Al Capone Does My Shirts (14 page)

“Oh my God, Rocky! Are you all right?” Theresa holds him close.

“What were you thinking, giving him to her?” Jimmy hollers at Theresa.

Mrs. Capone says something. I can’t understand the Italian words, but it seems like she’s begging him not to do something. Officer Johnson’s billy club is out. He points for her to follow. Officer Johnson and now Officer Trixle escort her to a small storage room under the dock. Other guards press close and Officer Bomini up in the tower trains his Thompson on Mrs. Capone.

A minute later Officer Johnson comes out. “Jimmy! Your mom speaks Italian? Run get her! Fast!”

When Theresa hears this, she scoots up the hill with Rocky. She’s just out of sight when Mrs. Mattaman comes down the stairs wearing shoes but no stockings. A hat but no sweater. She half runs down the stairs to the dock and disappears inside the storeroom.

We wait, hanging around as close as the three guards will let us. When Officer Johnson and Mrs. Capone finally come out, she’s all messy-looking, like she dressed in a hurry. Her eyes are cast down. Mrs. Mattaman speaks Italian to her. Her voice is kind.

Mrs. Capone shakes her head. She won’t look up. Instead of getting into the waiting truck to go up the hill to the cell house, Mrs. Capone gets back on the boat.

Later we learn that Mrs. Capone had been strip-searched to find her weapons. There were none. The metal stays on her old-fashioned corset set the snitch box off. And try as she might, Mrs. Mattaman could not convince the terrified Mrs. Capone that this humiliation was the last.

I can’t get over this. I keep thinking about when Al Capone was a baby. I’ll bet his mama sang him the same song she sang to Rocky. I’ll bet she held his hand when they crossed the street, packed his lunch for school and sewed his name in his jacket—A. CAPONE so everyone would know it was his.

I’ll bet she wishes she could do it all over again too . . . if only Al were little and she could.

 

 

In English class Miss Bimp pairs Scout and me together for a journalism project. And just like that we’re friends again. We start talking about who we think will win the World Series this year. And the next thing I know, he’s put a game together at lunch. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Neither do I. If it weren’t for the fact that my throwing arm is rusty and my timing stinks, I would be happy. But what do I expect? All I’ve done for the past two months is bowl.

Then on the way back to class Scout says, “I’ll trade you my extra glove for one of those convict baseballs. You find one of ’em yet?”

“Not exactly.”

“Piper said they just come sailing over the wall.” He does a whistling imitation of a ball in flight. “She made it sound like everyone on Alcatraz has one.”

“When you talk to Piper, anyway?” I ask as I stop to tie my shoes.

Scout waits for me. “Sometimes we talk in French class. How come you don’t want to look for one?”

“I dunno.” I heave my book bag over my shoulder and walk on.

“She said maybe she could get me one. Maybe,” Scout says.

I stop and stare at him. “How come you’re so friendly with her all of a sudden?”

He shrugs. “Kinda cute, don’t you think?”

“No,” I say.

Scout doesn’t say anything. He throws his glove in the air and catches it.

“She’s not cute.” I glare at him.

“Fine, fine, she’s not cute. What are you so ticked off about, anyway? I’m the one who’s supposed to be sore, you know.”

I kick at the grass. “I don’t blame you for being burnt up.”

“Piper said your sister is . . . different. She said nobody ever watches her but you.” He looks quick at me and then away.

I shrug.

“Look, I’d just like to have one of those baseballs,” he says.

“They look just like any other baseball.”

“Oh, so you
do
have one.”

“No, I don’t.” This comes out louder than I mean it to. “I’ve seen Jimmy’s, that’s all.”

“Well, if they’re laying around, I thought you could pick one up for me. You know, if we’re friends . . .”

“Of course we’re friends,” I say. “Sure. I’ll find you one.” I smile at him.

 

In history class my teacher, Mr. Burger, begins discussing the Louisiana Purchase and I sit and stew.

It’s not Scout I’m thinking about, though. It’s Scout and Piper. Do they sit next to each other in French class? How come I haven’t heard about this before? I knew they were friendly, but I didn’t know they were that friendly. I think about this through history and all of math class. I think about it all the way home.

When my mother leaves, I unroll the sleeves of my shirt, button them at the cuffs, and I grab Natalie’s jacket. There’s poison oak on this island and I don’t want us to get it.

“Okay, Nat, let’s go.” I open the door, all business today.

I head up the stairs, Nat scuffing along behind me, pulling at her sweater like her shirt sleeve is caught up inside.

“Hey, Nat,” I say, doubling back so I’m walking next to her. As soon as I do, she stops dead in her tracks and refuses to move forward until I go first. Nat is a single-file girl. “What do you think of Mrs. Kelly?” I ask. I’m walking around to the windy west side of the island now, craning my neck back to hear what she says.

“9868,” Natalie answers.

9868? What does that mean? Oh, yes, that’s Mrs. Kelly’s address. “Yes, exactly, 9868.”

“No buttons, missy!” Natalie says. I look down at the water. There are almost waves today, like the bay is trying very hard to be the ocean.

“Right, I know. She won’t let you play with your buttons.” But there’s something odd about the way Nat says no buttons.

“Naow bah-tins, mizzy.” Natalie tries again, and this time I hear it. She’s doing an imitation of the way Mrs. Kelly talks. Natalie has made a joke. It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.

For a second, I think I see Natalie smile too. Or maybe I’ve just imagined it. It’s that quick.

I want to grab Natalie. Hold her here with me. Keep her from going down again. I just love talking to her this way. And then the thought occurs to me . . . is Mrs. Kelly helping?

“So, Nat,” I say, like I would to a normal sister, “what would you think about two people who talk all the time in French class?”

“Two people talk,” she says.

“Yeah, exactly.”

She stops and looks at me. Right at me. Then it’s almost as if she shrugs. Okay, so I’m probably wrong, but I like thinking this, even if it’s not true.

“Okay, Nat,” I say, eyeing the rec yard wall through the chain-link fence and straight up the hill from us. “We’re looking for a baseball.” I wait for the gulls to quiet down. “You know, like mine, right?”

“A line drive down the center . . .”

I smile. “That’s right. We look for the baseball in the bushes here. Natalie look for baseball?” I say.

Natalie looks up in the sky as if it’s going to fall from there.

“Well, not exactly. You look down here.” I poke around in the bushes, showing her what I want her to do.

Natalie runs her tongue over her lip, as if this takes all the concentration she has.

“Okay, follow me.” I shimmy up the steep hill sideways and begin picking through the thicket of bushes. I try to walk in a pattern. Natalie likes patterns, maybe she’ll follow along. But it’s difficult to keep to it because the bushes are thick. I look up at the yard wall again. My dad said the baseball diamond is in this corner. I scramble on through the underbrush.

Natalie isn’t following. She’s sitting down on the side of the hill with a pile of pebbles. She’s setting them up, almost like an abacus. I wonder what she’s doing. It seems complicated, but it looks like it’s more fun than getting scratched by bushes, looking for a baseball. Sometimes Natalie is saner than I am.

I finish searching one patch, then look up at the chain-link fence that separates where I’m allowed to go from where I’m not. My eyes follow the chain link all the way up to where it hits the cement yard wall.

I can see the guard tower now, but I don’t think the guard can see me. I look down at Natalie. She’s totally absorbed in her stones.

I don’t want Piper to find a ball for Scout. I don’t know why, but I don’t. I renew my search, looking inside every bush, kicking aside the leaves underneath. I’m right up against the chain-link fence now. The rec yard wall is solid cement—maybe sixteen feet high. But right where the chain link meets the cement wall, I see a gap.

The hillside has crumbled away, leaving a space between the fence and the mountain. Is this new? Did the mountain erode in all the rain? My heart beats loud in my throat.

I look down at Natalie. She hasn’t moved a muscle. I won’t be able to see her once I get up there. But I know better than to try to move her once she’s all set up.

I’ll just make it quick, that’s all. A couple of seconds to look. One minute, that will be enough. A ball could be sitting right there out in the open, just waiting for me. I know this is a lousy idea. But it doesn’t matter. A gap in the fence is a magnet. It just is.

 

It takes me longer than I thought it would to get to the gap. The hill is steep and slippery with rocks and shale, land sliding down as I go up. But the guard can’t see me here. A chink in the hill blocks his view.

When I get to the hole in the fence, I wonder if I’ll fit. The only way to tell if a ball is there is to look under the bushes, and I can’t do that from over here. But what if I get stuck under the fence, what will I do?

I wish I could see Natalie. I should just go back and forget about this, but then I spot a little glimmer of grayish-whitish something resting on a rock. A baseball? I search for a stick to poke under the fence to see if I can roll the ball my way. It’s not close enough. Only way to find out is to go under.

I sit down with a bump and stick my feet through. I scoot forward and get my knees under. This is taking too long. I have to check on Natalie. I lose my nerve and scoot back. But then I remember how hard it was getting up here. It’ll take twice as long if I have to go back to see her and then climb the shale slide again. Didn’t my mom say I should treat Natalie like a regular sister? I wouldn’t go and check on a regular sister, that’s for sure.

I stick my legs under again. Now I’m up to my waist. The zigzag chain link at the bottom pokes into my belly, but I wiggle through. The only problem now is my big shoulders. “Football shoulders,” my uncle Dean calls them. I wiggle wiggle, inch inch, turn my head and curl under.

Now I race for the ball, but I slow down as I get close. My throat gets tight. This is not a ball. It’s just a piece of cardboard. I turn it over. The back says
Circle Janet T.
Janet Trixle. It’s a project from the kindergarten class.

I’m so angry, I want to tear the circle up. But I don’t. I shove it in my pocket. Then I think of Natalie. “Cut your losses,” I hear my dad say. I’m going straight back to her. Only, I just have to peek one or two more places. It kills me to have risked all of this for nothing. Piper will get a ball for Scout and he’ll think I didn’t even try. Scout and Piper. Piper and Scout. But all I find is dirt, sticks, stones, leaves.

Now I feel like a real chump. I scoot myself back under, scratching my hand on the fence. At least I don’t get stuck, I tell myself as the count bell rings. The little hairs along my spine stand up. I should never have left Natalie alone here. When it’s really foggy, they don’t let the cons work. Is it that foggy today?

I slip-slide down the hillside as fast as I can. And there she is. Her blonde-brown head bent over her rocks. She’s sorting them. Of course she is. Everything is fine. I blow air out in a great big sigh.

I’m standing by Natalie now. She doesn’t look up.

“Hey, Nat. Everything okay here? You just been playing your game, right?”

“105,” she says.

“105?” I ask, trying to catch my breath as the foghorns sound again. “Is that how many rocks you have? Wow, that’s a lot.” I hope she doesn’t plan on lugging 105 rocks home. I look closer. She has thirty, maybe forty. Nowhere near 105 of them.

I look up at the birds. There are fifteen or so. Still, a big flock could have landed here while I was up there. She could have counted 105 birds. Sure. Easy.

“Lots of birds, huh? 105. Wow!” I say.

She looks up from her rocks. I see by the slight motion of her head that she’s counting the birds down by the water.

“Bad Moose,” she says. “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen now, 105 before. They come and go, don’t they, Natalie?”

“Thirteen.” She’s irritated now, like I’m being incredibly stupid. “Natalie count birds thirteen.”

“All right, all right,” I say. “Thirteen.”

 

 

Every day at school now I play baseball with Scout at lunch. And though he hasn’t said anything else about the convict baseballs, I know he’s thinking about it. I know because Piper tells me. She asks me if I’m going to get Scout a ball. She asks more than once. Both times I pretend I don’t hear, but Natalie and I hunt every day. I draw diagrams of the arcs a ball might take from inside the prison wall to the free space outside. Nat and I look for three days straight near the northeast point by the water tower. I feel like I work the place over with a pick and ax. But nothing.

It’s not like Nat really helps me, but she doesn’t get in my way either. She sits and counts rocks or sticks or sometimes birds. I always make sure to park her right in the center of where I want to look so I can keep an eye on her. We’re getting along, Nat and I. It’s peaceful to spend time with her out here. Sometimes I even tell her stuff that’s bothering me. I don’t know if she understands, but she’s quiet like she hears.