Al Capone Shines My Shoes Part 17

Theresa's mouth drops open. "You're lying. That's a big fib, Jimmy Mattaman."

I grab the bar spreader. It's in my hand now. We all stare at it.

"What's it doing in Nat's suitcase?" Theresa asks.

"Nat, how did you get this?" I ask.

Nat doesn't answer.

"That's what set the snitch box off. My father should have found it," Jimmy whispers.

"He thought it was the metal b.u.t.tons," I say.

"But she's taken her b.u.t.ton box through before, it never set the snitch box off. He should have kept looking-" Jimmy again.

"Trixle's not going to like this," I say.

"My dad's already on probation," Jimmy says.

"They're both on probation," I say.

"He'll be fired," Jimmy says in such a low voice I can barely hear him.

"They'll both be fired or . . . or killed, killed," Theresa says.

"Not killed, Theresa," I tell her.

"But definitely fired," Jimmy says. "They already think Nat's a security risk."

"We don't have to tell anyone. We can just throw it away, right now," I say.

"Bottom drawer," Natalie mutters, taking the bar spreader, her head twitching left, then left again.

"Why's she keep saying that?" Theresa asks.

"How'd you get this, Natalie?"

Nat's shoulders creep up to her face. "He told me to."

"Who did? Who is he?"

"105. 105. 105."

"You don't mean Alcatraz 105?" Jimmy whispers.

"105 didn't give you this . . . did he?" My voice cracks high.

Nat's green eyes pa.s.s by my face. She c.o.c.ks her ear to her shoulder and freezes.

"When did you see 105?"

Natalie dives back in her b.u.t.ton box. Stacking and restacking.

"Natalie!"

"Don't yell at her," Theresa barks at me.

"Okay." I blow air out of my mouth and try again as gently as I can. "Nat, when did you see 105?"

Nat is silent.

"We got to get rid of this," Jimmy tells me. "But we can't throw it away. The cons pick up the trash."

"We'll throw it in the bay," I say.

"We can't just take it outside like that," Jimmy says.

"We need a bag." I look around Nat's room for something to wrap around it.

Natalie's grip is tight on the bar spreader. "Bottom drawer. Bottom drawer, bottom." She begins to spin in her spot.

"Natalie." I put my hand out to steady her, but she's spinning even faster now.

"He said to put it in the bottom drawer." She struggles to say the sentence correctly, struggles to be understood, as if that is the only problem here.

I try to make my voice as calm as possible. "That's good, Natalie. That's just right. But I need it, okay? Will you let me borrow it?"

"No," she says, each time she comes around, "no, no, no." She spins faster and faster.

The door bangs. My parents are back. I hear them in the living room. "How much do you think it put her back?" my dad asks my mom.

Natalie has her hand on the bar spreader. She won't let go.

"We should tell," Theresa says.

"My dad will tell the warden. And he'll be fired," I say.

"They won't be fired if we tell the truth." Theresa is firm about this.

"Sure they will, Theresa. They messed up," Jimmy explains.

"Natalie," I say. She's still spinning but not so fast. "Look, I'll give you five b.u.t.tons for this, okay?"

She stops. Her eyes get suddenly bright. "Five gold b.u.t.tons?"

I know the ones she means. They're on my suit jacket-the one I wear for special occasions. She loves those s.h.i.+ny gold b.u.t.tons. My mom will kill me if I cut them off, but what else am I going to do?

"The gold ones you like," I tell her, trying to wiggle the bar spreader out of her grasp.

She nods, but doesn't let go.

I get the scissors and my good suit jacket and snip off the gold b.u.t.tons, while she plays with the bar spreader, absorbed in twisting the little screw and washer up and down.

"Here. Five gold b.u.t.tons." I toss the b.u.t.tons in my hand. They make a satisfying clinking sound.

Nat seems not to hear. All her attention is on the bar spreader.

"It's nice she's got something she's proud about. It must be so hard for her on her own." My mom's voice from the other room. Then she stops. "Moose, awful quiet in there. Everything okay?" she calls through the door.

"Yeah, fine." I try to make my voice sound normal.

"Nat," I whisper. "Let's take the bar spreader with us, okay? Let's put it in this bag." I grab my tote and offer it to her. "You can carry it."

Nat takes the bar spreader and carefully places it inside. Then she holds the bag close to her, the way my gram holds her pocketbook when she thinks pickpockets are around. I motion to Nat, Jimmy, and Theresa to follow me.

"Dad, we're going out," I tell him as he walks into the kitchen and pours himself some coffee.

"Not now, Moose." His voice cuts a crisp line.

"We're taking Natalie with us," I offer.

My father shakes his head. "It's getting late. I want you to stick around here today."

"Bottom drawer," Natalie says, carrying the tote bag back to her room.

"Sounds like she hasn't finished unpacking yet," my father points out.

"Okay sure," I say awkwardly, and then hurry Natalie back in her room before she says anything else.

Once I get the door safely closed behind us, Jimmy and I stare at each other. "What are you going to do now?" he asks.

"I'll think of something," I whisper.

"What?" Theresa wants to know.

"I haven't thought of it yet."

Theresa nods, but she's screwed up her face.

"Natalie." It suddenly occurs to me. "You want to give Theresa the bar spreader. She gave you those checkers, remember? You need to give her something back."

Natalie appears to be thinking about this. She rocks back and forth. "Hair comb," she decides.

"Theresa already has a hair comb. She wants that bar spreader. You want Theresa to be your friend, don't you?"

"Friend." Nat keeps rocking, holding the bar spreader tight to her chest. "Friend, friend, friend."

Uh-oh. I don't like the way she's doing this. What if she throws a tantrum with the bar spreader in her hands? How in the world will I explain that?

"Nat, please don't pitch a fit. Please Please," I beg.

"It's okay, Moose." Theresa pats my arm like she is twelve and I am seven. "She's just talking . . . aren't you, Nat?"

"Friend, friend, friend," Nat says, but I see her arms slowly unfurl from her chest, then her hands and fingers.

Theresa waits quietly until Nat gives her the bar spreader. "Thank you, Natalie," she says.

"Throw it in the bay," I whisper in Jimmy's ear. "Get it out of here for good." Jimmy nods, his eyes keen.

"I know! I can handle it, Moose, okay?" Jimmy snaps.

"Sure," I whisper. "Of course."

When he's gone I feel better for about thirty seconds and then I begin to understand the full extent of the problem.

Somebody expects to find a bar spreader in her bottom drawer. Somebody will be looking for it very soon.

TOILET'S STOPPED UP Sat.u.r.day, September 7, 1935

The next day when I get up, the sun is s.h.i.+ning brightly on the sparkling blue water. I watch the birds fly by our front window. A gull skims low on the bay. A cormorant flies by fast like he's late. A pelican dips and soars like a stunt plane.

Things aren't so bad, are they? I need to relax, I decide as I head for the bathroom.

"John's a little sensitive. Don't use too much toilet paper," my father calls out from the kitchen.

The door to the bathroom is open. A chocolate bar sits on the sink.

I try to keep my voice steady. "Seven Fingers is coming?"

"You betcha. He's on his way right now. Your mom's gonna take Nat out to the swings so she won't be underfoot."

"Why? We weren't having plumbing problems last night." I try to keep the panic out of my voice.

"We're always having plumbing problems," my dad says.

My mom is watching me. Her eyes are full of concern. "You worried about Trixle?"

"Yeah," I say, though right now Trixle is the least of my worries.

"Don't blame you. I can't stand the guy," my mom mutters. "C'mon, Nat, let's get out of here."

"But Dad," I say when they're gone. "I don't understand this. The toilet is working fine."