by Lesley Kagen
I couldn’t see how the girls were occupying themselves while Father Casey, the pastor of St. Thomas Aquinas, droned on at the altar, but I was staring at a stained glass window that depicted St. Joan of Arc getting burned at the stake and recalling how Aunt Jane May had told us that the fierce and sudden heat enveloping the town had been Satan’s doing. At the time, I had filed that away as just another one of her endless “Mark my words” warnings, but I was beginning to believe her.
Those attending the nine o’ clock Mass that Sunday were slippery with sweat and sliding off kneelers left and right. And oh, how the poor choir suffered in those heavy red robes. Their harmonious pleas for salvation drifting down from the loft had sounded unusually authentic before the heat got to one of the sopranos. Aunt Jane May called down to Doc to come quickly and bring his smelling salts, but no sooner had he finished ministering to seemingly always pregnant Mrs. Ellsworth when old Mr. Woolty went woozy in the Communion line and knocked a couple of people standing behind him onto their keesters. After the church ushers helped everyone get recombobulated, Doc stepped up to the altar and suggested to Father Casey that before anyone else succumbed to the heat, he better wrap things up.
Our pastor’s cheeks looked like stop signs and his vestments clung to his pot belly, so he readily agreed to Doc’s suggestion to cut the Mass short. But before he dismissed us, he made his way to the lectern to deliver what he promised would be a few parish updates.
“There will be a school uniform sale on Friday, a paper drive this Saturday, and if you haven’t heard yet, an emergency town meeting has been called for seven o’clock this evening. The president of our Ladies Auxiliary,”—our pastor grinned at Mrs. Mulrooney, who was sitting next to her vile thirteen-year-old daughter Brenda in the pew across from ours—“has brought to our attention a matter of utmost urgency. The topic of tonight’s meeting will be ‘Broadhurst: Are Our Children Safe?’” There was some grumbling among his flock and a few of them raised their hands, but Father Casey wisely deferred to the experts. “Mayor Kibler will moderate the meeting, and the sheriff and Doc will be present as well, along with Doctor Cruikshank and Nurse Holloway from the hospital. They’ll address your concerns and answer any questions, and I expect each and every one of you to attend.”
The girls and I already knew about the rumors Mulrooney was spreading about Hopper, so that came as no surprise. But calling for an emergency meeting to discuss his transfer was, and we were about as pleased with that news as we were with Aunt Jane May’s forbidding us to ride over to Mud Town after the sun set.
Because when even Viv’s conniving mind couldn’t come up with one good reason why she’d forbid us to cross the tracks after dark, we did what we so often did. We ignored her warning. We also paid no mind to the one she’d issued about staying away from Broadhurst. We’d been riding over to the mental institution every afternoon, so about the last thing we needed was Aunt Jane May keeping closer tabs on us, which we could count on if things went sideways at the town hall that night.
She’d think she was keeping us safe because, like most of the folks in town, she didn’t understand, the way the girls and I did, that the Broadhurst patients posed no danger, and that would include Hopper. If he did get transferred, the child killer would be locked up on the third floor of the hospital with the other criminally insane patients who’d never feel the sun on their skin or breathe fresh air again.
Frankie, Viv, and I were taking turns kicking an empty Campbell’s soup can down the block on our way home from church and bemoaning the meeting the president of the Ladies Auxiliary had called for that night.
“I don’t get it,” I said to Frankie. “How come, do ya think, Mulrooney is trying to make everyone believe that if Hopper gets moved to Broadhurst he’ll escape and strangle some kids?”
“Yeah,” Viv said and gave the can a kick that landed halfway down the block. “Since when did that turd turn into the patron saint of children?”
As if she’d already given the matter a lot of thought, Frankie said, “I don’t think Mulrooney is tryin’ to keep kids safe from Hopper. I think she’s got an ulterior motive.”
Viv bobbed her head in enthusiastic agreement, but when Frankie hopped forward to give the soup can a swift kick, she whispered behind her hand to me, “What’s an ult … what she said?”
“An ulterior motive is a secret reason for doin’ something,” I whispered back.
Viv nodded, squared her shoulders, and said, “Yeah, I got some ideas about what that so-and-so is secretly up to, too, but age before beauty, Frankenstein.”
Frankie smiled at the nickname, then said, “I heard Brenda Mulrooney telling some little kids at the park yesterday that they better let her win at hopscotch or her mother’ll put ’em in jail after she becomes mayor.”
“And you believed her?” Viv let loose with a deprecating guffaw that’d usually be directed at me. “She’s as full of it as her ma is.”
Frankie shrugged. “It’s a free country, so think want you want, but I figure Mulrooney’s gonna start saying that if Mayor Kibler was in his right mind, he’d be as worried as she is that kids could be murdered by Wally Hopper.”
“And then she’ll start tellin’ everyone that the mayor should’ve been the one to call for an emergency meeting instead of her and that’s proof he’s over the hill and … and she’d be the best person to replace him,” I said, finally catching on. “Oh, poor Bud. He’ll never see it comin’.”
We had a soft spot in our hearts for the man who dressed like Count Dracula and gave out all-day suckers on Halloween, and would say, “Why, hello there, Small Fries,” whenever he bumped into us. But not everyone regarded Bud Kibler as highly as we did. When he’d been spotted around town mumbling to himself with his barn door open and his silver hair looking like he’d stuck a fork in an electrical socket, there was talk about his arteries going hard on him. Talk started by none other than Evelyn Mulrooney.
Viv raged, “I wouldn’t put it past her to start telling everybody again that Bud is goin’ feeble, and on top of that our summer is gonna get all screwed up. After she gets everyone worked up over Hopper, grown-ups are gonna start watching our every move and—” She was so frantic that she swallowed her Juicy Fruit and it got lodged in her throat. After I smacked her hard on the back and the wad came flying out, she picked it up off the sidewalk and stuck it back in her mouth. “If Mulrooney gets to be mayor … she’s gonna act like the goddamn Queen of Sheba!”
“Simmer down,” Frankie told her. “I only think all of this has something to do with Mulrooney runnin’ for mayor. We need proof. Since the whole town will be gathered at the emergency meeting tonight, I bet that’s when she’ll reveal what she’s got up her sleeve.”
“You mean what she’s got up her sleeve besides her flabby arm and the revenge she came up with for Auntie after the sheriff shot her down at Delson’s,” Viv groused.
After Widow Mulrooney had completed the requisite year of mourning for her husband, Herbert, who’d been kicked in the head by a cow at Camp’s Dairy, she packed away her black mourning dresses, shook out her spring frocks, and informed our uncle, the sheriff, at Delson’s Coffee Shop that she’d be willing to attend St. Thomas’s May Day Mixer with him. He thanked her for the invitation, told her he was flattered, but, “I’ve already asked Jane May.”
Mrs. Mulrooney seemed to respond to his rebuff graciously enough at the time, but the girls and I suspected that she was so infuriated about getting passed over that she could barely see straight. Of course, she couldn’t be blatantly vindictive toward Aunt Jane May. Jealousy was a sin and the president of the Ladies Auxiliary couldn’t let her slip show. But if you observed people as closely as we did, you’d learn that no matter how holier than thou they appeared, their oiliness would eventually seep to the surface, and Evelyn Mulrooney’s had at that month’s church fundraiser, “Pastry for Pagan Babies.”
After she strode onto the school’s gymnasium floor last week, she appear
ed to be gushing with excitement when she greeted the crowd who’d forked over five dollars to spend the evening sampling pies, cakes, and cookies and voting on the most delicious, but she didn’t fool the girls and me. When Mulrooney leaned into the microphone and said, “May I have your attention, please? The ballots have been counted and Jane May Mathew’s devil’s food cake has taken top honors. Again,” she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And instead of offering hearty congratulations to the winner, she quipped, “But I’m sure we can all agree that an angel food cake would’ve been more in keeping with our Roman Catholic values.”
The crowd got a big yuck out of that, but the second that crack came out of Mulrooney’s mouth, I told the girls, “Something’s rotten in Denmark.”
Seemed like Viv barely listened to the Shakespearean passages Aunt Jane May would read aloud to make us more cultured, but she said, “Yeah, but something stinks around here, too, and I think it’s the stench of the green-eyed monster comin’ off Mulrooney. You see that look she’s givin’ Auntie? I’ve seen it a million times on my ma’s and granny’s faces.”
Frankie and I were well familiar with that look. Viv had inherited it.
“We gotta keep extra close tabs on Auntie from here on out,” Viv added with a shudder, “because as cagey as she is, she’s no match for an Irish gal lookin’ to get an eye for an eye.”
Frankie nodded in agreement and said, “Dell says all the time that ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”
So whatever came out that night at the town hall meeting, if it involved Mulrooney, the girls and I knew it wouldn’t be good. We couldn’t be sure, of course, because as Frankie said, we had no proof, but it sure seemed like she was up to something that’d put a crimp in our freedom and adversely affect the patients at Broadhurst as well. Not to mention that she might be going after darling Mayor Kibler’s job and had something nasty in store for our beloved aunt, too. The Bible taught us to “know thy enemy” and the girls and I thought we did, but what good would it do us if we didn’t know her plan?
“I think Frankie’s right.” I kicked the soup can so hard it dented the tip of my patent leather shoe. “We need to get to that meeting tonight to find out what Mulrooney’s up to, but when we ask Aunt Jane May she’s gonna tell us to—”
“Mind our own businesses,” Frankie and Viv chimed in.
It was a lot for us to take in, and we walked the rest of the way home stewing over the powerful forces we were up against. When we rounded the corner toward home, I could see the rainbow flag attached to the roof of the hideout hanging lifelessly in the still morning and I thought, That’s just how I feel.
Sensing my despair, Viv reached for my hand and gently ran her thumb across my knuckles. “Auntie forbid us to cross the tracks and warned us to stay away from Broadhurst, but that hasn’t stopped us. And if you think I’m gonna let her keep us from goin’ to that meeting tonight,” she said with a grin, “you’re even stupider than you look, ya dumb chump.”
Chapter Five
On our walk home from Mass that morning, the girls and I had decided it was pointless to ask Aunt Jane May if we could go to the emergency meeting that night, but Frankie insisted we take a run at her later that afternoon. “We could get lucky,” she’d said as we roller-skated past the downtown shops. “She might still be in her church mood.”
Sure that Viv already had one foot in hell, Aunt Jane May spent a good part of her day reprimanding her, but deep down? Those two were cut from the same cloth. Both of them were extravagant with their words and their gestures, and what beautiful music they made together. Viv would often slip out of the hideout after she thought Frankie and I were asleep to go sit with our aunt on the back porch glider. They loved Doris Day songs and show tunes like “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair,” but they harmonized on hymns, too. Their version of “Amazing Grace” just about did me in.
Sure that Viv would have the best chance to win Aunt Jane May over, after we unstrapped our roller skates, we went looking for her and found her on her knees in the front garden. She was snipping roses for that night’s supper table.
“Excuse us for botherin’ you, Auntie,” Viv said, “but we can’t seem to agree on what time you said you wanted us to be ready to go to the town hall with you tonight. We wouldn’t want to be tardy. Did you say six thirty or quarter of?”
Aunt Jane May leaned back onto her haunches and said, “Vivian Edna, because it’s the Lord’s day, I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you ask to attend a meetin’ that’s none of your businesses.”
Repaying the favor, Viv acted like she hadn’t heard her. She was about to launch into another one of her cock-and-bull stories when our aunt reached into her gardening box and yanked out a few of the tools the girls and I called Satan’s pitchforks. “And if I hear one more word comin’ out of any of your mouths, you’ll be poppin’ dandies out of the lawn the rest of the day, I don’t care how blasted hot it is. On second thought—” she grinned, not nicely, and tossed the tools at our feet.
Viv protested, “But … but it’s supposed to be a day of rest!”
“Fifty each, and you can bet I’ll count ’em.”
We couldn’t afford to get on her bad side any worse than we already were, so we did as we were told. But after we’d accumulated half our quota, we took a break from the beating sun beneath the big weeping willow out back. The one Aunt Jane May promised to bury us under if she ever caught us “prevaricating” to her. We were gulping water out of the garden hose, making necklaces with the dandelions we’d dug up, and cloud watching through the tree’s dangling emerald branches.
When a chubby cumulus floated by, Frankie tickled my cheek with a blade of grass and said, “Hate to break it to ya, but I think another something Mulrooney’s got up her sleeve is the sheriff.”
I swatted her hand away. “What d’ya mean?”
“I think she wants to marry him, and Viv thinks so, too.”
“What?” The most shocking part of that statement wasn’t that that social-climber wanted to become part of the most powerful family in Summit, but that the girls had agreed on something.
I bolted upright and asked Viv, “Is that right?”
She nodded with gravitas, but then said, “Rotsa ruck” and burst into giggles and didn’t stop until she wet her pants.
I wasn’t concerned I’d ever be asking “Aunt Evelyn” to pass me the meat loaf during Sunday supper either. With a face as plain as butcher paper, a figure that resembled a snowman’s, and the personality of a garbage truck, her chances of landing Walt Buchanan were about as good as mine with Rock Hudson. But I was surprised to learn that she didn’t know that he only went in for pretty gals who were, as Viv described them, “built like brick shit houses.” Uncle Walt’s dates had to have a lot on the ball and possess a good amount of charm to boot. Qualities that described Aunt Jane May to a T, even that last one, when she wasn’t going off on Frankie, Viv, and me, anyway.
“Speak of the devil,” Viv muttered when our aunt appeared on the back porch.
“You can finish up tomorrow,” she called out. “Biz, come in here now and get yourself cleaned and changed. We have hungry men to feed and this supper isn’t goin’ to make itself.”
* * *
“Ya ask me, this heat is givin’ everyone a chronic case of pissy-itis,” is how Aunt Jane May characterized the mood that was wet-blanketing Summit as I helped her put the finishing touches on the most important meal of the week. “I swear, I can’t go anywhere these days without someone speakin’ snippy or acting like they’re bendin’ over backwards.”
She wasn’t “whistlin’ Dixie.” God-fearing people I’d known my whole life, who never raised their voices or uttered a cross word, were on edge. A fight had broken out at Top’s Bar and tumbled out onto the sidewalk, and we’d heard that a couple of the nuns from St. Thom’s had gotten into a tussle over a pack of fish sticks at Rusty’s Market.
“And now we got this emergenc
y meeting to deal with and”—Aunt Jane May looked down at her hours of hard work—“this food is gettin’ cold.” She untied her gingham apron, snatched up the platter of Southern fried chicken and the tureen of milk gravy off the kitchen counter, and nodded at the remaining bowls. “Set the taters in front of your uncle and the corn bread next to your father.”
Doc would usually wear his navy blue suit when we’d gather in the formal dining room on Sundays, but even he was affected by the heat. He looked just as handsome in a starched white shirt and charcoal slacks when he held the chair out for Aunt Jane May, then me, and took his seat at the head of the table.
You couldn’t tell he was six foot two when he was seated. Same as me, most of Doc’s height was in his legs and I inherited my broad shoulders from him, too. I had my mother’s light blue eyes, but his reminded me of my favorite crayon—cornflower. A lustrous chestnut, his hair was combed back from his forehead and held in place with Brylcreem—“just little dab will do ya.” And when he finished shaving in the morning, he slapped Old Spice on his cheeks with hands that built hideouts but also healed. That woodsy, cinnamon smell would still be lingering on him the nights I didn’t sleep with the girls. I’d strain to hear the sound of our woody station wagon pulling into the cobblestone driveway, the squeak of the back door, his soft footfalls coming up the staircase and then down the second-floor hallway. I didn’t want to scare him off, so I’d pretend to be asleep when he came into my bedroom to brush the hair off my forehead and check for a fever that might take me away in the middle of the night, the way one had my mother. That tender act never failed to make me feel less like a consolation prize and more like a cherished consequence and I’d sleep the sleep of angels and dream of Sunday suppers when the man of so few words would say a little something to me. When he’d told me a few weeks ago that he thought I’d grown and he’d get the yard stick out after dessert, I couldn’t spoon what remained on my plate down fast enough.
