“Well, who do we have here?” Ethel said when we came around the corner, even though she darn well knew who we were.
Mr. Gary got up and opened the screen door to let us in. He was on the tallish side and a lot stronger than he looked. And he had the most beautiful hands you’ve ever seen. Narrow, with strong clean fingernails. Of course, he had those ears that were a lot like Dumbo’s, so God had to give him those hands to make up for those ears. Ray Buck was sitting on a little straw couch and smoking a cigar. Ethel was waving a punk back and forth to keep the skeeters away just in case one got in there because Ethel absolutely despised skeeters and called them God’s worst idea. They had the record player on in the house and Nat King Cole was singing “Mona Lisa” through the kitchen screen door onto the porch.
Mr. Gary gave us both a really good hug. “It’s about time you showed up. Thought maybe you didn’t like old Mr. Gary anymore.” He wasn’t old, he was just making a joke. He was the same age as everybody in the graduating picture in my hidey-hole. The same age as Mother. Thirty-eight years old. “My, how you two have grown,” he said like he was surprised and maybe a little disappointed.
We hadn’t seen Mr. Gary for a whole year. The last time he was here was last summer, right around when Junie Piaskowski turned up dead, that’s all anybody could talk or think about so we hadn’t really gotten to spend much time with him. Mr. Gary only came to visit during the summer because the winter cold made his teeth ache, which was why he’d moved to California in the first place.
“How old are you two now?” Mr. Gary placed his hand on Troo’s shoulder. He had no way of knowing that she didn’t like to be touched unless you were part of her family or one of her very, very best friends. But Ethel knew that so she jumped right up off the chair cushion and said, “My Lord, Troo, what happened to your nose?” She pulled Troo over to the light that was coming out of the kitchen. Troo tipped her head up toward Ethel. “Oh my goodness. Who did that to you, darlin’?”
Since Troo was looking too pooped to participate, I told them the story about what had happened with Greasy Al and how Hall was in jail and we weren’t sure where Nell was and how Mr. Fitzpatrick drove us to Granny’s but (I lied here, so I’m sorry about that, God and Daddy) Granny didn’t answer her door so we came over here.
“Well, of course you did,” Ethel said, and gave a worried look to Ray Buck and Mr. Gary. “I’m sure it’d be fine if you slept right out here on the porch tonight.”
Mr. Gary said, “Absolutely. We wouldn’t want you wandering the streets with all that’s been happening around here.”
Ray Buck got up and gave Troo his seat on the straw couch when Ethel went back into the house, probably to check on Mrs. Galecki. The fireflies had come out. Ethel told me once that fireflies had followed her up from Mississippi. And it was true, wasn’t it? How special people more than others attracted special things like fireflies and crickets and shooting stars and four-leaf clovers.
Ethel came back out with a plate. Ray Buck took a brownie but Mr. Gary said no thanks. Me and Troo had two each of those best blond Mississippi brownies.
When he was done chewing, Ray Buck kissed Ethel on the cheek and said, “Must be goin’. Early bird catches the worm.” We all said good night to him and then Ethel walked him to the front of the house, where he’d catch the bus that stopped on the corner. It would take him home to the Core, where all the other Negroes lived. Ray Buck got to ride the bus for free because he was a bus driver, so that was good for him.
Mr. Gary stood and stretched his arms up and when he did his shirt rode up and I could see his stomach, which was as flat as an ironing board and sunny California brown with black curls around his belly button that went down in a line to the top of his pants. He said, “It’s getting late. Gotta hit the sheets. How about some old maid tomorrow, girls?”
“Sounds good, Mr. Gary,” I said, already planning to ask him if he knew my mother and if they were friends in high school. Maybe I’d even ask him a few questions about Rasmussen. “Night.”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said and walked toward the porch door, but then he turned and smiled kinda sadly at us. Mr. Gary looked like he had something on his mind, but he didn’t say nothing. He just rubbed his hands on his pants and went in, passing Ethel when he did.
In her arms, Ethel had pillows with pillowcases that were ironed and smelled of Tide laundry soap, and even though it was warm out she covered our bare legs with a clean white sheet. Troo asked if she could please have a glass of milk and Ethel went and got that for her. Then Ethel lowered herself down in the chair and all the lights were out except for the fireflies and all the noise was low except for the crickets that got loud on those hot summer nights and the Moriaritys’ barking dog, and then she said, “Little gals, you’re havin’ a hard row to hoe right now. Let’s pray some together.”
Ethel was not a Catholic. She was a Baptist. So every Sunday afternoon she went down to church in the Negro neighborhood while Rasmussen kept an eye on Mrs. Galecki, and wasn’t that ever so nice of him to do? Bah.
When I grew up, that was what I was going to be-a Baptist. Ethel let me go with her every so often during the summer. It was the most fun I ever had at church. Reverend Joe preached with such pep. Even peppier than Barb the playground counselor, who was a pretty darn peppy paper shaker. After the service there was always a get-together in the backyard of the church, which really wasn’t a church but an old appliance store that still had the sign hanging out front that said in worn away letters: JOE KOOL’S SMALL AND LARGE APPLIANCES FOR THE DISCRIMINATING. They had a ton of fried chicken set out on top of red-checkered tablecloths next to some colored greens, which were like spinach but better. On the number 63 bus on the way back home I once asked, “Ethel? When we come down here again, could we please bring Mary Lane along because fried chicken is her absolute favorite?” Between laughs, Ethel said, “That’s a real thoughtful idea. Miss Mary Lane could use a little fattenin’ up. That girl is skinnier than a poor relation.”
Now, I closed my eyes and so did Troo as Ethel said in her praying voice, “Dear God, these little gals sure could use some help.” Ethel went on to tell Him that we were good girls and that our mother was sick and maybe could He please spare her for a little while longer so she could come back and take care of us. I got so sad in my chest then. A deep sadness, more like a wanting so badly of something. A starving sadness. I must’ve started crying because Troo kicked me.
Ethel got up with an aaahhhmen and kissed both of us on our foreheads and went back into the house with a slam of that screen door, her sweet lilies of the valley perfume staying behind to sit with us a while longer.
My head was on one end of the straw couch and Troo’s on the other and her bare feet were next to my tummy, so I rubbed them a little for her until she fell asleep, which was almost right away. Then I got up as quiet as it is when you can’t sleep at night. I stared down at Troo’s red waves streaming out of her coonskin cap. It was a full moon night and some of its glow was falling across her face and made her look like a saint. I pulled the sheet right up to her chin and then walked over to the edge of the screen porch so I could get a good look at Rasmussen’s house. It was all dark except for a light on in what I thought might be the kitchen. Maybe Rasmussen was out looking for Greasy Al Molinari like he told Mr. Fitzpatrick he would. Or maybe he was hiding right around the corner, waiting and watching for me like he had that first night when he chased me down the alley. After Rasmussen did away with me, Troo would be all alone. Even though she acted so tough sometimes, I remembered what she was like after Daddy died. She couldn’t take something like that again. She’d turn into a nutcase and have to go out to the county looney bin and live there with Mrs. Foosman from over on Hi Mount Street, who had tried to drown her two kids in the bathtub because God had told her they were little devils. I couldn’t let that happen. I could never let Daddy down like that. I’d rather be dead, that’s how much I loved my Trooper.