know mosta them kids are nice at St. Jude’s and all that, but there could be a few bad apples just like everywhere else in the neighborhood.”
I would have to agree with her. Teddy Jaeger was a booger-eating orphan and there are a few people around here that are rotten to the core. The entire Molinari family, for instance.
Mary Lane says, “Maybe right before the Honeywells were headin’ over to St. Jude’s to bring Charlie home somebody knocked on their door and told ’em something terrible about him.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like . . . like he was the long-lost son of Ed Gein or something.”
“Ed who?” I ask, not recognizing the name. “What block does he live on?”
“Gein , ” Mary Lane says. “He’s not from around here. He killed a buncha women around the state capitol and took ’em home and hung ’em upside down in his living room like they were deer until all the blood drained outta them. Then he peeled off their skin and made lampshades out of it and a little suit he wore around the house and he was a grave robber, too. The cops found shriveled heads at his house and skulls on his bedpost and . . .”
This is one of her no-tripper stories. Next she’ll go on about how Charlie didn’t run away from the orphanage. That he was kidnapped by gypsies. Somehow she’ll work wienies into the story. I don’t know why, but a lot of Mary Lane’s stories are about gypsy kidnappings and wienies and my tummy already is not feeling so great.
I turn back to the game, put two fingers in my mouth and whistle good and loud. Dave taught me how. “You got him where you want him, Troo.” She is punching the tetherball two-fisted and springing for it when it comes whipping back. Even with all her sweat and wild hair she is a beautiful kid.
Mary Lane must be thinking the same thing that I am because she props her chin on my shoulder and says, “Too bad Molinari’s gonna rearrange her face when he shows up.”
“But . . . how would he get back here?” I ask. I’ve given this a lot of thought in the middle of the night. “Ya know, his polio leg.”
Mary Lane pulls out one of the bananas she’s always got in her shorts pocket and says, “Well, he for sure couldn’t walk all the way here. Green Bay is really far away. My father took me to a Packers game up there once and we had to stop three times on the way so I could go to the bathroom.”
That’s such a relief to hear. That makes me breathe a lot easier.
“But you know what could happen?” Mary Lane says, after taking a big banana bite. “A Good Samaritan could see that greaseball hunch limpin’ along the highway and offer him a ride.”
“But—”
“Go, O’Malley,” and “Ya sissy, O’Hara. Ya can’t beat a girl?” the kids watching shout.
The tetherball rope is wound around the pole close to the top and Troo’s got her victory smile on.
Needing to get Mary Lane off the subject of Greasy Al before she tells me something else I don’t want to hear, I make a whew sound and brag to her, “Looks like she’s got it in the bag. Thank God.” Her and just about everybody in the neighborhood knows what a sore loser my sister is. She hates ties, too.
Mary Lane chuckles. “’Member how my dad had to break up her and Artie at the Fourth picnic last year?”
Of course I do. Troo tied with Artie Latour for best costume. He grabbed the genuine Davy Crockett cap off the prize table before she could so the two of them got into one of those roll-around-on-the-ground wrestling matches. After he pried them apart, Mr. Lane, who was one of the judges, awarded Troo the cap. Artie has tried plenty of times to get it back, but she tells him she lost it, which is not the truth. It’s under our mattress. See, it’s not about the cap for my sister or even winning. It’s about having something somebody else wants with all their heart that is the real prize for Troo.
Mary Lane licks her fingers clean and shoves the banana peel back into her
I would have to agree with her. Teddy Jaeger was a booger-eating orphan and there are a few people around here that are rotten to the core. The entire Molinari family, for instance.
Mary Lane says, “Maybe right before the Honeywells were headin’ over to St. Jude’s to bring Charlie home somebody knocked on their door and told ’em something terrible about him.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like . . . like he was the long-lost son of Ed Gein or something.”
“Ed who?” I ask, not recognizing the name. “What block does he live on?”
“Gein , ” Mary Lane says. “He’s not from around here. He killed a buncha women around the state capitol and took ’em home and hung ’em upside down in his living room like they were deer until all the blood drained outta them. Then he peeled off their skin and made lampshades out of it and a little suit he wore around the house and he was a grave robber, too. The cops found shriveled heads at his house and skulls on his bedpost and . . .”
This is one of her no-tripper stories. Next she’ll go on about how Charlie didn’t run away from the orphanage. That he was kidnapped by gypsies. Somehow she’ll work wienies into the story. I don’t know why, but a lot of Mary Lane’s stories are about gypsy kidnappings and wienies and my tummy already is not feeling so great.
I turn back to the game, put two fingers in my mouth and whistle good and loud. Dave taught me how. “You got him where you want him, Troo.” She is punching the tetherball two-fisted and springing for it when it comes whipping back. Even with all her sweat and wild hair she is a beautiful kid.
Mary Lane must be thinking the same thing that I am because she props her chin on my shoulder and says, “Too bad Molinari’s gonna rearrange her face when he shows up.”
“But . . . how would he get back here?” I ask. I’ve given this a lot of thought in the middle of the night. “Ya know, his polio leg.”
Mary Lane pulls out one of the bananas she’s always got in her shorts pocket and says, “Well, he for sure couldn’t walk all the way here. Green Bay is really far away. My father took me to a Packers game up there once and we had to stop three times on the way so I could go to the bathroom.”
That’s such a relief to hear. That makes me breathe a lot easier.
“But you know what could happen?” Mary Lane says, after taking a big banana bite. “A Good Samaritan could see that greaseball hunch limpin’ along the highway and offer him a ride.”
“But—”
“Go, O’Malley,” and “Ya sissy, O’Hara. Ya can’t beat a girl?” the kids watching shout.
The tetherball rope is wound around the pole close to the top and Troo’s got her victory smile on.
Needing to get Mary Lane off the subject of Greasy Al before she tells me something else I don’t want to hear, I make a whew sound and brag to her, “Looks like she’s got it in the bag. Thank God.” Her and just about everybody in the neighborhood knows what a sore loser my sister is. She hates ties, too.
Mary Lane chuckles. “’Member how my dad had to break up her and Artie at the Fourth picnic last year?”
Of course I do. Troo tied with Artie Latour for best costume. He grabbed the genuine Davy Crockett cap off the prize table before she could so the two of them got into one of those roll-around-on-the-ground wrestling matches. After he pried them apart, Mr. Lane, who was one of the judges, awarded Troo the cap. Artie has tried plenty of times to get it back, but she tells him she lost it, which is not the truth. It’s under our mattress. See, it’s not about the cap for my sister or even winning. It’s about having something somebody else wants with all their heart that is the real prize for Troo.
Mary Lane licks her fingers clean and shoves the banana peel back into her
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