Whistling In the Dark (22 page)

Rasmussen said, “Mr. Jerbak died.”

“What?”

“Mr. Jerbak died.”

I wanted to say I never did like Mr. Jerbak anyway. He was always beating on his boy Fritz, who would come to school with black eyes that he said he’d gotten when he tripped over the dog but everybody knew Fritz Jerbak didn’t have a dog.

“Do you know what that means?” Rasmussen asked.

I spotted Troo standing at the corner of the church next to the statue of St. Francis is a sissy. Which in St. Francis’s case meant he was light in his sandals. Willie O’Hara came up with that one.

“It means there’s gonna be another funeral?” I said.

“That’s right, but that’s not what I meant. Mr. Jerbak’s death means that Hall won’t be around anymore. He’s going to jail for more than a few days.”

I was bowled over like a strike. “Hall is going to jail forever, you mean?” If Hall didn’t pay the rent from the money he made sellin’ shoes up at Shuster’s, we’d have no place to live. We were
kaput
. Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I grinded my teeth together and got prepared for Rasmussen to tell me that Troo and me were going to go live in the orphanage up on Lisbon Avenue.

“Maybe not forever, but Hall is going away for a really, really long time.” Rasmussen swiped some sweat on his forehead with a folded white handkerchief he’d taken out of his front suit pocket. “Do you know what
that
means?”

I thought I did.

“It means that you and Nell and Troo will have to move out of your house. The Goldmans will let you stay another week, but then . . . well, they have to rent it out to people who can pay. Do you understand?” He had put his arm over the back of the front seat and was leaning toward me so close that I could smell orange slices.

I was looking out the window at Troo and trying not to think of the lonely faces up at St. Jude’s. Me and Troo were about to become two more lost causes. “So we have to go live in the orphanage?”

“Well, that’s what I’m getting at here.” Rasmussen’s words started to gush out of him like he’d sprung a leak. “Your mother thinks it would be a good idea for you and Troo to come and live with me until she gets better enough to come home.”

“WHAT?”
That had to be nothing but a flight of my imagination, what he just said, because going to live with him was the most Virginia Cunningham crazy idea I’d ever heard!

There was a knock on the half-rolled-down car window. It was Mr. Fitzpatrick, also dressed in a black suit with a white carnation on the lapel. He leaned his head down and said, “We’re all set, Dave.”

Rasmussen said, “Be there in a sec, Lou.”

I just couldn’t believe this. Mother thought it was a good idea for Troo and me to go live with Rasmussen? Mother, how could you? I would have to make sure and ask Nell about this. Yes, that’s what I’d do. Rasmussen was probably making this whole thing up. Of course he was.

Rasmussen opened his car door and said, “I’ve got plenty of room at my house. There are four bedrooms. And Ethel could come over to help you anytime you needed something that I couldn’t do for you, like fix your hair.” He picked up my braid in his hand that Ethel had done that morning, and for a second I thought he was going to start crying. And even though he could still be that murderer and molester, I didn’t push him away. He’d probably tell Mother if I did. Now that I knew that Rasmussen and Mother were friends, I’d have to walk on eggshell feet around him.

He swung his legs out of the car and got out, but then leaned his head back in like Mr. Fitzpatrick had and said, “Talk it over with Troo. See what the O’Malley sisters think.” And then he walked off to the front of the church to join the other men who were in black suits with just shaved faces that looked sad beyond belief.

I just sat there. Couldn’t even blink my eyes, that’s how shocked I was, until Troo came up and stuck her head in the window.

“Did he tell you?” She was hopping from foot to foot the way she did when she got so excited she couldn’t stand it, or if she had to pee. “Well, did he?”

“Did he tell me what?” I didn’t want to say what he told me just in case it was something different from what somebody told her. Mostly, I didn’t want her to know we were going to have to go live in the orphanage because no way on Earth was I gonna live at Rasmussen’s.

Troo pulled me out of the car and we started walking toward the church doors. “Hall is going to jail for a really long time because Mr. Jerbak is dead from when Hall hit him on the head with a beer bottle. And Mother is not gonna die.”

“Yeah, he told me that.”

“Isn’t that fantastic!” Troo yelled real loud and then remembered she was at a funeral and said quieter, “So fucking fantastic!”

Part of it was fantastic. The part about Mother getting better. And even that part about Hall because all we ever got from him were some hits on the head and some slaps with his belt, and now Mother would be free to get married to somebody else because I didn’t think the Pope made you stay married to a murderer. But that part about going to live with Rasmussen? I didn’t think that was so fucking fantastic.

“Yippie ai oh ki aa,” Troo shouted, a yellow rose from Rasmussen’s garden bouncing on her head.

We walked into the church right behind the Latours, so we had to wait a while because it takes fifteen people a long time to stop at the holy water font, especially when Wendy Latour decides to wash her face in it. I asked Troo, “Who told you all this?”

“Nell told me on the way over.” Troo smiled at Artie Latour. He still had the hots for her because his little harelip twitched into a smile until Reese put his fingers around his neck and squeezed until he turned back around again. The Latours had scrapple for breakfast. I could smell it on them.

“Nell talked to Rasmussen. He’s a good egg, just like I been tellin’ you.” Troo’d lowered her voice into a whisper because that was what you had to do in the church, which smelled of incense and had stained-glass windows that calmed me down when the sun came through and made puzzle pieces of red and yellow and green lights on the floor. While we waited in line to go down the main aisle, I looked over at the Virgin Mary statue that always smiled at you no matter what, with her petal pink lips and chipped blue eyes that followed you wherever you went. Candles flickered beneath her feet, lit by people who’d dropped a dime in the tin collection box and asked Jesus’s mother to have a good talk with her son about granting their prayers.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t get half of what went on up at that church. With all the Latin mumbo jumbo and the Stations of the Cross and the nuns who waltzed like ice skaters wherever they went but would smack you a good one for not singing along with a hymn. I didn’t even get what my First Communion was supposed to be about, even though people made a big deal about it and I got presents and my picture taken by Jim Madigan. I know it was the first time I tasted Jesus’s body, which had been stuck into a little white cookie. And if you didn’t let that cookie wafer melt in your mouth and you bit into it, Jesus would come squirting out and you would be in mortal sin trouble. But I still really didn’t get why we had to do that. But that Virgin Mary statue that always smiled and made you feel loved no matter what . . . I got that.

Troo and me looked down the church pews until we found Ethel, who really stood out because she was a Negro and nobody else was. She also had on a huge hat that looked like a flying saucer had landed on her head. Troo and me genuflected and then said excuse us . . . excuse us . . . as we made our way down the pew.

Once we got down next to Ethel I whispered to Troo, because I just had to know, “Did Nell tell you Rasmussen wants us to come and live with him until Mother gets out of the hospital because the Goldmans have to rent the house to somebody who can pay?”

Troo grinned and nodded. I’d been able to tell she really liked Rasmussen that morning when I was watching them in the garden, because she tilted her head to the side and smiled at him in the way she did when she really liked somebody. So I figured, if he hadn’t made it all up, we would do what Troo wanted to do, go live with Rasmussen. Because my Troo was on cloud nine and I just didn’t want to wreck that for her by telling her what I really thought. That moving into Rasmussen’s would be like showing the witch in Hansel and Gretel how to turn on the oven.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Everybody from the neighborhood was there to pay their respects. The Kenfields and the Mahlbergs and the O’Haras and the Fazios and just about anybody who belonged to Mother of Good Hope. Even Bobby and Barb the counselors from the playground came, which was very thoughtful of them. Bobby smiled at me from the pew across the aisle and Barb gave me a peppy wave like she was trying to cheer me up.

After Father Jim said mass, we all stood and sang “Holy Holy Holy,” which Mrs. Heinemann told the congregation was Sara’s favorite hymn, and just about everybody in church started bawling right along with Mrs. Heinemann. Except for Troo. She was just staring up at the ceiling and licking her lips. I couldn’t blame her. I was also feeling so worried that I got bossy with the Virgin Mary, told her she better help the cops catch the murderer and molester real soon or else the next funeral she would be watchin’ over would be mine.

When the whole sad thing wrapped up, Ethel put her sopping wet handkerchief back into her snap purse and said to me, “That was a real nice send-off.” I could tell she had something she wanted to say because she had her I’ve-got-a-secret smile on her face. Once we got outside, Ethel asked, “Did Mr. Rasmussen have a talk with you?”

“He told me all about how Hall is in a heap of trouble and how Mother is getting better and how he wants us to go live with him.”

“You’ll be okay now.” Ethel wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “Mr. Dave is givin’ me a ride back home. Go find Nell. I think she’s got somethin’ else to tell you.” Ethel took off down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, humming “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” Her flying saucer hat bobbed in the breeze and her hips were goin’ up and down like a teeter-totter. There was just such an importance to her. Like she would never die or get sick or leave anybody ever. Ethel Jenkins was the cool side of my pillow when I had a fever.

“See ya, Ethel,” I called after her. She didn’t turn around, just waved, her white-as-a-marshmallow gloved hand atop her cocoa-colored arm against the blue-plate-special sky.

Troo and me were standing on top of the hill outside the church doors that looked down into the street. People were getting into long black cars. Henry Fitzpatrick looked up at me and gave a little salute like he was already a fighter pilot. I saluted him back.

And as I watched the car pull away toward the cemetery, the little white funeral flag waving good-bye, I felt blessed to be breathing, to have my heart beating. I knew this would be a day I would never forget. Just like I’d never forget Junie’s funeral. Today another little girl would get buried in a small white coffin with pink carnations on top.

I turned to go look for Nell, but Reese Latour came up behind me and Troo, and cut me off. He started singing with his scrapple breath, “Did you ever think as a hearse goes by, that you might be the next to die? They wrap you up in a big white sheet, and bury you down about six feet deep. The worms crawl in the worms crawl out . . .” When Mrs. Latour heard him, she grabbed him by the ear and pulled him away and smacked him one on his back. That miserable excuse for a kid just laughed and kept singing. Troo gave Reese this little hand signal that Fast Susie had taught her, a flicking of her fingers under her chin that meant something dirty. Troo was becoming so Italian and French. More like the salad dressing aisle up at Kroger than an Irish girl. When Mother got out of the hospital, she’d put an end to that.

I spotted Nell and Eddie on the church steps. They were just finishing up talking to some girls I didn’t know. All of their hair had been sprayed into beehives with about a can of Aqua Net and did not blow around at all so I guessed they were girls from Yvonne’s School of Beauty. I watched Nell’s little feet, so small for a girl her size, sink into the wet grass on her way toward me. Would Nell be coming to live at Rasmussen’s house, too?

“I have some more good news for the O’Malley sisters,” Nell said with Eddie in tow.

“Let me guess,” Troo said. “Your bosoms have stopped growing?”

Eddie bent over and laughed like a donkey. I did too, but stopped real fast because I didn’t think it was right to laugh on the day a little girl would be set to sleep forever in the ground.

“You’re as funny as a rubber crutch, you know that, Troo?” Nell said.

After the hearse pulled away from the curb, I thought about how Rasmussen had looked when he and Mr. Fitzpatrick and two other men I didn’t know carried Sara’s little coffin down the main aisle of the church. Rasmussen looked like what Granny called world-weary. And poor Mrs. Heinemann. She walked behind the casket of her only daughter with a handkerchief up to her face, making a sound that I never hope to make.

As I watched Father Jim shushing Sara’s mother now, I imagined him in that fluffy white dress with the petticoats and those high heels that Mary Lane told us he was wearing on that peeping night up at the church. And I felt worried for him. Because the Men’s Club didn’t put on plays. I’d asked Granny and she knew because her husband Char-lie, my grampa, used to be the president of the Mother of Good Hope Men’s Club. Granny told me that the men sat around and smoked cigars and told jokes about traveling salesmen and drank lots and lots of Irish whisky and Italian wine and German beer, but there was never a mention of putting on plays. Father Jim had just made that up, about there being a play and how Mary Lane should keep it secret so she wouldn’t wreck the surprise. I didn’t tell anybody else about there not being a Men’s Club play because Father Jim had once given me a holy card of St. Patrick, who was my favorite saint, and he never gave me very long penances after confession. I really didn’t know why Father Jim got dressed up so pretty like that, but it made me glad that it was none of my beeswax.