The Mutual Admiration Society(72)

O, Dios mio, when she puts it like that, believe me, I am so mucho tempted.

Keeping this money would do everything Birdie said it would, and more, but sad to say, as wonderful as living a life of luxury on Easy St. sounds, my annoying conscience is giving me two thumbs down.

I stand and wrap my arms around my slippery sister the best I can and tell her, “I love you, Birdie Finley, and I am really, really, really, really proud of you for doin’ such a good and kind charitable act that would really help us out.” I am dying to ask how she pulled the caper off, but chances are, she’s gone foggy about the details. “More than anything, I wish we could keep the money, but we can’t.” I try to come up with the easiest explanation that someone with her limited brain power might understand. “We gotta put ourselves in those pagan babies’ shoes.”

“Don’t be so silly, Tessie,” she says with one of her great belly laughs, which, believe me, is really something to behold when she’s naked as a jaybird. “Babies don’t wear shoes.”

Poor kid.

“But those babies do live on the Dark Continent and they gotta dodge poison Pygmy darts and cannibals all day long under the sweltering sun,” I say, “while Crucifix-waving missionaries chase them through the jungle hounding them about converting to Catholic, and . . . and if their parents don’t agree to sign on the dotted line, they get rolled up in one of Missus Tate’s patchwork quilts until they do. So in the long run, that makes those babies a lot worse off than we are, don’tcha think?”

Birdie doesn’t take long to say, “Roger that,” because even the owner of a brain that moves slower than an African tree sloth immediately understands what a disgustingly hopeless situation those babies are in.

Of course, the plan I’ve come up with is way too complicated for my not-very-smart and very forgetful sister to take in, so I just tell her the parts that I think she’ll understand and remember. “So here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say as I steer her out of the closet. “The both of us will get into the tub and after you show me some more Burl bubble beards, we’ll get dressed and head downstairs. You can watch some more television while I heat up our suppers, and after that, we’ll meet up with Charlie and go see Mister McGinty.”

“Ship . . . ship . . . hurray!” she yells, which I 100% knew she would, because even though she is unpredictable in many, many, many, many ways, I can always count on her gigantic heart and her gigantic appetite to win out. She could never say no to the gummy brownie in the Swanson’s TV dinner and spending time with Charlie and our good friend Mr. McGinty who will have windmill cookies and root beer at the ready, that’s entirely too much deliciousness for my little tweetheart to resist.





21


THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE


So far, everything is going according to plan.

Once Birdie and me were smelling more like Joy than week-old vase water, I hung a red towel out our bedroom window to let Charlie know that we need to meet with him at our house ASAP! And Gert must’ve called Louise to tell her what yummy dessert she wanted her to pick up at Meuer’s Bakery for the meeting tonight, because when our telephone rang around ten times while we were eating—it took me a while to figure out that it wasn’t coming out of the television set, because it hardly ever rings this time of night since bill collectors call during the daytime—it was our mother on the other end of the line letting me know that she would be going straight from work to the Pagan Baby meeting. She was about to tell me something else, something about “shenanigans,” but then she had to hang up because a customer needed servicing.

5:43 p.m. The Mutual Admiration Society is sitting on our back porch steps, polishing off the last bit of chocolate ice cream that I found in the back of our freezer compartment after my sister scarfed down her TV dinner and most of mine.

When the three of us are watching and waiting for Gert Klement to come lumbering out of her house toward her Rambler car, I’m wondering if Charlie gets sadder when he looks at garages because his is where he lost his mom forever, but he probably wouldn’t tell me because he’s such a clam, and anyway, it would be bad timing to ask him now. We need to stay focused on our very important missions.

Because that hobo wig is really starting to smell worse than one of Louise’s “gourmet” dishes, I changed my mind, and Charlie agrees with me, that instead of me returning the Pagan Baby money on a solo mission tonight, we should pick #2 on my list of ideas: Bring the stolen loot to Mr. McGinty’s shack tonight and beg for his help. He is such a good egg, who understands that Birdie can’t help who she is, and he wouldn’t want her to get into trouble any more than I would, but on the other hand . . . because he is also awfully religious and there’s that Thou Shalt Not Steal Commandment, Charlie might be 100% sure that Mr. McGinty will play along, but I’m only 95% sure.

5:47 p.m. After Gert slams shut the back door of her house and makes the short walk to her garage, she noses her white car down the driveway, switches on her headlights that spotlight The Mutual Admiration Society on our back porch, and shouts out of her car window, “I spoke to your mother, girls. She expects the two of you to be present and accounted for when we return from tonight’s meeting.”

“Roger that, Frank,” Birdie shouts back at her.

Same way I put myself in Daddy’s shoes, and the same way I tried to explain to Birdie about putting herself in the pagan babies’ shoes, because I don’t hardly believe anything that comes out of anybody’s mouths, least of all Gert’s, I need to make sure she really is going to the Pagan Baby meeting and not parking down the block and doubling back to watch and see if the Finley ghouls and their faithful sidekick, Charlie “Cue Ball” Garfield, climb over the black iron cemetery fence or sneak down Keefe Ave. to do other shenanigans.