The Mutual Admiration Society(52)
When Birdie and me reach the hearse that brought Mr. Peterman over from church, I stop us before we start running across the road toward the bushes so I can peek around the black fender to make sure one more time that nobody is staring daggers at us when . . . lo and behold, who should slip into the service but the biggest party pooper on the planet!
I’m somewhat surprised to see Louise, but not shocked. I’m used to her showing up whenever or wherever I least want her to. But why isn’t she up at the Clark station answering phones or taking money or pumping gas or whatever else a cashier is supposed to do? And who is that guy holding her hand? I don’t recognize him, so it’s got to be what’s-his-name. Well, if it is, the dollar signs in Louise’s eyes must be blinding her, because even from where I’m standing, I can see that he is shorter than Daddy by a lot and not even close to as good-looking. He’s got a weak chin and his ears stick out worse than mine. Did this numbskull leave his job at the American Motors factory assembly line and pick up our mother in his Chevy during his lunch hour so they could attend the funeral together because sometime this morning Louise realized that job or no job, she had to show up today so she didn’t look bad in front of the other Pagan Baby gals? Or . . . did she get fired already? Our cupboards are already 90% bare, and if they go to 100%, that’s not going to sit so well with you-know-who.
My sister with the Lassie hearing must’ve heard me gulp after I saw Louise, because she squeezes my hand and says, “You okay?”
I spin toward her and put my hands on her cheeks to lock her in place, and tell her, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine and dandy.” I cannot let Birdie look over her shoulder. If she does, she might shout out, I love you, Ida Lupino! because she would have no problem seeing Louise, who really stands out in the crowd in her fancy work clothes she left the house wearing, which is not going to go over so big. There’s rules you gotta follow around here and our mother is breaking a big one. She should not have showed up to the funeral looking like Rita Hayworth on May Day when the rest of them gals are looking like Bette Davis on Ash Wednesday. That’s a huge mistake on the part of a gal who wants to win votes in the Pagan Baby election.
Staring straight into the windows of my soul, Birdie asks, “If you’re so fine and dandy then how come you’re shiverin’?”
Of course, I can’t tell her that I’m shaking in my boots because I’m scared our mother is going to catch us in the act of breaking her #1 Commandment, so I tell her, “I . . . I just got the willies being this close to the hearse ’cause . . . ’cause it reminded me that Sister Margaret Mary’s rotting corpse might be lying somewhere around here, but I’m okay now, so . . .” I point in the direction I need her to go. “Run as fast as you can across the road and straight into the bushes over there.” I’m hoping that the both of us can get up enough speed that even if someone from the funeral looks our way, we’ll be an unrecognizable blur of arms and legs. “One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, and . . .” I knit my fingers through hers, but instead of go, Bird, going, where I want her to, she starts tugging against me and tries to veer in the opposite direction. “Whatta ya doin’?” I whisper to her. “This way, honey, we need to go this way.”
“No, we need to go this way, Tessie. Toward the hospital. You need a doctor, ASAP!”
“I need a . . . WHAT?” Of course, I have no idea why she would get this dopey idea into her head. “I don’t need to see a doctor and we are not going to the hospital. Now, c’mon.” She doesn’t budge. “Did you forget the plan already?”
“No, I did not forget the plan already, Tessie, but you’re not fine and dandy.” If I don’t keep my grip on her, this stubborn, wiry kid who is working herself into a tizzy could drag me down the cemetery road toward St. Joe’s Hospital in front of our mother and half of the parish. “I think you’re comin’ down with the delirious flu again that made you talk so crazy last winter. Do you have a fever?”
When she raises her chocolate-covered hand and tries to press it against my forehead, I bat it away, because enough is enough already. “Why would ya think something dumb like, I mean—” At least she didn’t go old-timey and tell me she thinks I got typhoid. “Why would ya think I’m sick?”
“’Cause when I asked you if you were okay a little while ago you said you were, but you made a big gulp like your throat was sore. And then you shivered really bad when you told me that the hearse was reminding you of Sister Margaret Mary’s rotting dead body and that is such a delirious thing to say ’cause . . . ’cause”—her slightly bulging eyes are really bulging now, almost out of her head—“you know that we don’t have the most important something we need to prove that she’s been murdered!”
Now, if I didn’t feel so petrified that we’re about to get caught by Louise or another parishioner who’s gotten bored out of their gourd listening to Father Joe’s valley of death talk, I’d shout out, Hot damn, Birdie! and make a very big deal out of the fact that she just remembered, all by herself, that we don’t have the motive for Mr. McGinty murdering our principal.
“Sister-promise, honey,” I whisper to her, “I don’t have the delirious flu or . . . or nothin’ else delirious and . . . and . . .” I pull out Daddy’s watch. It’s 12:26 p.m. “We’re runnin’ out of time, so let’s go.”