Whistling In the Dark Read online

  According to Fast Susie, Frankenstein couldn’t run very fast because his legs belonged to two different people, so I figured I could outrun him because of my long legs. That was one thing Daddy always said, that I was really good at running. “You fly like the wind, Sal.” That’s what he said. You fly like the wind. I felt bad about leaving Troo behind, but if anyone could keep her safe it was Nana Fazio, who would take her belt to anybody for just about any reason, including Frankenstein. So I snuck down the Fazios’ attic steps and out their back door into the alley, carrying my tennis shoes in my hand, being as sneaky as I could.

  Music was almost always going on day or night on Vliet Street, no matter what. But that night, after the storm moved away, it was black and quiet except for the crickets and that dumb dog that belonged to the Moriaritys that always seemed to be barking two streets over. I went back through the Fazios’ yard and past the Latours’, who were their next-door neighbors. And just for a second I thought I saw something moving around in the Latours’ yard. Something was over there. I looked away real quick and then back again real quick, but everything seemed okay. Just a swing on the play set getting pushed around by the wind. But behind me, the bushes that grew over the Spencers’ back fence were rustling like something had gotten in there with them. Like Frankenstein. I got so scared to be alone in the dark without Troo that I started to walk faster. And then I thought of disappearing-into-thin-air Dottie Kenfield and dead Junie Piaskowski and what Mary Lane had said about Sara Heinemann being missing, and maybe it wasn’t one of her big fat lies after all, so I walked even faster. There was a hushing sound in my ears that was so loud I could barely hear the footsteps that had come up behind me. But they were there all right. So was the shadow that the garage light made look long. And I shoulda turned around and seen who it was right then and there. Or I shoulda run back to the Fazios’. But I didn’t. Because I got sorta frozen with fear like I always did on the high dive up at the pool because, like Troo always told me, when God handed out bravery I musta been in the bathroom.

  I was pretty sure I knew who was following me. It was the guy that I secretly thought all along was the murderer of Junie Piaskowski. I’d thought it since the day they found Junie, but I didn’t tell anybody because they would just cluck their tongues and say something about my imagination and so it just wasn’t worth it. Everybody talked about how he especially liked little girls. That was who was coming for me. Officer Rasmussen.

  I started to run and I could tell by how fast his feet were thumping that he was running, too. I got goin’ so fast I almost fell over and I was almost home but I could tell by his breathing he could just reach out and grab me, but then I heard him stumble and say, “Shit.” I ran through the Kenfields’ gate and rolled beneath those pricker bushes they had next to their garage. He was right behind me. The gate creaked open, then slammed shut. I heard his footsteps, first on the path and then on the grass. He came right up to where I was hiding. If I wanted to I could’ve reached out and touched his argyle socks, pink-and-green ones that I could see in the Kenfields’ back porch light. The socks were in thick black shoes with a spongy bottom that you could buy up at Shuster’s. I could hear him breathing in and out, in and out. And finally, softly singing, “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Sally.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I woke up underneath the Kenfields’ bushes the next morn ing, kinda surprised I’d fallen asleep. My arms were covered in scratches and had bled a little so I licked my finger and cleaned them off and thought God would have done a better job if he had made blood taste like Three Musketeers bars. And then I remembered Rasmussen chasing me down the alley and my heart began beating like an Injun tom-tom right before they attacked the cowboys in all those western movies.

  Mrs. Kenfield was up and about, hanging wash on her clothesline. Should I just roll out and say, “W hy, good morning, Mrs. Kenfield. Need any help?” No. She might ask me, “What the heck are you doing under my bushes?” And since I wasn’t a very good fibber, like Troo was, I would tell her about being chased by Rasmussen and then she would just shake her head at me and say in a voice that pained my heart, “Oh, Sally, not again.” Just because last year, trying to be charitable, I told her I thought that her husband was a spy because he sure did act like one, all secretive and stern, sitting out on the porch swing every night smoking, which I figured had something to do with waiting for a sneaky spy package to be dropped off. So I knew that if I told Mrs. Kenfield about getting chased, she would run right over to the hospital and tell Mother I wasn’t working on controlling my imagination. So I just laid there and said Hail Marys until she stuck her laundry basket under her arm and went inside the house.

  Who was I supposed to tell about a guy named Rasmussen who liked to wave at you when you walked by his house and gave you this sweet smile that made him look like he’d lost something and was about to ask you if you’d help him find it? Who do you tell if that guy was also a cop? I was sure Rasmussen was a murderer. He just had that murderous look to him like all the bad guys do in the movies. Acting all nice and such but really not nice in their heart.

  Should I tell Hall that Rasmussen had come after me? But I couldn’t remember when I’d seen Hall for about the last week. Should I tell the other cop that hung around the neighborhood, Officer Riordan? He was a swell guy, but Willie O’Hara told me that Rasmussen was Officer Riordan’s boss. No. I’d tell Troo. Being a Troo genius, she would know what to do.

  I crawled out from under the bushes and walked to the front of the Kenfields’ house and looked down the block. Ambulance lights were flashing like crazy in front of the Latours’ and two men were wheeling somebody down the front steps. Mrs. Ruthie Latour was groaning and praying. Her husband, Bill, had his arm around her waist. A bunch of the Latour kids were just standing around watching like the rest of us. One of the littler ones was crying.

  Troo was sitting on the sidewalk with Fast Susie, eating fritters that Nana musta made them for breakfast. Fast Susie tore off half of hers and gave it to me when I came up next to her out of breath.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, stuffing the puffed dough into my mouth. Ohhhh . . . that was good. Still warm. “Who is that?”

  “It’s Wendy,” Troo said. “Where you been anyway? We gotta get goin’. It’s Ethel day.”

  “Last night I got . . .” I started to tell her what’d happened with Rasmussen, but then I stopped because my breath was taken away. The sheet that was covering Wendy was streaked with blood.

  I liked Wendy Latour even if she was a Mongoloid. She was so sweet with her straight black hair and that goofy smile and her funny way of talking, like she’d been adopted by the Latours from another country, probably Mongolia.

  The whole neighborhood was quiet, until with a loud metal sound the ambulance men slid Wendy in and got ready to take her away to St. Joe’s. I was about to ask those men if they had any news about Mother, but they peeled out and were already halfway down the block.

  I pulled Troo up and we said bye to everyone and walked home and sat on our front steps. I was a little shaken up by the surprise of not only seeing an ambulance up close like that, but of seeing someone I knew inside it. I’d even forgotten about going to see Ethel over on Fifty-second Street.

  “Do you know what I think?” I said.

  “What?” Troo was laying back on the steps, looking up.

  “I think it was Rasmussen who hurt Wendy.”

  Troo didn’t say anything for a minute, but then pointed up to a cloud and said, “Look, Sally, it’s a horse,” and started laughing. She thought it was hilarious that I liked horses. I never told her it was because of Sky King and his Flying Crown Ranch.

  “Knock it off, Troo,” I said. “This is serious. I think Rasmussen did something to Wendy and I think—”

  Troo sat up and cut me off. “You gotta stop thinkin’ like that. Remember what Mother said about working on your imagination? Cops don’t do stuff like that. They have to swear on the Bible
not to do bad things.”

  “And it isn’t only Wendy,” I kept on. “Last summer, I saw Rasmussen with Junie Piaskowski at the Policemen’s Picnic. They were flying a kite together. And then she got murdered.”

  “You are so queer. That’s what everybody does at the Policemen’s Picnic, hangs out with cops. Rasmussen was just being nice to Junie.”

  Too nice if you asked me. I’d watched the two of them together. Rasmussen smiled at Junie in a certain kind of way. And his hand was on her shoulder. Something was definitely up between ’em and it wasn’t only the kite.

  “He came after me last night,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Rasmussen.”

  “Your imagination,” Troo said, fooling around with the string she kept in her shorts for when she got bored.

  “And he had on pink-and-green argyle socks and he said my name and I had to fall asleep under the Kenfields’ bushes and . . . that wasn’t my imagination.” I showed her my scratches and muddy butt. “It’s not like when I thought the devil had gotten into Butchy’s brain. And it’s not like when I thought that Mr. Kenfield was a spy. It’s not like that at all.”

  Troo looped the string around her fingers into a cat’s cradle and said like she had a bad taste in her mouth, “Is it like the Creature from the Black Lagoon?”

  “Cut it out.” I counted on Troo to believe me. But I swear, it seemed sometimes that I loved her a lot more than she loved me. I didn’t bring up what Mother said to her about working on her charitable works and I could’ve. Maybe I should’ve. I darn well wanted to.

  Troo breathed in deeply just like Mother did, like it was the last bit of air that was left on the planet Earth and she wanted it all for herself. “You know how Wendy wanders off sometimes and they find her at the zoo or down at the creek and that one time over on North Avenue at the record store dancing around?”

  She was using her explaining voice, which wasn’t one of my favorites.

  “Well, that’s all that happened,” Troo said. “Wendy wandered off and maybe fell down and hit her head or something in the Spencers’ root cellar.”

  I nodded, not because I was going along with this idea but because I didn’t want to get in a fight with her.

  “Remember that time Wendy came to our house and ate that stick of butter out of the refrigerator when Mother was in the bathtub?” Troo threw her head back and giggled.

  I started to cry.

  “Awww . . . c’mon.” Troo swatted me on the arm. “Wendy’s gonna be fine. Don’t be so dang sensitive.”

  That’s what Mother always said. That I was too dang sensitive, and that and a dime could buy me a cup of coffee, which was too bad for me since I couldn’t stand coffee.

  Troo held the cat’s cradle up to my face. It was just this white string she got off a bakery box, but by holding it around your fingers and moving it around it turned into something completely new and beautiful.

  I pinched two of the string’s edges and brought them into the middle.

  “You’ll see,” Troo said. “Wendy’ll be back home lickety split, runnin’ around without her clothes on again.”

  Wendy did that. Forgot to put her clothes on sometimes and then got out of the house when Mrs. Latour was looking after the other twelve kids, and there Wendy’d be on the playground swings sportin’ her birthday suit. So one of us would take her home and Mrs. Latour would shake her head at her daughter and Wendy would say, “Thorry, Mama.” And then she’d give her mama a big hug and not let go because Wendy loved to hug anything, but especially her mama, and for some reason . . . me, Thally O’Malley.

  Troo took her turn on the cat’s cradle, lifting it off my fingers into a diamond shape.

  No matter what Troo said, I knew that Rasmussen had somehow hurt Wendy. There was just something about him that seemed so suspicious. Like how he was extra polite to everybody, not like any of the other fathers or brothers that lived in the neighborhood except for Mr. Fitzpatrick, who owned Fitzpatrick’s Drugstore, who was also a very polite man. Seemed like all the other men on the block were always mad about something until they had a couple of beers in them, and then some of them got madder and some of them got nicer and would start singing “Danny Boy” or “Be Bop A Lula” and try to put their hands all over their wives’ heinies.

  So maybe last night Rasmussen got mad because I had hidden from him under the Kenfields’ bushes and he ran back down the alley and saw Wendy during one of her wanderings and pushed her down the Spencers’ cellar stairs and maybe even tried to murder and molest her. It would be all my fault if sweet and silly Wendy Latour never wanted to give anybody a hug again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning over our Breakfast of Champions, I tried again with Troo. “I’m telling you, Rasmussen was on a murderous rampage and when he couldn’t murder me he tried to murder Wendy instead.” The milk had gone clumpy so we ate the Wheaties dry. And the house, even Nell’s room, smelled like something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something like you’d smell over at the zoo.

  Troo was trying to make her spoon stick to her nose the way Willie O’Hara could. “You know, you’re beginning to remind me more and more of Virginia Cunningham in that Snake Pit movie.”

  That was so cruddy of Troo. She knew I worried sometimes that that was how I would end up because of my imagination. Looney people imagine things. Virginia Cunningham had and that’s why they put her out in that mental hospital and the guys in the white coats made her take hot baths all day long even though she was plenty clean. Just for a second, I wanted to haul back and smack Troo just like Hall had. Knock that spoon right off her pretty little nose.

  What a completely awful person I was to think such a thing. Thank goodness she beat me to it. She threw the spoon down and said, “C’mon, I wanna play tetherball. Last one there’s a rotten egg.”

  The Vliet Street School was right across from our house. It was where the kids in the neighborhood that weren’t Catholic went. But during the summer the city had this program on the playground that any kid could go to, no matter what country they’d originally come from or what religion they were.

  There were swings and monkey bars and baseball diamonds. Four squares and hopscotches were painted right onto the asphalt in yellow paint. And you could play running games all day long, like red rover or dodgeball. Or standing games, like Captain May I and tetherball. And when you got worn out in the afternoon, you could sit down for a while on a green bench with a checkerboard painted right on it and watch everybody else get sweaty.

  And there were these playground counselors that showed up year after year named Bobby Brophy and Barb Kircher who were not from Vliet Street. Bobby was the boss of the playground and Barb was his helper. Bobby was going to college to become a gym teacher so he loved to play tetherball and four square with us. Barb was going to college to be a cheerleader and meet somebody like Bobby, she said. Barb was extremely spunky. She was also the expert on lanyard making and had shown all us kids how to braid this long plastic stuff into a kind of necklace that you could attach keys to or anything you wanted, and wear it with any ensemble , which was what Troo had started calling her clothes. Troo and me had about fifty of these lanyards, that’s how much we loved them. The luscious colors and especially the clean smell and how they felt. Slippery and cool to the touch. We could hardly stand it when Bobby would go into the shed behind the school that only the counselors were allowed in and after what seemed like a day or so he would come out with these colored plastics behind his back, telling us to choose one of his hands and not giving them to us until we had. That Bobby was a real card.

  At the end of August, a King and Queen of the Playground would be crowned at a big summer block party with soda and food and music. Last summer, even though we’d only lived on Vliet Street for less than a year, Troo got to be the Queen. That’s how outgoing she was. I was so jealous I didn’t talk to her for a full week. (Sorry, Daddy.) I have a plan to be more outgoing this summer so
I might be able to be the Queen as well.

  Of course, I beat Troo over to the playground with my fly-like-the-wind speed and, of course, she never said anything about being a rotten egg.

  I was already swaying on one of the swings when Troo came up and said, “I spy with my little eye . . .” She pointed over at the monkey bars.

  Wendy Latour was laying flat on top of the bars, licking on a cherry Popsicle, a big gauze bandage half falling off her forehead.

  “Big deal,” I said. “Just because she’s not dead doesn’t mean that Rasmussen didn’t try to murder her.”

  “Well, haven’t seen the two of you in a while,” Bobby the counselor said, appearing out of nowhere. He bounced one of those red rubber playground balls my way. “Fast Susie and Mary Lane have been lookin’ for you. They wanna play four square.”

  Bobby Brophy was easy to look at, with his sandy crew-cut hair and blue eyes and a smile that showed teeth that were whiter than typing paper in his toast-colored face.

  “Did you hear what happened to Wendy Latour?” I asked him. “Somebody pushed her down the Spencers’ cellar stairs and she had to go to the hospital in an ambulance.”

  Troo snorted through her nose at me. “She fell down the Spencers’ cellar stairs.”

  Bobby turned to look over at the monkey bars. “Like she doesn’t have enough problems already.”

  I hadn’t noticed her at first, probably because she was so darn skinny, but there was Mary Lane hanging right below Wendy. When she saw me, she jumped down and skipped over to Fast Susie, who was over near the bubbler waving her arms around at some older boy I didn’t know. Mary Lane said something to Fast Susie and pointed at me and Troo.