“’Fraid not, little sister. Cool like this only comes along once in a lifetime.”
“Who is this boy, anyway? One of the Lees who own the tailor shop over on Oak Street?” Ma scowled and headed for the kitchen, her voice a trail. “As if your blood wasn’t mixed-up enough already.”
“His dad’s an engineer, from the west side,” I said, knowing how she got intimidated by fancy people.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go to Hebrew school. If that boy gets you in trouble . . .”
“Ma!”
Exactly what did she think Henry Lee and I were doing? I might be a teenager with my own life to live, but the woman could still make me blush.
I WASN’T THINKING of any of that on the last day of school, though. I was too excited about the plans Henry and I had made for the summer. Once a week (at least, he begged), we’d meet at his friend Barry Schuman’s house. Barry had a built-in pool, a working mother, and a house generously stocked with things like salted cashews, Devil Dogs, and Pepsi—rare treats at home.
But that day, I was also full of the thing that bound Ma and I together in a way that no one, not even Henry Lee, could touch. The intersecting point of my charts and biographies and her dreams.
Inside my book bag was the best report card I’d ever received. It wasn’t just the perfect string of As (I’d received those before) but a note from Mrs. Galen describing me as a very bright student certain to excel in eighth grade and beyond. The word very was underlined twice. I’d already memorized what she’d written next: I hope I live long enough to see what Zaida Finn becomes!
I walked faster, imagining Ma’s reaction. She wouldn’t say much; nor would she give me a quarter for Tucker’s like Cynthia was likely to get for her B-plus report, but I would feel the pride running through her like a current. And later, when she took out her book Plan for College Now, Mrs. Galen’s promise would be on her face. I was so preoccupied I didn’t pay much attention when Bruce Savery slowed his dad’s car and called to me from the window.
Before I could decide whether to yell back or run, the car behind him honked and he sped away. I’d forgotten him by the time I reached the corner of Sanderson. Him and everything else but the future that was safe inside my book bag. I hope I live long enough to see what Zaida Finn becomes.
I saw Ma opening the report card, imagined how she would touch every A with her finger like it was more than a mark on paper. Picking up speed, I turned recklessly onto my own street. By then, the image of Nonna and her holy water had been eclipsed by Henry, slouching in the dim light outside the St. Edward’s dance, and I’d forgotten all about the maledizione.
As I reached the house, I was yelling, “Ma! I got all As, Ma!”
I expected her to be waiting for me like she always was on the day we got report cards. The empty porch and the curtains fluttering in the open windows were the first signs that something was wrong. Then I noticed a familiar car parked out front.
I dropped my book bag in the driveway. What was Nancy doing here? My first thought was that they had finally come for Agnes. But the maledizione is nothing if not unpredictable. Hadn’t Nonna warned me? Hadn’t I seen it enough in my own life?
I thought of Miss Pennypacker, stepping onto the sidewalk that morning like she did every day, no clue that someone or something had counted out the steps she would take before her hand flew to her chest. The words. The breaths. Wasn’t it supposed to be Flufferbell who was at risk of death?
I pushed open the door, calling louder, “Maaa!”
In the parlor, Nancy was drinking tea and eating Lorna Doones like she didn’t notice they were months old, her legs crossed in a flirty way that reminded me of Gina Lollobrigida. I froze in the foyer.
“Come in, Zaidie,” she said, like this was her house and I was the visitor. “Mrs. Moscatelli went upstairs to lie down.”
Lie down—in the afternoon? On report card day?
“But it’s almost time for The Edge of Night,” I said weakly, my eyes settling on Jon. However, it was the way Nancy referred to Ma that really made me panic. Mrs. Moscatelli? My heart was hammering so hard I was sure everyone in the room could hear it.
Sinking into the hole in the couch, Jon looked like he was about to face the rifleman himself. I took it all in—the glass of ginger ale on the table before him like he was a guest, the unnatural quiet in the house. The only thing I didn’t see—I refused to see—was the man who had taken over Ma’s armchair.
“We have some good news for you, Zaidie,” Nancy continued, beaming in the direction of the man. “Wonderful news, actually. Why don’t you join your brother there on the couch?”
“They made Jimmy bring Agnes to the movies,” Jon said from the hole. “Even though it’s a Wednesday and Jimmy didn’t want to see no dumb kid’s movie. They made him.” He took a hiccuppy breath, looking at me like his last hope. “Tell them we ain’t going, Zaidie. Tell them.”
No longer willing to be ignored, the stranger stood up the way Ma taught the boys to do for a lady, but not for a kid, even one who had dropped a report card that pronounced her likely to excel in the driveway.
They say people you knew when you were little are smaller than you remember, but the man—I refused to call him my father—was taller than I recalled. More handsome, too. A pale blue cardigan, obviously chosen to match his eyes, was looped over his shoulders like he thought he was Tab Hunter. And though it was only June, his skin was a deep, cultivated gold. There were streaks of brilliant silver in the hair that was otherwise the same color as Jon’s and mine, and he’d styled it like President Kennedy’s. But it was the capped perfection of his teeth that really struck me.
“I can’t believe how grown up you are, Zaida,” he said. “Or how lovely.” And then, unaccountably, Michael Finn began to cry.
The word that came to mind was the one Agnes used when she first heard about my period. Disss-gusting.
Chapter Six
Chickens on a Conveyer Belt
ZAIDIE
WHEN I WAS NINE, DAD TOOK ME TO A PLACE ON THE EDGE OF the city where we sometimes picked up fresh eggs. This time, though, he was steeled up to confront Junior Littlefield, who owed him for the transmission he put in his truck three months earlier. The subject had dominated my parents’ supper conversation for weeks. Mostly, we kids ignored it, but the chorus stuck:
“A hundred and forty bucks, Louie! That’s the mortgage and the electric.” (Ma)
“Don’t worry; he’ll pay or I’ll take it out of his hide.” (Dad)
That day, instead of parking in the front, we followed a dirt road to a large windowless structure in the back. I expected to visit the chickens in their coops like usual, but when I reached for the door handle, Dad’s face darkened. “You stay in the car this time.”
“But I want to see—” I began before I realized he was focused on the metal building that glinted in the sun. He strode toward the door, shoulders set like they were when Jimmy stayed out too late and Ma forced him to go out looking for him. Was he really going to take it out of Junior Littlefield’s hide? What if someone got hurt? What if the police came like they did when Joe O’Connor Jr. beat up the mailman because he didn’t bring his birthday card?
In an instant, I was out of the car, calling his name. “Dad, wait! Don’t—” But as soon as I reached the building and pushed open the metal door, my voice was drowned out by the din. In the center of the room, a row of chickens attached by the necks to a conveyer belt squawked wildly. Junior Littlefield stood at the end of the line wearing a blood-covered raincoat and a pair of hip boots. An ax—also bloody—dangled from his right hand as Dad, intent on his hundred and forty bucks, jabbed a finger into his chest.
My eyes were on the chickens, though. The conveyer was paused, but they weren’t fooled for a minute. Both the ones on the belt and the ones stacked in crates beside it screeched and flailed wildly, feathers drifting through the dusty air. The metal door flapped open in the wind, desperate as the wings of t
hose chickens. I ran blindly for the road.
When Dad caught up with me, I was still crying. “For chrissake, Zaidie, do you have any idea how far from home you are?” He ordered me into the car. “And stop the damn bawling. Where the hell do you think we get that fried chicken Ma makes? From trees?”
“B-b-but they were scared, Dad. They knew—” I sobbed.
In between my sniveling, I caught bits of his lecture. “Your own fault.” Hiccup. “If you woulda waited outside like I told ya . . .” Sob. “No more of this now, I mean it.” Three loud hiccupy cries. “Knock it off before your mother sees you.” But each time he spoke, his voice softened.
Finally, he pulled the car over and wiped my face with a greasy hanky. “There, there, now.” Ma’s words were all wrong in his mouth, but he had none of us own. “You’re gonna go home and forget what you saw, okay?” He rested his large thumbs on my eyelids as if it was possible to erase it.
I only wished I could.
“IT WAS THE worst noise in the whole world,” I told Agnes that night when she climbed into my bed for a story. As always, I needed her to hear what I heard, to see those feathers flying, feel the terror of the chickens. And when she turned on the light the way she did when she had a nightmare, I could tell she had. We fell asleep clinging to each other and for once, I didn’t complain that she was crowding me.
The next morning, she marched into the kitchen like she did when she had a big announcement to make, stood at the head of the table, and told the whole family we were never eating chicken again. “Not Zaidie and not me, either.”
Only Jimmy bothered to look up from his Frosted Flakes. “Hah. Good one.”
So I might have to eat it, but no one could make me like it. When Ma served Chicken à la King the night after Michael Finn turned up, Agnes shot me a glance across the table. Neither of us said a word, but I knew we were both seeing those birds on a conveyer belt.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, gagging.
Meanwhile, Agnes slipped her plate under the table for Princie when no one was looking.
Just this once, I would have been happy to hear that this wasn’t a damn diner or that kids were starving elsewhere. But a silence like the one those birds left behind consumed the table. Jon and Ma picked at their food and Dad ate mechanically. Most ominous of all, Jimmy’s seat was empty.
When I finally asked where he was, Agnes was the only one who bothered to answer. “He took off after the movie and didn’t come back.” And then, as a new horror occurred to her, “He’s not taking Jimmy, too, is he?”
“Agnes!” Ma and Dad yelled simultaneously, as if they might reassure us. But then they fell quiet again.
I pushed my chair back and walked away without even clearing my plate, testing how far I could go without being noticed.
Apparently there was no limit. Agnes and Jon promptly joined me on the stairs.
Why wasn’t anyone calling Michael Finn a louse or talking about how they’d stop him? And why hadn’t Ma gotten on the phone to the Bousquets, demanding Jimmy be sent home this minute?
THAT NIGHT IN my room, the case worker’s voice echoed. “The earliest hearing we could get is in two weeks,” Nancy said when Ma finally came down to the parlor. “That should give you some time to . . .” Her voice trailed off as if even she knew how unspeakable the idea was.
I’d waited for Ma to say something—that Michael Finn couldn’t just show up and take us after seven years . . . we would fight . . . Louie wouldn’t allow it . . . something. But the only sound was that of Michael Finn, clearing his throat as he looked pointedly at Nancy.
“In any case, it’s just a formality,” she added quickly. “There’s never been any doubt that Mr. Finn is a fit parent.”
Without making eye contact, she told Jon and me that our father would be visiting next Wednesday afternoon so we could get “reacquainted.”
“We don’t want to get re-ackainted, right, Zaidie?” Jon said. “Tell him he can’t make us.”
It was one of the only times he’d turned to me instead of Jimmy. Though I had once longed for him to recognize me as the big sister who had watched over him when our mother was sick, I had no more answers than Ma and Dad.
THAT NIGHT I waited up, hoping to hear what they said when they thought we were asleep. Around nine, Dad shuffled off to bed early. “It’s been a hell of a day, Dahlia. I’m turning in.” The defeat in his voice terrified me more than anything I’d heard up to that point.
Ma didn’t try to stop him, either—even though Jimmy was still out somewhere doing God-knows-what with God-knows who.
Sometime after eleven, my brother slammed into the house, not even trying to be quiet.
“Dad’s already gone to bed? What the hell?”
“Language, Jimmy,” Ma said. “And for God’s sake, keep your voice down. The kids are—”
“The kids are about to be taken away; that’s what they are. And you’re worried about me saying hell?”
“This is hard enough without you—”
“Hard enough,” Jimmy repeated incredulously. “Hard enough.”
I could hear him pacing up and down like a lawyer in the courtroom, allowing those words to vibrate through the house. His voice rose as he reached his summation. “So you really ain’t gonna do shit, are you? Just let some asshole walk in and take half our family?”
“Jimmy . . .” Ma began before her voice broke.
At that moment, Dad’s feet thudded onto the floor and his bedroom door flung open like a shot. “If I ever hear you talking to your mother like that again, I’ll—”
But that night all the familiar threats, like all their promises and advice, felt hollow and he seemed to know it. When I went to the top of the stairs and looked down into the parlor, the prosecuting attorney had been replaced by my skinny brother. He was folded into Ma’s arms, sobbing.
“There has to be something we can do, Dad,” he said, swiping at his face as he pulled away. “What about all the money you been saving for our college? You could call that lawyer Brennan who got Duane off and—”
Ma shook her head. “He’s their father, Jim, and like Nancy said, he hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Just left them for most of their lives is all. Didn’t even show up when their mother got sick and died. If that ain’t wrong—”
“Not to the state, it isn’t. Or not wrong enough. He’s claiming their mother took them away and never told him where. That he’s been looking for them—”
There was no point yelling that it wasn’t true. Or that Aunt Cille had told me the shit (yes, she’d even used that word right in our parlor) had abandoned us when our mother was pregnant and moved out of state to avoid paying child support. Though he could well afford it, she always added. No point when we all knew Michael Finn would show up in court, speaking his fancy words and wearing his fancy clothes while Dad would be tongue-tied and reeking of the garage in a rented suit. No point when Judge Reilly was married to a cousin of the Woods and would have taken Michael’s side even if he showed up in court dressed like Junior Littlefield at the Egg Auction, ax and all.
I ran to my room and shut the door on the whole pointless world.
I MUST HAVE slept late, because when I woke up, Agnes had dug out every last picture of my heroes and hung them up so that wherever I looked, one of them stared me down. What good had they ever done me? I was about to tear Florence Nightingale from the wall, but the sight of my sister in the doorway stopped me.
“You’ll think of something, Zaidie; I know you will.” Then she handed me the lucky shamrock barrette I thought was long gone.
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, Michael Finn loped up the walkway, carrying two pints of ice cream from Lannon’s Dairy.
Inside, he tried to give me the carton in his right hand. “If I remember correctly, strawberry’s your favorite.”
“Black raspberry and vanilla are the only flavors I eat. I hate strawberry,” I said, violating Ma’s one rule about telling the trut
h.
He hardly blinked. “What about you, Jonathan? I’m guessing you’re a chocolate chip kind of guy.”
“Jon,” I mumbled.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something, Zaida?”
“No one calls him Jonathan.”
“Your mother and I always wanted our children to be called by their proper names.” He set the ice cream on the coffee table, and took over Ma’s armchair like he had a right. “Did you know I chose your name? After an old college friend—very lovely girl from Lebanon—though she pronounced it ZuhEEda. Your mother didn’t like it much at first, but she came around.” He smiled nostalgically.
So even my name had come from one of Michael’s friends? The screen door slammed in the kitchen as Ma escaped into the yard.
“Get the bowls, Zaida, before that strawberry turns into a pink puddle for Mrs. Moscarelli to clean up.”
Jon corrected him before I had a chance. “It’s Moscatelli and she’s our Ma.”
I’d been proud of how little I remembered him, but when he drew his mouth into a thin, impatient line, it was as if I was back in New Jersey.
“Of course, your Ma,” he said, making it sound like the kind of word that could get your mouth washed out with soap. “Now would you get those bowls, Zaida.”
I remembered that, too. The requests that should have come with a question mark but didn’t. Jon drew closer to me as if he felt my tension. “I don’t want none, either.”
“You must be the first kids I ever met who don’t like ice cream.” Michael Finn was smiling again, but his index finger tapped out a menacing rhythm on the arm of Ma’s chair. After all the years we’d been apart, I still knew the beat.
“I guess that means there’s more for Daddy.” He went into the kitchen, heading straight for the silverware drawer as if he lived here.
He struck me as the kind of guy who watched his figure like Gina Lollobrigida, but he plunged into the strawberry and ate it straight out of the carton to prove a point. “It’s my favorite, too, Zaida. Did you know that? Another thing you got from me.”
All the Children Are Home Page 13
