On the way back to her house, I bring up Annie’s concerns.
“Annie’s a worrywart,” Piper tells me, yanking a vine of tiny yellow flowers from the trellis and ripping off every blossom.
“She says you’re . . . acting strangely.”
Piper’s dark eyes take stock of my face. “I got her a baseball and that’s the thanks I get.”
“She thinks something is upsetting you, that’s all.”
Piper snorts. “Annie doesn’t know the half of it,” she mumbles.
“Do you need help?” I ask as gently as I can.
“Look.” She glares at me. “Did I say I wanted to talk to you about this? You’re always trying to help everyone, Moose. Do you know how annoying that is? And tell Annie to mind her own business.” She turns on her heels and stalks off.
“See you on Sunday,” I say.
I don’t know if she hears me or not.
19. The Other Jack
Thursday, January 30, and Friday, January 31, 1936
I have just taped two new numbers above my eyebrows, and my mother is beaming at me like I have superhuman powers. Who knows, maybe everything will work out all right. My dad says the task force is going to announce its findings next week. He says we have nothing to worry about, but then, my father is not the worrier in the family. My mother is.
I’m headed upstairs to find Nat when my father comes into the kitchen to pour himself his first cup of coffee of the day. The kitchen in #2E still isn’t operational so he has to wait until he comes up here to make coffee. “Look, you two, I want us to put the fire behind us.”
“Won’t that be easier once the task force report is out?” I ask.
“There’s no time like the present to start building trust again,” my father says.
“Pretty hard to do when there are so many unanswered questions,” my mother says. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t look Bea in the eye.”
“Bea made a mistake, that’s all. You’ve never made a mistake?” my father asks.
“The problem is Bea doesn’t think she made a mistake.”
“She will. She just doesn’t see it yet. Give her time.”
My mother is about to object, but before she can say anything, my dad rushes on.
“We can’t be holding grudges. This island is too small for that.”
My mom sighs, her attention absorbed in her teacup. “I know it,” she admits.
“The changes have to start with us.”
I nod, waiting for my father to go on.
“Moose. I want you to go out of your way to include Janet Trixle. She sometimes gets left out because—”
“We don’t like her parents,” I finish for him.
“That’s right,” my father says. “And Helen, you’ve been keeping to yourself. I want you to start having coffee at Mrs. Caconi’s and playing bridge with the gals again, exchanging recipes, getting your hair done at Bea’s, all that hen business.
“And I’m throwing a poker party.”
This gets my mother’s attention. “A what?”
“A poker party, tomorrow night. You three are going to have to make yourselves scarce.”
My mom clenches her jaw. “The medicine is worse than the disease, Cam,” she grumbles.
“Now, Helen,” my father sighs. He tips his head and raises his eyebrows at her.
“All right, all right, I need to visit Great-Aunt Lydia and Uncle Lester anyway. Moose, could you keep an eye on Natalie during your father’s game?” she asks.
“Sure, Mom,” I say, like I always do. Who else is going to take care of Natalie?
• • •
The next night, my mom leaves on the five o’clock boat. She still hasn’t jumped back into the “hen business,” as my father calls it, but she gets off the island so my father can have his poker party.
I help my dad drag the card table and the folding chairs from the storage room in 64 up to the Chudleys’ house. While I clean the thick layer of dust off the seats, my father puts a pot of unpopped corn on the stove. I can tell from the extra bounce in his step that he’s excited about the evening. My father loves to play games. He isn’t one to hold a grudge either. He’s kind of amazing that way. He’s actually looking forward to this.
Soon the Chudley house is filled with the smell of freshly popped corn. I’m hoping my dad will let me stick around. Natalie could go to the Mattamans’. Theresa would watch her. This would work fine.
But as soon as the popcorn and nuts are on the table, Dad tells me it’s time to go.
I open my mouth to plead my case, but he’s already shaking his head. “Sorry, Moose. This is grown-up stuff.”
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You’re not an adult either.”
“I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“I need you to keep an eye on Natalie.”
“Theresa will do that.”
He shakes his head.
“Wait . . . Mr. Mattaman and Darby Trixle are playing . . . what about Bo Bomini?”
“You know how the Bominis are about gambling.”
“Warden Williams?”
“He said he’d stop by.”
“Do you think he will?”
“Nope.”
“Won’t you need a fourth, then?”
My father smiles. “Nice try. Donny is playing,” he says, holding the door open for me and Natalie to leave.
At the Mattamans’, Mrs. Mattaman is slamming around the kitchen, mad as a cat in a bathtub. “I don’t see why you need to go,” she hisses at Mr. Mattaman.
“Let up, honey. It’s one evening.” Mr. Mattaman looks young for a dad. In civilian clothes, he could pass for eighteen.
“We don’t have money to burn, Riv. You know that as well as I do.”
“Nobody has money to burn. It’s penny-ante.”
“Cam’s been promoted. Trixle’s got Bea’s canteen bringing in money, plus he only has the one child.”
Riv gives his shoes a last buff. “Don’t take it all so seriously, muffin. I’m not going to lose money. This is all in good fun.”
She bangs the oven closed.
“Moose, Natalie, good to see you two,” Riv says, his eyes on Mrs. Mattaman as he walks out the door.
“Wait!” Mrs. Mattaman trots after him, banana bread in her hand. “You can’t go to a party empty-handed,” she scolds him.
I can’t help smiling at this. Mrs. Mattaman will die with bread in her hands. Her last words will be Want seconds?
Mrs. Mattaman’s cheeks flush when she comes back inside. “You guys have dinner?”
“Sort of,” I say.
She opens the oven, pulls out a pan, and skillfully maneuvers her spatula under two fat manicottis. The smell of her tomato sauce has me salivating. I sink my teeth into the cheesy pasta busting with butter and garlic.
Nat settles down with her favorite Mattaman book. It’s full of maps of the states. She traces the routes to the places she knows and adds up the miles so she’ll know how far away it is.
Theresa is busy playing school with Rocky as her student. He does nothing she wants with a big grin on his face. “Itty-don,” he babbles, which means sit down. Theresa scolds him with her finger. Rocky scolds back as Bea and Janet Trixle knock on the open front door.
I know my father said we have to reach out to everyone, but Bea Trixle? I study the electrical outlet as she walks past me to the kitchen to chat with Mrs. Mattaman.
I would go find Jimmy, but I’m hoping for seconds on the manicotti. For once Mrs. Mattaman doesn’t notice my empty plate. She’s deep in conversation with Bea.
“Do you want to see?” Mrs. Mattaman asks.
“You bet,” Bea says.
<
br /> Mrs. Mattaman slips past me and comes back a minute later with a white gift box. “Look.” She lifts the lid. Inside is a blue dress.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Anna Maria,” Bea says. “That’s beautiful. Somebody wants to give you a gift, you take it and run. You lost every bit of your baby weight. Who says you shouldn’t show off your figure?”
“But who gave it to me, Bea?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes it matters, and besides that, what will Riv say?”
“It does a man good to think his wife can still turn heads. Besides, you can’t give it back. You don’t even know who it’s from.”
The worry crease between Mrs. Mattaman’s eyebrows deepens. “You sure you don’t know anything about this?” Mrs. Mattaman asks as Theresa and Janet thunder into the kitchen.
“If I were to guess, I’d say Donny Caconi. He’s the only man on the island got that kind of style.”
“Donny? Why in heaven’s name would he be getting me a gift?”
“You’ve made him cookies, you know you have.”
“I’ve made everybody on this island cookies, Bea.”
Bea laughs. “And what is the problem with having someone appreciative for once? Just enjoy it. He wanted to sign his name, he would have.”
Mrs. Mattaman puts the lid back on the box and returns her attention to the dishes. She’s forgotten all about me. I’m not getting seconds.
Where is Jimmy, anyway? The door of his and Theresa’s room is closed. He’s been working on something in there. He won’t tell me what it is, and Theresa has been sworn to secrecy, though I’m guessing it has something to do with bottle caps and Donny Caconi. Jimmy didn’t even see Donny throw, but he’s sure I threw better than Donny.
When I finish eating, I head for Jimmy and Theresa’s room and knock on the door. Jimmy answers with the Parcheesi game in his hand. We settle into an epic Parcheesi match, which lasts until ten thirty, when Mrs. Mattaman comes in. “All right you two, time for Moose to head home. It’s way past Theresa’s bedtime.”
It would have been smart to bring our pajamas so we didn’t have to go all the way up to the Chudleys’ and then back down to #2E again. Living at the Chudleys’, everything you need is always somewhere else.
“I’d have you stay the night, but . . .” Mrs. Mattaman’s face hardens. “I’d just as soon you broke up their little poker party.”
“Sure, Mrs. Mattaman,” I say as I collect Nat and we trudge out into the cold misty air. The wind cuts through my sweater. The water laps at the dock, the foghorn booms like God is playing the tuba.
Up top, the Chudleys’ house is brightly lit, but when I open the door, the air is stale and smoky. An ashtray overflows with cigarette butts. Empty glasses clutter the side table. Nothing but greasy old maids are left in the popcorn bowl. Mr. Mattaman is rocking back on his chair. Donny has his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his feet on a milk crate.
Darby and my dad each have one pile of chips. Mr. Mattaman has a half a pile. Donny’s got three huge stacks.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who is winning.
“FDR is a poker player. Why’d you think he called it the New Deal,” Donny says.
“Roosevelt . . . don’t let me get started on him. He’s a one-term president if I ever saw one,” Darby says.
Nat and I wait a full minute but still no one notices us.
“Say hello,” Nat blurts out.
My dad’s startled smile shines on her. “Hello, sweet pea, you’re home early. What time is it, anyway?”
“Ten thirty.”
He squints out at the night. “Couldn’t be.”
Mr. Mattaman glances at his small pile of chips. His face blanches white around the lips. He’s clearly lost money. I don’t envy him facing Mrs. Mattaman with that information.
Natalie settles in behind my dad, eyeing the cards in his hand. Dad motions with his head like we should get out of here.
“Nat,” I whisper. “Come on.”
But Nat’s feet are planted. Her attention is on the game.
“Nat,” I try again, “you’d better check on my toothbrush.”
But Natalie’s not going anywhere.
Darby Trixle takes a deep drag from his cigarette.
“Nat.” I tug on her sleeve. She shakes me off like a mosquito. I look over at my father for help.
Nat’s quiet now—she might pitch a fit if we force her to go. My father’s eyes take this all in and he nods like we can stay.
They play three hands of something—I don’t know what. With each deal Donny Caconi adds more chips to his pile at the expense of Darby. Darby’s down to three chips. Mr. Mattaman has held steady. Darby pushes his three last chips into the ante.
“Second black jack,” Natalie says. “Second one. Second one.”
Darby glances up at her, then back down at his hand. “Get her out of here, Cam,” he mumbles, the cigarette dangling between his teeth, dropping ash on the table. “She’s telling everyone your cards.”
“No, she isn’t,” my dad says.
“Second black jack. Two jacks,” Nat repeats.
“You’re right, sweet pea . . . there are two black jacks,” my dad explains. “A jack of spades and a jack of clubs.”
“Clubs. Second black jack of clubs,” Nat shouts.
“Cam, GET HER OUT OF HERE!” Darby bellows. He has a big mouth even without his bullhorn.
Riv Mattaman looks up. His eyes track Nat. He knows what she’s capable of. “What’s she talking about, Cam?”
“She don’t belong here,” Darby barks.
Donny smiles kindly at Natalie, but his eyes are blinking twice as fast as normal. “Things never go well when there’s a dame in the room.”
But then suddenly Donny throwing the bottle caps flashes through my mind. Who would take a kid’s money forty-eight hours after his apartment burned down? “You’re playing with one deck, right?” I ask.
“Course,” Dad says, picking a card out of his hand.
Donny glances at his watch. “Look at the time. Better call it a night.” He stands up from the table.
“For Chrissake,” Darby snaps. “Can’t stop now.”
“Two black jack of clubs,” Natalie says.
“It’s late,” Donny says. “We should stop. My mama’s gonna be coming up in her nightclothes, wagging her finger at me. ‘It’s bedtime, Donny.’” He does a perfect imitation of Mrs. Caconi’s old-lady voice. He laughs as his hand creeps to the discard pile, but mine is faster. I curl my fingers around the messy stack and hand it to my dad.
My hands are trembling; sweat drips down my face. This is Donny Caconi. Everybody likes Donny Caconi. The room is so stuffy, I can hardly breathe. “See if there are two jacks of clubs in there,” I whisper.
My dad’s eyes warn me I’ve overstepped my place, but he knows Natalie as well as I do.
“One jack of clubs.” He flips card after card onto the table, until we see it . . . the grim face of the second jack of clubs. “And here’s the second one,” my father whispers.
All eyes fly to Donny and his stacks of chips. “Somebody’s fixing the game—” Donny announces loudly.
But he doesn’t finish the sentence before Darby jumps him from the back, one arm around his neck. Donny shakes him off, sending the table flying and the chairs clanking down. Darby’s feet hit the ground, but his left arm shoots back around Donny’s neck. “You sneaky piece of crap!” Darby bellows.
“Get Nat out of here,” Dad shouts to me as he tries to jump between them.
Natalie rocks from one foot to the other, her back against the wall.
“Nat!” I call, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
Donny swings, Darby dodges the blow, and it lands soli
dly in my father’s gut.
But Darby still has hold of Donny’s neck. His fingers squeeze. Donny chokes. “How dare you cheat me! I should have known,” Darby says.
“Let go, you’re gonna kill him!” my father shouts.
Darby smacks Donny’s ear with his other hand, squeezing his neck, trembling power in his hands. “That’ll teach you.”
Donny aims a left hook for Darby’s face.
Mr. Mattaman dives for Darby. He twists him off Donny. Darby screeches in fury, then kicks Donny in the privates so hard, Donny doubles over in pain.
“Back off!” my father shouts, using Darby’s bullhorn.
Riv Mattaman is dragging Trixle off the still doubled-over Donny.
My father takes the bullhorn from his mouth. “You all right, son?” he asks Donny.
Slowly Donny stands upright, his cheek bruised and bloody, his eye already starting to swell, raw red welts along his neck where Darby nearly strangled him.
“Darby?” my father asks.
Darby’s lip is bloody. He holds his jaw like it hurts, but his eyes are slits of fury, trained on Donny Caconi.
“Now here’s how we’re going to play this,” my father announces. “Everybody is going to leave this room with the exact money they carried into it. You”—my father points at Donny—“will never play cards on this island again. Do you understand me?”
“Hey,” Donny cries, “it wasn’t me.”
Darby nearly busts out of Mr. Mattaman’s hold.
My father’s voice is steady. “It was you, son. A queen fell out of your undershirt. I saw it myself, when Darby was on top of you.”
Darby snorts, blood spurting out of his nose.
“Darby, go see Doc Ollie. Donny, you’re going to have to wait your turn on that. And you can expect the warden to be getting a full report. Your mama is only here because of the warden’s kindness . . . don’t you know that, son?
Donny’s nostrils flare.
“Where’s she going to go if he decides he needs that apartment for a guard’s family? You keep on with this business, you can bet that’s exactly what he’ll do. You wanna be responsible for that?”
Al Capone Does My Homework Page 11
