Part 6 (1/2)

”I don't imagine you kids have much occasion to interact with the convicts. But yes, that's the general idea.”

”Okay, Dad, I have another question for you. Have you ever done the wrong thing for the right reason?”

He stops what he's doing and looks over at me. ”Why do you ask?”

”Just wondering,” I say.

He nods. ”You want to play again?”

”You gonna lose this time?”

”Oh definitely.” He picks up a dart. ”I ever tell you about when I met your mother?” He smiles. ”She was going out with my cousin Harold at the time. I took one look at her and I thought, Holy mackerel, there's the girl I'm gonna marry, Harold or no Harold. I'm not proud of that, but I'll tell you what, I sure wouldn't trade your mom for any woman on this planet.”

I've heard this story before and it doesn't make me feel any better. I mean, he loved my mom. That's the worst thing he can dredge up from his whole thirty-nine years?

Almost on cue, my mom comes out from her room looking perkier. She gives me a surprisingly radiant smile as she nods to the dartboard. ”Let me guess, you got drubbed?”

”Pretends he can't play,” I tell her.

”Gotta watch him. He's up to his old tricks again.” She gathers up her sheet music.

”You've got a lesson?” I ask.

She blushes. ”Thought I might play a bit.”

My father and I look at each other. She teaches piano, but she hardly ever plays herself.

”Really? Well, well, well . . . up at the Officers' Club?” my dad asks.

”You see a piano here?”

”No, but maybe we'll need to get one,” my father offers.

My mother smiles, her whole face s.h.i.+ning like a schoolgirl's.

That night when I climb into bed I feel great for the first time in a long while. My parents are happy. My sister has her chance. I might need to patch things up with Jim, but Scout doesn't come to Alcatraz that often. This isn't going to be a big problem. And Annie will come around. She loves to play ball. She's not going to hold out for long.

My head sinks into my pillow. My chest eases down into the mattress. I'm even getting used to this squeaky old bed and the way the light s.h.i.+nes in the doorway.

Life is good, I decide as I stick my arm under the pillow to prop my head up. My fingers graze the pillow label. Strange . . . this is the pillow I've always had. I never noticed a label before. I turn over the pillow. A slip of paper with green lines flutters in the air. My heart jams up in my throat, cutting off my air supply.

This can't be another note.

But it is.

Inside the now familiar folds the handwriting looks the same as before: My Mae loves yellow roses. She'll be on the Sunday 2:00.

Then we're square.

ITCHY ALL OVER.

Tuesday, August 13, 1935

In my dreams Natalie is encased in ice. It's inexplicably hot, hotter than the hottest spot on the equator, hotter than it's ever been before, but the ice won't melt. She is frozen solid in her ice rectangle and nothing I can do will melt it. Annie's big face peers down from the sky. ”I told ya so, so, so . . .”

All night I toss and turn. No matter what I do, I can't get comfortable. Every time the sheets touch my skin, I scratch, itch, burn. When I finally get out of bed, I have raised welts in wild irregular shapes all over my body.

”Mommy?”

My mom sticks her head in my room. ”Hey there, sleepy-head. It's half past nine already.”

”My skin looks funny.” I show her the welts all along my belly, my neck, my arms, my back.

She runs her finger over one of them, lightly, carefully. ”Hives,” she concludes. ”You used to get them when you were little.”

”What causes them?”

”Could be something you ate. Could be your clothes . . . the detergent.”

”The laundry?” My voice squeaks.

”Could be they changed the soap up top.”

Suddenly I wonder if this is intentional. What if Al Capone targeted me with itchy soap?

”You ought to take a walk up to Doc Ollie's. See what he has to say about this. Do they itch?”

”Like crazy.”

She sits down on my bed and runs her hand over my hair, like I am six instead of twelve. ”When you were little, I used to stick you in an oatmeal bath. Did you a world of good. I'll go down to Mrs. Caconi's now, give Ollie a call, see if he has a minute to look at this. You want me to start your breakfast?”

I can't remember the last time my mom made me breakfast. Usually, I just pour my own self some cereal: the cold kind. I'm not going to let this opportunity slide by. ”Blueberry pancakes, bacon, hash browns, toast, and some juice and ham too, if you have it,” I tell her. ”Oh and maybe some scrambled eggs.”

She laughs. ”That's my Moose. Doesn't let anything get in the way of his appet.i.te. I'll see what I can do.”

When she gets back, I hear her banging pans around in the kitchen and then the smell of sizzling bacon.

I hate to admit it, but it's nice having my mother to myself this way. We've been three people and an octopus all of my life, and now the octopus is gone. It's not Natalie that's missing so much as the hubbub around her. The wild-goose chase of what to do and how to help her-one heartbreak chasing another.

What's left now is just my mother and me. How strange this is. How quiet.