Penny from Heaven (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

The Water Boy’s Treasure

Frankie thinks it’s hilarious.

“Your mother’s dating Milky Mulligan?” He guffaws.

We’re sweeping up the store. It’s me and Frankie’s job to put down new sawdust—otherwise the blood from the back gets tracked everywhere.

“Does he smell like old cheese?” Frankie asks. “You know, how milk bottles sometimes get that old-cheese smell when they’re left out in the sun?”

“Frankie,” I say.

“Boy, if they get married, you’ll be Penny Milky Mulligan.”

“Shut up.”

He bursts out laughing. “You can serve milk instead of champagne at the wedding! No, wait, I got it!
Milk shakes!
”

“Knock it off!” I say, and wave my broom at him threateningly.

“Hey!” he protests. “I was just fooling.”

“It’s not funny.”

He snickers. “You think maybe you can get me a deal on cottage cheese?”

The bell on the door rings and Uncle Sally walks in, which is a good thing because I am a step away from whacking Frankie right in the kisser. Not that it would do any good.

“Hey, kids,” Uncle Sally says, and ruffles Frankie’s hair, even though he’s barely an inch taller than Frankie.

“How’s your mother, Penny?” Uncle Sally asks.

I want to say, She’s wrecking my life, but instead I say, “She’s good, thanks.”

“A great lady, your mother,” he says wistfully.

Uncle Sally has a crush on my mother, and he’s always asking after her. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s not her type. Not that I can see her dating Mr. Mulligan, either, but at least he comes up to her chin.

“You got in any of that tongue I like?” Uncle Sally asks Uncle Ralphie.

“In the locker. Dominic’s been saving some for you,” Uncle Ralphie says, leading him into the back room.

I turn to Frankie and make a gagging sound. I don’t know how you can eat a tongue, even if it is from a cow.

“What is it with him and the tongue?” I ask.

Frankie shrugs and says, “Maybe it’s ’cause he’s such a big talker.”

Uncle Sally always knows what’s going on in town. If someone sneezes, he knows about it.

Outside, a Sister of Mercy, one of the teachers at Frankie’s school, walks past the window. The sister looks in and catches sight of Frankie and narrows her eyes.

Frankie shakes his head and says, “Those Sisters of Mercy. They ain’t got no mercy.”

We load up the old sawdust into buckets and carry them around back to the garbage cans. Uncle Sally and Uncle Ralphie’s voices drift through the back door of the office, which is propped open.

“So I was talking to old man Garboella,” Uncle Sally is saying, “and boy did he ever tell me some story.”

I motion Frankie over to the door.

“Get this,” Uncle Sally says. “He told me that the Water boy once told him that he had a bunch of money hidden somewhere at the house.”

“The Water boy” was my late grandfather Falucci. He got his nickname because of his first job on a construction site when he came to America. It just sort of stuck.

“He said he buried it in the ground,” Uncle Sally says.

Frankie’s eyes widen.

Inside, Uncle Ralphie chuckles. “Yeah? He tell you where?”

“If I knew, I’d be over there with a shovel right now,” Uncle Sally says, and they both laugh.

This doesn’t surprise me all that much. Nonny does something similar. She pins dollar bills in the hems of drapes, squirrels them away under chair cushions. I once found five dollars under one of the Queenies’ beds, all matted with dog hair. I don’t know why they don’t put money in banks like everyone else, but they just don’t.

Frankie grabs my hand and squeezes. I already know what he’s thinking. He’s got the shovels lined up and is figuring out where to start digging.

“Do you believe it?” he whispers, his face flushed with excitement.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Think of all that dough! Then we don’t never gotta worry again.”

By which he means that he doesn’t ever have to worry about his father losing his job again.

I wrinkle my nose. “But if it is true, how’re we gonna find it? We can’t go digging up the yard.”

Frankie’s face turns sly.

“Says who?”

“So you need any yard work done, Uncle Paulie?” Frankie is asking.

We’re over at Nonny’s, sitting in the upstairs kitchen. Frankie thinks that the easiest way to find the treasure is to just work in the yard. We’ll figure out where the treasure is buried and then come back at night and dig it up.

Uncle Paulie raises his eyebrows. “You volunteering?”

“You bet,” Frankie says.

Uncle Paulie leans back and sips his coffee. “I guess the bushes could use a prune.”

“Sure,” Frankie says eagerly.

“And there are a few sticks that need picking up.”

“Sticks, you got it,” Frankie says.

“And while you’re at it, you can cut the grass.”

Frankie’s smile droops a little, but he says, “Be glad to.”

“Thanks, kid,” Uncle Paulie says, and turns back to his paper.

Two hours later we’re still picking up sticks in the front yard. They’re all over the place. A big tree is dying and has been dropping them everywhere. We haven’t even gotten to the backyard yet.

“I’m beat,” I say to Frankie.

“Quit complaining,” he says.

“But we’re never going to find anything at this rate.”

“Grandpa must have left some sort of marker or something,” Frankie says.

“How come?”

“Because otherwise how would he find it?”

I guess he does have a point. Still, I think it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I don’t say anything.

“I’m gonna get something to drink,” I say.

As I walk away, I hear Frankie grumble to himself. “A few sticks. Right. And I’ll sell you a bridge to China while I’m at it.”

I go into the house. It’s quiet except for the sound of music floating downstairs. Uncle Paulie’s gone to work and Nonny’s visiting her old-lady friends. I help myself to a ginger ale and then wander out into the hallway.

“Hello,” I call.

“Who’s that?” Aunt Gina calls back.

“It’s me, Penny,” I say.

“Come on up, doll,” she says.

I like Aunt Gina. She’s the most interesting aunt, in my opinion. She’s not afraid to say what she thinks. Also, she’s the only one of the aunts who doesn’t have any kids, but nobody ever talks about that.

Aunt Gina is in her bedroom. It’s a real fancy bedroom, done all in pink. There are pink chenille bedspreads on her and Uncle Paulie’s twin beds, and her makeup table has a flouncy matching pink skirt. Her dresser is covered with fancy bottles of perfume and all sorts of jars of makeup and lipsticks, and the whole room smells like Evening in Paris. She’s got a record player in the corner, and it’s playing Nat King Cole. I love this room. It’s what I imagine a movie star’s bedroom looks like.

Aunt Gina’s standing in her slip studying two dresses lying on one of the beds.

“Which one, you think?” she asks me.

“For what?” I say.

She squints and takes a puff on her cigarette. “Atlantic City. We’re going there Friday night for our anniversary. Dinner and dancing. The works.”

I study the dresses. One’s emerald-green silk with a straight skirt and the other one is red satin with a full skirt.

“The red one,” I say. “That’s a dancing dress.”

She nods approvingly. “You got a good eye, doll.”

“Try it on,” I say.

I sit back on the bed and watch Aunt Gina shimmy into the dress. The material clings to her curvy figure and she looks beautiful. She slips on high heels and gives a few good twirls. The skirt flies up, showing off strong, slim legs. Aunt Gina used to be a dancer with the Rockettes before she married Uncle Paulie. She danced at Radio City Music Hall and met lots of famous entertainers.

“Come here,” she says, motioning me over to her dressing table. “On the stool.”

I sit on the pink stool with the ruffle, feeling like Cinderella meeting her fairy godmother.

Aunt Gina shakes her head at the state of my hair.

“I know, I know,” I say.

She picks up a thick brush and does this and that and takes a few pins and clips my hair behind my ears and flips it so that it falls all soft and pretty around my face. “That’s better,” she says. “You tell that grandmother of yours to stop giving you those home perms.”

“You try telling her,” I say.

She laughs and pats my curls. “You’re real pretty, you know that? I’m surprised the boys aren’t after you already.”

They won’t ever be after me if Pop-pop keeps chasing them off, I think.

“You spend too much time with that no-good cousin of yours,” she says.

“Frankie? He’s good,” I say.

“You watch him,” she says. “I’ve known boys like him. He’s headed for trouble with a capital T.”

I look at her in the mirror and imagine her kicking her away across the stage at Radio City Music Hall.

“You ever miss dancing?” I ask.

“Every day,” she says. “But that’s life, right, doll?”

“Why’d you quit?”

She gives a little laugh. “Your Uncle Paulie liked dating a dancer; he just didn’t like the idea of having a wife who was one. Your grandmother wasn’t much help, either.”

“Nonny wanted you to quit dancing?”

“You got that right,” she says, pursing her lips to apply bright-red lipstick. “And let me tell you, what your grandmother Falucci wants, she gets.” She pauses, her reflection looking back at me from the mirror. “You know, your father was the only one who didn’t give me a hard time about dancing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Freddy was a good egg.”

“I wish I could’ve seen you dance,” I say.

She smiles and whirls around. “You can, doll. Turn up that record player.”

As Frankie picks up sticks in the yard, I sit on the bed and watch Aunt Gina give the best show any Rockette has ever given.

It’s so good, I swear I can hear the applause.

Frankie gets all excited when I tell him about Aunt Gina and Uncle Paulie going to Atlantic City.

“Now here it is,” Frankie says. “We sneak over after they leave and start digging. I think I know where it might be. There’s this spot where there’s a smooth stone, kind of near the bushes, like a marker, you know? It’s gotta be the place!”

“I don’t know, Frankie,” I say.

“Come on,” he says. “Just think of all that dough.”

In the end I give in. It’s Frankie, after all.

The night of the dig, I try to act normal. I take a bath and put on my pajamas and give Mother a hard time about wanting to stay up late until finally she sends me to bed. I wait until the house is dark and quiet, and then I slip on my clothes and sneak out the back door. It’s handy having my bedroom on the first floor.

Frankie’s waiting for me on his bicycle behind a tree.

“Ready, palsy-walsy?” he asks.

I wrap my arms around his waist, and we pedal off down the street.

Nonny’s house is dark and quiet when we get there. Friday is Uncle Dominic’s poker night, so we don’t have to worry about him.

“You think she’s asleep?” Frankie asks.

“House looks dark,” I say.

He leads me over to a row of bushes and points to a small smooth stone on the ground. “See, don’t that look like a marker to you?”

“Maybe.”

“Here,” he says, handing me one of the shovels he stowed earlier today. He picks up the other one, and we start digging.

“If Mother finds out I’m not home, I’m gonna get it,” I mutter.

“Quit worrying,” he says. “We’re gonna be famous. I can see the headline now: ‘Boy Detective Finds Hidden Treasure’!”

“What about me?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment. “Maybe it could say: ‘Boy Detective and Trusty Assistant Find Hidden Treasure.’”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Say, what are you gonna do with your share of the loot?” he asks.

“Buy tickets to a Dodgers game.” I’ve never been to one. Mother says ball games aren’t appropriate for young girls. I want to tell her it’s not appropriate to date milkmen who talk over the play-by-play.

My shovel hits something hard. “I think I found it!” I whisper.

“Move, move,” Frankie commands. Using his bare hands, he digs like mad and pulls an old metal box out of the ground.

We share an excited look. He opens the lid, but instead of stacks of bills, there’s a pile of dirt and what looks like bones and a small skull.

“Is that a bone?” I ask.

“What?” Frankie says. “Where’s the money?”

There’s a small disk of metal with writing on it. “It’s Queenie I,” I say. “Or maybe it’s Queenie II. I can’t tell. It’s too dark.”

Frankie snorts in disgust. “You kidding me?”

All of a sudden I hear barking. The Queenies are going crazy, yipping up a storm.

“Those dumb dogs,” Frankie whispers.

“Maybe they’re not so dumb,” I whisper back. “Maybe they know we’re out here digging up their friends.”

Then I hear shouting from the back door.

“I call the
polizia!”
Nonny shouts.

“It’s Nonny!” I whisper.

Nonny’s standing there in her black bathrobe, waving something. It’s dark, so she can’t see who we are.

“Oh, brother,” Frankie says. “Where’d she get a gun?”

“Gun? What gun?”

Before Frankie can say anything, there’s a loud blast and he shoves me hard and says, “Run!”

We take off into the bushes, running through Uncle Nunzio’s backyard, and then the next one, our hearts pounding in our chests. We run and run and run and don’t stop until we’re far away.

“My bike!” Frankie gasps. “It’s still at the house!”

“I’m not going back,” I say, trying to catch my breath.

“A lot of good you are,” he gripes, and starts walking back toward Nonny’s.

“You know what the headline’s gonna be tomorrow morning if Nonny catches you?” I call.

“What?”

“‘Dumb Boy Shot by Own Grandmother.’”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

More Peas, Please

The next morning is Saturday, and when I go into the kitchen, my mother is there.

She’s wearing an apron and humming as she slices an onion on the big wooden cutting board. There’s a raw chicken on the table and a pot of something bubbling on the stove. Mother only cooks when we have company. She’s scared that Me-me’s cooking will poison the guests.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

Her hand pauses in midair over the chopping board. “We’re having a guest for dinner tonight.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Mr. Mulligan,” she says.

“What?”

“Penny,” she says, and there’s a warning note in her voice.

At that moment Pop-pop walks in and sits down at the table with a heavy thud. He looks at the dinner preparation in surprise.

“Pope coming for dinner?” he asks.

“Not likely,” I mutter.

“I got a new one for you. What do you call a hundred thousand Frenchmen with their hands in the air?” Pop-pop asks me.

I just look at him.

“The French army!” he says, and guffaws.

“That’s not very funny,” I say.

“Not funny?” he scowls. “Ain’t ya got a sense of humor?”

My mother slams down the knife and visibly composes herself.

“Daddy,” she says loudly, “you are going to behave yourself tonight, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” he says. “What’s tonight?”

“Pat’s coming for dinner, remember? I told you yesterday.”

“Pat? Pat who?”

“Pat Mulligan!” she says in exasperation.

He stares at her a moment and then rubs his chin thoughtfully. “No need to shout. I can hear you fine. I ain’t deaf.”

The doorbell rings. I jump up.

My mother looks at me. “Where are you going?”

“To play ball with Frankie,” I say. “That’s him.”

“Be back early. Mr. Mulligan’s coming at five-thirty, so I want you clean and dressed by the time he gets here. That means a bath,” she says, like I’m six. “I’ll lay a dress out for you.”

“You wanna brush my teeth, too?” I ask.

“No smart talk from you, young lady,” she says. “Or you won’t be going anywhere.”

“Wait a minute,” Pop-pop says. “Does this mean I have to wear a necktie?”

Frankie’s waiting on the porch with his baseball mitts, grinning from ear to ear.

“You were right!” he says. “We made the paper!”

“What?”

“Look! The police blotter!” he says, and pulls a scrap of newsprint out of his back pocket.

Suspected Intruder Reported

I look around quickly. “Shh! Don’t show that to anybody!”

“What’s the matter with you?” he says. “We’re famous! A pair of regular criminals!”

“I’m sure J. Edgar Hoover’s already sent his G-men after us,” I say sarcastically.

“You think so?” Frankie says.

“No, Frankie,” I say. “Look, just don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”

“I’ll keep it on the q.t.,” he says.

When we get to the park, all the kids are gathered around the baseball diamond. Frankie’s team is short of players, so Frankie has me be shortstop because of my arm. He says I can throw faster than any of the boys on the field.

By the second inning we’re behind by one with two outs. Frankie’s on first base, and another kid, Eugene Bird, is up at bat. Eugene looks nervous; he’s not a very good hitter and he almost always strikes out. Not to mention he tried to kiss me once when we were in first grade.

Eugene swings and misses the pitch.

“Strike one!” the kid who’s the umpire calls.

I’m sitting on the bench waiting for my turn at bat. Most of the girls don’t play anymore; they sit on the side and watch. I’m thinking about Jack Teitelzweig and wondering if maybe I should be watching games instead of playing them when a girl with blond hair held back by a light-blue headband wearing a matching blue skirt makes her way over to where I’m sitting, trailed by two other girls. Just my luck.

“Having a nice summer, Penny?” Veronica Goodman asks with a fake smile.

I don’t say anything. Mother says the only way to deal with girls like Veronica is to ignore them, although Veronica is pretty hard to ignore.

“I hear you’re working at the butcher shop,” she says. “Sounds like a grand time!”

The girls titter. I do my best to ignore her, watching Eugene swing too late and miss the ball again.

“Strike two!”

Poor Eugene looks like he’s going to faint from all the pressure. He knows Frankie will kill him if he strikes out again. Frankie hates to lose.

Veronica leans forward and says, “So tell me. Do you get to cut up pigs all day? How exciting! What about chickens? Do you get to cut up chickens, too?”

Veronica goes on and on and on. I don’t know why, but something snaps, and it’s as if I turn into another person, a person with no sense at all, because I hear myself saying, “Aw, shut up already.”

“What did you say?” Veronica growls.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

Over on first base, Frankie’s straining toward me, trying to hear what we’re saying.

“My father says we should have dropped the bomb on Italy. He said it would’ve gotten rid of all you traitors.” Her voice rises a notch. “Who do you think you are, anyway? You and your dumb cousin think you’re better than us?”

“At least I’m not mean,” I say before I can stop myself. Maybe I
am
spending too much time around Frankie.

Her cheeks turn hot with anger. “Well, at least
I
don’t have some crazy uncle who lives in a car and wears bedroom slippers all over town.”

I go cold inside.

“Your uncle is off his rocker,” she says, twirling a finger by her head. “Crazy as a loon.”

That’s it. It’s one thing to pick on me, even on Frankie, but not Uncle Dominic.

“Don’t talk about my uncle,” I say, standing up.

“What are you gonna do about it, huh?” she asks with a smirk.

“This,” I say, and I haul off and hit her hard across the face with my fist, just the way Frankie taught me.

Veronica squeals in pain. “My nose! My nose!”

“Penny!” Frankie shouts, and starts racing across the field.

Before he gets to me, Veronica smacks me hard, right in the eye, and I stagger back, and then Frankie’s leaping onto her, and the screaming begins and kids start pouring in and fists are flying and Eugene Bird doesn’t have to worry if he’s going to hit the ball after all, because that’s the end of the game.

“I swear you do this on purpose,” my mother says fiercely, jabbing my cheek with iodine.

“Ow!”
I say. “That stings.” What kind of nurse is she, anyhow?

“It’ll hurt more if it gets infected,” she says. “This is what you get for going around with that cousin of yours.”

“It was Veronica! She smacked me!”

“And just look at that eye! It’s going to be black by morning!”

The doorbell rings.

“That’s Mr. Mulligan,” she says, standing back to survey my face. “I guess there’s no helping it. Go let him in. I have to check on the chicken and make sure your grandmother hasn’t put her hands in it. She insisted on making her peas and onions.”

Mr. Mulligan’s standing on the front porch with a huge armload of cut flowers. It looks like someone died. I’m so used to seeing him holding bottles of milk that I just stare at him.

He raises his eyebrows when he sees my eye. It’s all red and puffy.

“Evening, Penny,” he says nervously.

He looks about as comfortable in his suit as I do in the getup Mother made me wear. I’ve got on a white sleeveless blouse and a checked skirt with an itchy crinoline underneath.

“These are for you,” he says, handing me one of the bouquets.

I hear my mother’s voice trill behind me.

“How lovely!” she says. “Wasn’t that thoughtful of Mr. Mulligan, Penny?”

“Sure,” I say. “Real swell.”

But they’re not paying any attention to me. My mother’s too busy taking his hat and coat like he’s the president. Mr. Mulligan gives the remaining two bouquets to my mother and Me-me, who can’t get over that someone brought her flowers.

“You shouldn’t have,” Me-me keeps saying in a pleased voice. “No one ever brings me flowers.”

“What are you talking about?” I say. “I brought you some flowers me and Frankie picked just last week!”

Me-me shoots me a disapproving look and says, “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Mulligan? Whiskey? Maybe a beer?”

“How about a glass of milk?” I suggest.

“Iced tea, if you have it,” Mr. Mulligan says. “And please, call me Pat.”

Me-me shoos us all into the dining room, where my mother has laid out the table with our best linen and silver and china, which we only use on holidays. This doesn’t count as Christmas in my book, no sirree Bob.

Then something catches my eye. The sideboard. The wedding photograph of my mother and father is gone!

“Why don’t you sit here,” Me-me is saying as she ushers Mr. Mulligan to the head of the table.

My mother comes in carrying a perfect chicken, all golden brown. She’s nervous, and she keeps running back into the kitchen saying she forgot to put out the butter, the rolls, the salt.

“It sure looks good,” Mr. Mulligan says.

“You forgot the peas and onions,” Me-me points out.

“Of course,” my mother says with a forced smile. She returns a moment later with a covered dish.

“Would you carve, Pat?” Me-me asks Mr. Mulligan.

“Of course I’ll carve,” Pop-pop says, and picks up the knife and fork.

Mr. Mulligan looks around a little awkwardly, but nobody says anything.

“You want white meat or dark meat?” Pop-pop asks Mr. Mulligan.

“White meat, please,” he says.

Pop-pop cuts off a huge chunk of dark meat and puts it on Mr. Mulligan’s plate. “Here ya go, dark as night,” he says.

My mother puts her hand on her forehead.

“So, Penny,” Mr. Mulligan asks, “how about those Dodgers? Think they have a chance?”

“My uncle Dominic says they have a shot at the Series,” I say. “My uncle Dominic, that’s my father’s brother, he used to play baseball in the minor leagues. He even got invited to spring training with the Dodgers.”

“Your uncle sounds like an interesting fella,” Mr. Mulligan says.

“He is,” I tell him. “And my father was a newspaper writer.”

“That’s very impressive.”

“You got to be really smart to be a writer. You go to college?”

Mr. Mulligan nods again, uncomfortable. “Uh—”

“Pat,” my mother says in a bright voice, “can I serve you some mashed potatoes?”

“Please,” Mr. Mulligan says. “You’re a wonderful cook.”

“Thank you,” my mother says, blushing.

“I thought you said we were having steak,” Pop-pop says, looking at his plate suspiciously. “This looks like chicken.”

“It
is
chicken, Daddy,” my mother says in exasperation.

“Wouldn’t have worn a necktie if I wasn’t going to get steak,” he mutters to himself.

“Mr. Mulligan, would you care for some peas and onions?” I ask in a sweet voice. “Me-me’s famous for her peas and onions.”

Mr. Mulligan holds out his plate with a broad smile. “Why, thank you, Penny. I’d love some.”

Across the table my mother shoots me a warning look, and I shrug innocently.

I give Mr. Mulligan a big helping and then watch as he takes his first bite. He blinks fast when the peas hit his tongue and then chews for a while, finally swallowing hard.

“They’re delicious,” he says to Me-me.

Me-me smiles happily.

“Me-me does a lot of the cooking around here,” I inform Mr. Mulligan.

“Really?” he says, looking a little worried.

I wait until his plate is clean.

“More peas?” I ask.

“Uh,” he says, unsure, his eyes darting between my mother and Me-me. “I don’t want to eat them all.”

“Please, don’t be shy, there’s more on the stove,” Me-me says.

He holds out his plate reluctantly. “In that case, yes, please.”

It takes all my willpower not to burst out laughing from the look on his face. He looks like he’s going to the executioner.

“Penny,” my mother says, “can you come into the kitchen for a moment, please?”

Before I can answer, Scarlett O’Hara trots over to Mr. Mulligan and calmly squats above his foot and tinkles on his shoe.

“Scarlett O’Hara!” my mother says in a horrified voice.

“Dog’s bladder’s going,” Pop-pop says.

“Daddy!” my mother scolds.

“What? Not like it’s a state secret,” Pop-pop says.

“Oh, Pat, I’m so sorry,” my mother says. “Here, let me have your shoe and I’ll clean it up.”

Mr. Mulligan hands his shoe to my mother, who hurries into the kitchen.

Me-me stands up. “I have some rags in the basement.”

Then it’s just me and Pop-pop and Mr. Mulligan.

Mr. Mulligan smiles uncomfortably. He’s been trying not to look at my eye the whole meal, but I know he’s curious.

“That’s gonna be some shiner,” he says.

“Oh, this? It’s nothing,” I say, and lower my voice confidingly. “Mother slugged me for not making my bed. She likes things neat.”

He looks at Pop-pop, as if he’ll tell him it’s not true. Instead, Pop-pop burps loudly.

“So, you gonna marry my daughter or what?” Pop-pop says.

Mr. Mulligan doesn’t stay long. He eats the key lime pie Me-me made in two bites. When my mother asks him if he wants a second cup of coffee, he says he really needs to get home.

I wave as Mr. Mulligan’s car drives away. I figure there’s nothing to worry about after all.

I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.