The Mutual Admiration Society(17)

7:49 a.m. The Finley sisters have big-deal detecting to do today and the sooner our mother is out of our hair the better, which is why I’m trying to come up with a compliment that could get her moving faster toward the front door. She usually falls for anything having to do with how good looking she is, that’s how sweet she is on herself. But I don’t know, sometimes I think I’m being too hard on the gal, ya know? If my long red hair fell down my back in perfect waves instead of looking like it got caught up in the spokes of my Schwinn if I don’t stick it into a ponytail every morning, and if both of my ears laid close to my head and my right one didn’t stick out like a handle, and if my cheeks were the color of baby pink roses instead of being covered with so many freckles that I can’t fall asleep at my school desk without that nincompoop Chuckie Jaeger connecting them with a ballpoint pen, and maybe if my eyes were the color of shallow water instead of looking like the bottom of the deep-blue sea, one of my hobbies might be staring at myself as often as I could, too.

I lean back in my chair and tell Louise, “If you think you need to do more primping, don’t bother. I’m not kidding, you look even better than one of Mister Skank’s customers.”

I listen to the Braves baseball games on the radio with my friend and business advisor, Mr. Art Skank, every other Saturday at his funeral home on Burleigh St., so that was not “hearsay” evidence. The undertaker is so good at fiddling with his customers that they end up looking like masterpieces, which is how he got his neighborhood nickname, “The Leonardo da Vinci of Undertaking.”

FACT: Everyone around here tries to stay on Mr. Skank’s good side, because he is known to hold a grudge.

PROOF: You should’ve seen what he did to one of his high school sweethearts who dropped him for another fella. Believe me, Mrs. Mitzi Kircher did not look anything like a framed picture of The Last Supper at her funeral. Mrs. Mitzi Kircher looked more like a box full of cafeteria leftovers at her funeral. (Joke!)

When Louise doesn’t budge from the table, even though I just gave her that great Skank compliment, I move to my backup plan. I point to the clock above the sink and say, “Just like you’re always tellin’ Birdie and me how important it is to be on time, ya better hurry up if you don’t want to be late for your first day on the job. What’s-his-name is gonna pick you up at eight to take you to the station, right?”

Our mother slowly grinds out her L&M cigarette in her eggs and Spam scramble that she hasn’t barely touched because she is always watching her figure, waiting for it to do what, I don’t know exactly. “How many times do I have to tell you the name of the man I’m seeing, Theresa?”

What the heck comes over me?

I know that hope is something that should not be allowed to spring eternally when I’m in the vicinity of our mother, but for some unknown reason, I let myself believe sometimes that she misses Daddy as much as Birdie and me do. That’s why I think she’s about to make a joke to remember him by, the same way I do every chance I get. Like the kind ya hear up at Wisnewski’s butcher shop and Lonnigan’s Bar all the time. Daddy loved those “How many Polacks does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” jokes. (Three. One to hold the bulb, two to turn the ladder.)

“I don’t know, Louise,” I forget myself and say. “How many times do you have to tell me the name of the man you’re seeing?”

But, of course, the second I see how tight her teeth are clenched, I knew what a hoping dope I’d been. And when she does open her mouth, I am shocked by how much she sounds like her idol, nasty Gert Klement, when she says, “For the last time, the name of the man I’m dating is Mister . . . Leon . . . Gallagher.”

So she says as she shoves back her chair and sashays out of the kitchen in a cloud of smoke. Because he hasn’t fallen into our mother’s wedding web yet, Birdie and me haven’t met “Mister . . . Leon . . . Gallagher,” so there’s no way to be 100% sure who he is. Chapter One of Modern Detection says: “A subject’s identity must always be verified by loved ones,” which would be the Finley sisters. Louise told us the ignorant slob she’s trying to replace Daddy with works on the assembly line at the American Motors plant, but I’ll believe that when I see it. I still think he might be #4 on my SHIT LIST. The grease monkey all the girls in the neighborhood call “The Peeker.” (Judging from how many times I’ve caught him licking his lips and grinning at me when I’m keeping guard over Birdie outside the Clark station’s restroom when she’s tinkling out the root beer on our way home from the Tosa Theatre, The Peeker seems to have a taste for redheads, so he probably was the one who recommended Louise for the cashier job.)

While I might be feeling a little slowed down by my mother’s chilly warning to mind my own beeswax when it comes to missing Sister Margaret Mary, believe me, I’m not about to throw in the towel. I immediately start working out in my head what the detecting Finley sisters have to get done today while I’m following Louise’s orders and filling the kitchen sink up with warm water and a squirt of Joy.

Of course, the most important things I have to take care of ASAP are examining the scene of the crime over at the cemetery and calling a meeting of The Mutual Admiration Society to order. And if I want those things to happen ASAP, I got to remind forgetful Birdie she needs to step on it.

“Honey?” When I turn around to make sure she’s quickly clearing the breakfast dishes like she’s supposed to instead of lazily licking off the leftovers . . . lo and behold! I’m the Lone Ranger without my Tonto!