Al Capone Does My Homework (7 page)

Tuesday, January 21, and Wednesday, January 22, 1936

After I say goodbye to Annie, I head over to Doc Ollie’s yard. I may have lost my
nickel, but Doc Ollie’s sister is a big gardener, and she’s not stingy about her flowers.
She always says a garden is for everyone to enjoy. I pick a daisy and then ring the
warden’s bell.

Piper’s mom answers. “Moose,” she says, her eyes on the flower.

“Is Piper here? This is, uh, for her.” I blush hot as a radiator.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing. I was wondering where Piper was getting all the presents
from. She’s at her grandma’s, but boy will she be sorry she missed this.”

I open my mouth to tell her that I’ve never given Piper a present in my life, but
how do I say that without sounding rude?

“When will she be back?” I ask.

“Tomorrow, but I’ll make sure she gets it. Of course I will. Thanks, dear,” she says,
and then she’s gone.

I stand staring at the closed door. Who is Piper’s secret admirer anyway? Not that
I care or anything. I only kissed her one time. Okay, one and a half, but still.

On the way back to the Chudleys’ I start thinking about the task force report. Is
there any way to find out what’s in it before everyone else? The only person who would
know is Piper. Where is she when I need her?

At the Chudleys’, the day’s dishes sit in the sink. Flies cluster around a honey spill.
The bacon is on the counter, congealed grease in the pan. Why didn’t Mom take the
leftover food back to Doc Ollie’s icebox. Isn’t that the plan?

She’s tired, that’s why. Between the fire and Nat staying up all night, she’s a wreck.

When she finally gets supper on the table, the spaghetti noodles are watery and the
tomato sauce tastes like cough medicine. Natalie is so agitated, she eats standing
up. My mother is so tired, she doesn’t care.

By bedtime, I have a headache from thinking about the task force and the cockroaches
and Natalie and her eye contact trouble and then this sleep problem on top of everything
else. Right now she’s in her room, rocking from one foot to the other. Every time
we persuade her to lie down, she sits bolt upright like she’s afraid to fall asleep.
Did the fire scare her? Or does she just dislike the Chudleys’? She held it together
so well the night of the fire, but now she’s a mess.

“The sun come up this morning?” she whispers.

“It’s bedtime, Nat,” I say. “You have to go to bed first.”

“I have to go to bed first,” Nat parrots.

“Yes,” I say in a rush of hopefulness. At least she hasn’t slid back to calling herself
Natalie the way she used to. That bugged me. Only insane people and batters on a losing
streak talk about themselves in the third person.

I play the Stupid Moose game. I call out wrong answers to simple math problems, pretend
to confuse the order of the weekdays and the number of buttons in her box. I balance
marshmallows on my nose, flicker the lights for her, offer up my toothbrush, and take
her to the parade grounds swings. But nothing helps.

I sleep fitfully until I hear someone knocking on the front door. I head downstairs
and peek out the window to see who is knocking. The outside light shines down on the
blue uniform of Darby Trixle.

“Everybody okay in there?” he calls.

I open the door a crack. “The lights are blazing all over the house. I thought I better
check on you,” Darby explains.

“We’re fine,” I tell him.

He nods. “Bo Bomini said the same thing happened last night. I saw the reports.”

The reports go to Warden Williams and to his boss, the head of the Bureau of Prisons.
That’s the chain of command as my father explained it to me.

Why did I open the door? Knowing Darby, he would have broken it down if I didn’t open
it.

I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me. Good. My father can handle this.

“Dad, it’s Officer Trixle,” I say.

My father swings the door open wide. “Can I help you with something, Darby?”

“All the lights been on all night long. I thought you might be needing something,
sir.”

My father nods. “I’m afraid Natalie is still getting over the trauma of the fire.”

“You need help watchin’ her? Make sure she don’t get in trouble?”

“She’s scared,” my father tells him. “Not dangerous.”

“The missus says she isn’t going to her school anymore.”

“School holiday this week,” my father explains as my mom pads down the stairs in her
slippers.

“Darby, hello.” She pulls her bathrobe tight around herself. “What’s the trouble?”

“Nothing, honey. Go on back to bed.”

“Why is Darby here?” she asks.

“Darby was checking on us is all. Just being neighborly.”

“I see.” My mother gives Darby a smile that would cool molten lava.

“Guess you’re all set, then.” Darby salutes. “You need something, give a holler.”

“Sure thing, Darby, thank you.” My father smiles as if he means it.

“Why is it his business whether our lights are on or off?” my mother whispers as soon
as the door is shut.

“It isn’t unreasonable for him to check on us,” my father tells her.

“Don’t kid yourself. He’s hanging around hoping for a problem.”

“Helen, you don’t know that.”

“Like heck I don’t.”

“Dad,” I say, “Nat’s going back to school on Sunday night, right?”

“Of course,” my mom says.

“And she’ll be able to sleep there, right?” I ask.

“Right,” my father says. “We just have to get through this week.”

“She asleep now?” my mom asks hopefully.

“Almost,” Dad says.

“Ahhh.” My mother’s voice is flat as a penny. “My turn. Go on, get some sleep.”

If only I’d stayed up the night of the fire, maybe none of this would have happened.
Could my mistake have caused all this?

• • •

In the morning I drag myself out of bed and peek in Nat’s room. Natalie is wide awake.
My mother is curled up in Nat’s bed. How can one sister cause so much trouble?

When Nat’s upset, she likes her purple blanket. We didn’t find it when we got our
stuff, but maybe we just missed it.

Before I even eat breakfast, I head down to #2E. Already the place looks a bit better.
The burned-out stove and the icebox are gone. The kitchen cupboards are being rebuilt.
The hall closet is cleaned out. The ashes in my room are swept into a neat pile. I
sit on the floor and begin sifting the dirt, sawdust, and ashes. I find the spine
of my baseball book, a piece of a drawing of a sphinx I did for a project on the Egyptians,
the metal end of a pencil, a half-burned slipper, a lamp cord, and the heel of an
old sock.

Natalie’s room is almost untouched. A lot of her stuff is still in there, but we already
brought her everything we thought might comfort her. Trying to fix Natalie is like
trying to part your hair without a mirror. It’s impossible to know if you made a straighter
part or a more crooked one.

I head back to my room and sift through the pile again. An old can of tooth powder,
part of a shoelace, the back of a frame, and then my finger grazes something soft.
A piece of her purple blanket!

I slip it in my pocket, a big grin on my face. I’ll bring this to Nat and miraculously
she’ll let go of the counting and rocking. She’ll sleep easily each night. She’ll
make eye contact with everyone. And then I’ll find out who or what started the fire,
so that no one will suspect her again.

Sounds good, anyway. But dreams always do.

On the way out, I spot my blue homework notebook! The one with the essay in it. It’s
just sitting out here. That’s strange. How could I have missed it before? I put the
notebook under my arm and head back, an even bigger grin on my face. I won’t have
to do the paper again! Doing your homework twice is like puking, then having to eat
your own vomit.

When I get home, I go straight to Nat’s room to give her the piece of blanket, my
chest puffed up with hope.

Nat takes the swatch of blanket and smells it. Then she hands it back to me.

“It doesn’t smell right, does it . . . but Mom can wash it.”

I close my hand over the little purple piece, then open it again, hoping she’ll see
it differently this time.

But of course that doesn’t work.

I’m about to put the notebook with my stuff so I won’t forget to take it to school,
when I decide to flip through it to make sure it’s all there. That’s when I notice
something strange.

On the top of the first page of my thesis about Roosevelt and his polio, it says
State problem
in handwriting that is hauntingly familiar.

Al Capone has sent me notes before. I know his handwriting really well.

But how did he get his hands on my homework? It must have been the cons who are working
on our place. Somebody took my homework and gave it to him.

Except why’d he write that?
He
doesn’t like my thesis? He’s my English teacher now?

And then on the bottom of the last page he wrote:

Roosevelt is a good fella, but Capone is the guy you should be writing about. Okay,
Roosevelt had that polio problem, but he was born rich. Capone started with nothing.
He earned every penny himself.

Capone messed up my homework. How strange is that? A gangster did my homework. Not
just any gangster, either—public enemy number one.

Luckily, he wrote in pencil.

Friday, January 24, 1936

On Friday morning when I’m getting ready for school, the phone rings at the Chudleys’.
My mother and I stare at each other as if we are half expecting Mrs. Caconi to appear
and answer it. Then Mom jumps up and rushes into the hallway to pick up the phone.

“Hello, this is Mrs. Helen Flanagan,” she says awkwardly.

After a pause, her worry lines deepen. “Mr. Purdy, hello,” she says. Mr. Purdy is
the head of the Esther P. Marinoff School. Having the head of the school call you
is never a good thing. But Natalie hasn’t even been to school this week. How could
she be in trouble?

My leg starts itching imagining the possibilities.

“Yes,” my mother says.

“Well, now.

“But Mr.—

“Mr. Purdy, sir. You know that’s not true.

“The board has no right to do that. Surely the insurance company won’t suspend coverage
based on an unfounded allegation.”

I can only hear one side of the conversation, but one side is enough.

“That doesn’t make sense.” My mom is practically shouting into the phone.

“Temporarily meaning how long?

“The task force report. How do you know about that?

“Look, you can’t make this decision without talking to us.

“Yes, but—

“Mr. Purdy—

“All right. Okay. I’ll have my husband call you. But I know there’s another way to
handle this. It just isn’t fair . . . she’s been doing so well.”

When my mother hangs up, she sits down on the crate we are using as a living room
chair, her eyes on me. She lets her head fall into her hands.

“Mom,” I say gently. “What did Mr. Purdy say?”

“The board is worried about the fire. They think Nat is a fire risk.”

“That’s ridiculous. They monitor her all the time there. Even if she were a fire risk,
which she isn’t, there’s no way she could . . . ”

“I know that, Moose.” The vein in her forehead is pulsing. “But Mr. Purdy says we
have to wait for the task force report. When they clear her, she can go back.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t lift it. “Do you know something about this, Moose?”
she asks.

I’m surprised she asks this. How does she know? “Bea threatened to call the school.”

My mother’s jaw clenches. “I figured as much.”

After a minute she stands up, takes a deep breath, and points to the phone. “This
must work the same as the 64 building’s, right?”

“I think so.”

She nods. “I’ve got the number somewhere.” She grabs her handbag and begins to dig
through it.

“Who are you going to call?”

“Mrs. Kelly. She used to work at the Marinoff School. She knows Mr. Purdy. Maybe she
can talk some sense into his head. She’s due out here anyway. If I have to go one
more night without sleep . . .” She sighs again. “I can’t even think straight anymore.”

• • •

That afternoon Mrs. Kelly is on the three o’clock boat.

“I’m sorry to hear about your apartment.” She bustles into the Chudley kitchen. “And
I did call Mr. Purdy and I let him know putting Natalie on probation, pending the
task force report, is just plain ridiculous.”

“Report should be out soon anyway,” my father says. “Then we can put this all behind
us.”

Mrs. Kelly’s lips pucker. In one sweep of her head, she takes in the dishes in the
sink, the clothes on the chairs, the towels hung over the windows, and my parents’
tired faces. She pulls up a crate and plunks herself on it. “What have you tried?”

My mother tells her about the warm milk before bed, the jumping rope, the hours of
swinging Nat on the parade grounds, about sleeping in different beds, about the purple
blanket swatch, and the new purple blanket that my father searched all of Union Square
to find. And that’s only what she can think of off the top of her head.

“Okay.” Mrs. Kelly nods. “I get the picture. You guys going to stay here permanently?”

My father shakes his head. “Everybody liked our old place. Should be able to move
back in two weeks. Three at the most.” My father looks around at the Chudleys’, which
appears to be occupied by messy campers. “Hauling all our stuff up here for two weeks
didn’t make sense.”

“Two weeks is a long time to go without sleep,” Mrs. Kelly says.

“I’ve got the crew working as fast as they can, but there was a lot of damage,” my
father tells her.

“Have you tried taking her button box?”

We all shake our heads. Nobody wants to take Nat’s buttons away, mostly because more
often than not, it actually makes matters worse.

“At least she’s been quiet.” My mother’s voice is strained. “We’re so close to the
warden’s house now. She pitches a fit and . . .”

“Ahhhck,” Mrs. Kelly groans. She’s heard enough. “Have you tried Moose’s toothbrush?”

We nod.

“Let’s rack our brains, people. I think the buttons are the answer. I’m just not sure
how.”

“I know.” I raise one finger.

“Let’s hear it,” Mrs. Kelly commands, her palms up, her fingers wiggling like I should
come out with it.

I look at my dad. “The button she gave you.”

“What button . . . oh,” Dad says. “My first day of work button.”

“Do you have it?” my mom asks.

“Do you think I would lose ninety-seven? Whose father do you think I am, anyway?”
He smiles as he reaches into his pocket for the simple, silver four-hole button.

“Let’s get her in here. We’ll make it a ceremony,” Mrs. Kelly declares.

“What kind of a ceremony?”

“A button ceremony,” she says.

Whatever that means. I can tell she’s making this up as she goes along.

“What’s the ceremony for?” I ask.

“What if she can’t control whether she goes to sleep or not?” my mother squeaks.

“It will be like a talisman,” Mrs. Kelly says. “Isn’t that what it was for your dad?
A good luck button?”

We nod.

“Then this use will be consistent with the button’s previous symbolism.”

She can’t be serious. If I wasn’t so desperate, I’d laugh.

“Let’s tell her you’re going to give her the button at night, and in the morning you’ll
take it back. She’s not to have it during the day for any reason.

“Moose, you’ll get down on your knees. And hand her the button like it’s a diamond
ring,” Mrs. Kelly says.

“She’s my sister. I’m not proposing to her.”

“I’ll do it,” my dad jumps in. My mom hands him a folded towel and he puts the button
on top and we all trudge into Nat’s Chudley room.

“Okay, sweet pea,” he says. “I didn’t want to have to do this. But I don’t see any
other way. I’m going to have to give you your button back.”

This gets Nat’s attention. Her eyes rove across my father. “I like having it in my
pocket,” he continues, “but you need it so you can sleep at night.”

“Sleep at night,” Nat says.

“That’s right,” my father says. “Where do you want me to put it?”

“In my room,” she says loudly and clearly.

“Okey dokey then,” he says, placing the button on the milk carton table by her bed.

“No,
my
room. Number 2E.” Nat cries, “My room, 2E!”

“Natalie’s Chudley room,” Mrs. Kelly says.

“Number 2E, 2E,” Nat belts out.

“We’ll be back to number 2E soon, but Nat, they have to get it fixed up. They can’t
work on it with us underfoot.” My father is still on his hands and knees. He looks
like he’s pleading with her now.

“No wait, Dad. Nat’s right. We should listen to her. We could do this, you know. We
could take our blankets and pillows down to 2E.”

“Number 2E,” Nat says. “Buttons in 2E. Sleep in 2E.”

“We could live up here and when it’s time to go to bed, head down to 64,” I say.

“Bea Trixle will have a conniption,” my mother says.

“She’s going to have a conniption when we move back anyway. May as well get it over
with,” I say.

“Who would you rather have pitch a fit, Helen . . . this Trixle woman or Natalie?”
Mrs. Kelly asks.

“Bea Trixle,” I say.

My mother sits transfixed for a moment. But then she nods her head. “Moose is right.
When you pitch a fit, it puts you one down, no matter who you are. Better Bea Trixle
than Natalie.”

“I like the way you’re thinking, Moose,” Mrs. Kelly tells me. “And by the way, how’s
the work on your sister’s eye contact coming along?”

Mrs. Kelly just never lets up, does she? We haven’t even solved this crisis and she’s
already on to the next.

“Working on it,” I mumble.

• • •

That night when it’s bedtime, we all gather our blankets and traipse down to 64 building.
Nat puts Dad’s good luck button and the swatch of blanket in her button box. She also
has my baseball glove. I don’t know how she got that again, but I’m not going to cross
her right now.

We watch as she climbs in her bed. There are no sheets, no pillow. She can’t wait
for any of that. Within minutes she’s snoring.

“We should have listened to Natalie,” I whisper. “That’s what she was saying all along.”

My father shakes his head. “Don’t I know it,” he says, reaching for Mom’s hand.