Kelly says—”
“I know what Mrs. Kelly says. I’m talking about Moose now and what he thinks. He’s good with Natalie. They’ve worked out a relationship. We have to respect that and trust him.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“You have to let him care about her his way.”
And then something I can’t hear.
“I got one child who has everything,” my mom says, “big, strapping, healthy, smart . . . makes people laugh. Got kids coming over looking for him night and day, just like at home. Little ones, big ones and the girls—they all like Moose. But Natalie, Natalie doesn’t have the whole world looking out for her. She needs me.”
“Moose needs you too.”
“Fiddlesticks, Cam.”
“You don’t think he does?”
She sighs. “I suppose he does.”
“You two never try to understand each other,” my father says. “Little things become big things with you and Moose that quick.” He snaps his fingers. “Couldn’t you have just talked to him about the button box?”
My mom is quiet for a minute. When she begins talking again, her voice is too low for me to hear. Now both of them are speaking softly. They aren’t mad anymore. I think about what my dad said. I think so hard, it makes my head ache.
In Natalie’s room, she’s still sleeping, but I feel better sitting in here with her. She’s so peaceful when she sleeps. So normal. This is the sister I might have had. I see now the person we missed.
“Natalie,” I whisper. “This is your chance.” I smooth out her tangled hair. “You have to get into the Esther P. Marinoff this time, okay? Mom can’t handle it if you don’t.”
Part Three
33. The Sun and the Moon
Monday, May 27, 1935
As the day of Nat’s interview approaches, my mother behaves as if her nerves have rotted and fallen apart like old rubber bands. She can’t seem to sit still. Can’t stop moving. Can’t keep her eyes off Natalie.
The day before Natalie’s interview is her birthday. We have countless discussions about this. Should we celebrate it? Will the celebration throw Natalie off her schedule, or will skipping Natalie’s birthday upset her more? What kind of food should Natalie eat this week? What should she wear? Should she have more or less button time? More or less time with Mrs. Kelly? More or less math time? More or less time with me? No detail is too small to be considered.
And always we end right where we start. We’ll keep Natalie’s schedule the same this week and have a small birthday celebration just like we always do. But every night my mother seems to have to decide this all over again.
When Natalie’s birthday finally arrives, my mother tries with all her considerable energy to make things appear normal.
“Remember, tomorrow is the interview,” she tells me in a low voice.
“Mom.” I roll my eyes. “How could I possibly forget that?”
She sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She pats my shoulder. “Just keep her quiet today. There’s extra lemon cake, and of course, her buttons. If she wants to play buttons all day long, it’s perfectly fine with me. Just make sure she doesn’t have one of her fits. She’ll be a wreck tomorrow if she does. It takes her a week to get over one of those.”
“I know, Mom! I know.”
“And you have my number at the Liebs’?” My mom wiggles her hands into her gloves.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Maybe I should stay home.” She tugs her glove off.
I hold my breath. I want my mom to stay home in the worst way. What if something goes wrong? “Would you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You’re better with Natalie than I am.” Her voice cracks. She doesn’t look at me. She dabs at her eyes, her gloves back on now.
“I am?”
She nods, staring at the clasp of her purse. “I’ll be home early. Let’s just pretend this is a normal day.” Her voice is strained. She leaves without saying good-bye to Natalie or to me.
Natalie is busy in her room. She’s drawing pictures of the moon in all its phases. For the past few weeks Natalie has been obsessed with the moon. This is strange for her. She’s always been fascinated by the sun, but she doesn’t like to do anything but watch it rise. She has never wanted to draw pictures of the sun, the moon or anything else for that matter.
For once I get my book out without feeling bad about it. Natalie is content. I crack open David Copperfield and begin to read Chapter One, “I Am Born.”
The next thing I know, I hear pounding on the door. Natalie stops what she’s doing. She doesn’t look aw
ay from her page, but she doesn’t move either, as if the pounding has frozen her solid.
I think about not answering the door. There’s no one I want to see. Not today. Other people could upset Natalie. The pounding doesn’t stop. Natalie doesn’t move except to dig her chin into her collarbone.
Now it’s quiet. No more knocking. The only sound is the wind blowing a door shut outside. Natalie seems to relax back into her work. But just as her pencil makes contact with the page, knock, thud, knock. Natalie’s chin hits her collarbone and digs hard again.
If this keeps up, it’ll make her crazy. I open the door.
It’s Piper, her hat in her hand. An odd attitude for her.
“Go away,” I tell her.
“Gee, thanks,” she says.
“No offense, but I’m trying to keep Natalie quiet today. The interview is tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. I wanted to come in, not go out,” Piper says.
“No, you need to stay out,” I explain.
“Me? I’m not going to upset Natalie. She likes me,” Piper says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my hand on the door.
Piper scoffs. “Can I at least say happy birthday?” She looks so earnest, so sincere, smiling her sweet smile. She’s even prettier without her hat.
“How did you know it was her birthday?”
“Theresa told me.”
I don’t agree to let her in, but I must be easing my grip of the door, because the next thing I know Piper is standing inside our living room and the door is closed behind her.
“Happy birthday, Natalie.” Piper squats down to where Natalie is resting on her elbows.
“Birthday Natalie,” Natalie repeats. I feel a stab of pain when I hear this. Natalie has come a long way. I can tell because this sounds like the old Natalie. She isn’t parroting like this hardly at all anymore.
“Nice moons you got there.” Piper stands up again. “Okay,” she says. “That’s all I wanted to do.”
I feel my eyebrows creep up my face.
“See, and you didn’t trust me,” Piper says as she brushes past me out the door.
I watch her walk away. It feels like a vacuum has sucked the air out of our apartment. Piper is taking the air with her when she goes. And suddenly I want her to stay.
I shut the door quick before I call her back.
Natalie is busy with her moons for another half hour. And I’m happily eating folded-over bread and butter sandwiches on the couch, my book in my lap, my legs across the arm of the chair. I look at Natalie. She’s fine. I look down at the book again, and then I hear paper ripping. Natalie is tearing up the moons she’s made one by one, her chin jerking wildly down to her collarbone and up. Down and up. Her eyes are beginning to storm over. Little torn pieces of paper float through the air, scattering everywhere.
UH-OH! I slap my book closed and jump up. I shouldn’t have let her do the moons. It was too new. Too unfamiliar.
“Natalie,” I say. “Forget those stupid old moons! Let’s have some lemon cake. Lemon cake, Natalie!” For a second I have her. We’ll sit down, we’ll eat, it will all be fine. But then the forces inside her seem to collide. I can almost see the battle in her eyes. All at once, the storm seems to win. Her eyes are leaving.
“NATALIE! OUTSIDE!” I scream. I jump in front of her, rushing to unlock the door.
She follows me. She’s trying. Trying to fight it.
Outside Nat seems calmer. She walks hunched over. She still seems wild, like the fight is raging inside her, but the walking is helping. Giving her someplace to go.
“Where do you want to go, Natalie?” I ask.
Nat says nothing.
“Okay,” I tell her. “We’ll just walk.”
I shiver. I wish I’d remembered our jackets, but I’m afraid to stop her now. She looks too vulnerable. Teetering on the edge.
But she’s following me. We’ll walk until my mom gets home.
Out on the parade grounds we circle the cement once. Twice. If she wants to walk in circles all afternoon, that’s okay with me. Then abruptly on the third rotation Natalie breaks off and heads to the west stairs. I run to catch up to her and get in front. But she isn’t following now, she’s going her own way, and then suddenly Piper is there. I can’t believe it. It’s like she has a magnet in her head that draws her to trouble.
“What’s the matter?” she asks.
“Just out for a walk,” I mutter.
Piper gives me a funny look, then falls in line behind me. Natalie is walking fast. I skip in front of her and begin a slow U-TURN. Natalie doesn’t follow me.
I grab her hand, but the angry way she shakes me off scares me. I don’t dare do it again. She’s walking down the west stairs now. “Natalie, look, rocks! Let’s count them,” I say, jumping in front of her again. But she shoves past me.
“It’s okay, let her go,” Piper says from behind me.
“Shut up, Piper!” I spit back at her.
“She wants to say good-bye,” Piper says.
“Shut up, I said!”
Natalie walks on.
“Natalie, we don’t need to go there anymore. We’ve already found a ball!” I say.
Natalie ignores me. Her head is down and she’s walking fast, as if she’s late for something.
It’s late. He won’t come. We’re okay. The words repeat in my head as if the sound will make it so. My pulse is beating in my ears. I feel Piper’s arm on my arm.
“Let her go,” Piper says.
My feet slow down like they are suddenly too heavy to lift. I let Natalie get a few steps ahead.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t make it right. I don’t even know what right is.
I watch Natalie. I don’t let her out of my sight, but I’m higher on the hill, climbing a parallel course, and Piper is behind me.
I breathe fast, short, shallow breaths. Nothing to worry about. See, see, he’s not here.
And then he is. The black greased hair. The short bulbed nose. The deep pockmarked skin. The uneven walk. I could take him. I know I could.
“Natalie!” he says, pleasure and warmth in his voice.
“105, 105, 105,” she says.
“How’ve you been, sweetie?” He smiles at her.
I stand up, ready to crash down through the brush. How dare he! I feel a grip on my arm. Piper pulls me back down.
“I didn’t think I’d get to see you again before you shipped out,” 105 says.
“How does he know?” I ask Piper.
“About her?” Piper snorts. “The cons know everything about us.”
Onion’s small, quick, greasy hand takes hers.
“Natalie hates holding hands,” I whisper. The tears sting my eyes.
I stand up again, about to shout something, but nothing comes out.
“It’s okay,” Piper says. I stand still, quiet, shaking.
Natalie is holding hands with a man convicted of some awful crime. It’s so strange, so awful and so . . . normal. Natalie doesn’t look weird. She’s my older sister. A sixteen-year-old girl holding hands with a man not much older than she is.
This is terrible.
This is good.
34. Happy Birthday
Same day—Monday, May 27, 1935
We stay outside for the longest time. Counting and cataloging rocks and shells. Piper and I are Nat’s helpers, doing exactly what she tells us to do. I’ve never known Piper to take orders from anybody before, but she is now. We are a team and Nat is in charge.
When we do finally get home, it’s almost dark and my mother is there. She’s in the kitchen frosting a cake. She has made a sign that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NATALIE and cut, curled and painted long strips of newspaper to make confetti streamers, exactly like the ones my mom made last year.
“How’s my birthday girl?” my mom asks Natalie.
Natalie says nothing. She threads one newspaper streamer through her fingers.
“Piper,” my mom says. “Maybe you’d like to come to Na
talie’s birthday party!”
Piper smiles her charm-school smile. “I’d love to, Mrs. Flanagan,” she says.
My heart dips low in my chest. I don’t want to have Piper here for Natalie’s party. We never invite anyone else. I’m surprised my mom asked her.
I look at the cake my mother is frosting, the number “10” on the top, just like every other year.
“Seven o’clock tonight. Right after supper,” my mother says.
“Shall I invite some of the other kids?” Piper asks.
“Oh, no. Let’s keep it small, shall we?” my mom says. Her eyes avoid mine. The smile on her face is the one she uses when parents of an obnoxious piano student ask how he is doing.
I go in my room and don’t come out until supper, which I wolf down without saying a word and then return to my room. I plan on staying here until the last possible moment, which comes way too soon for me.
“Hey, Moose! We’re having a party out here!” Piper bangs on my bedroom door. She has a present wrapped in funny papers in one hand and a juice jar filled with lemonade in the other.
“Moose!” My dad comes in to where I’m sitting on my bed. “Did someone give you grumpy pills today?” He puts my head in an arm lock and gives my scalp a good knock.
“Quit it, Dad!” I say, but I can feel a smile creep on my face.
“Grumpy with a capital G,” my father says. He winks at Piper, then whispers to me, “What’s the matter? Isn’t one girlfriend good enough?”
“I’m here as Natalie’s friend. This has nothing to do with Moose,” Piper announces as she pushes the sleeves of her sweater up past her elbows.
“Yes, well, I can see why,” my father says. “Go get yourself a hat and act like you’re at a party, Moose. You’re getting a bad reputation with the girls!”
Natalie looks up from the handful of streamers in her lap. “Theresa,” she says.
Al Capone Does My Shirts Page 14
