Part 30 (1/2)
I feel the slap in his words and I really want to tell him he's wrong, but he's not. ”Sorry, Jim,” I say.
He shrugs, takes his gla.s.ses off, and cleans them on the tail of his s.h.i.+rt. ”We're all sorry about something,” he says.
”What are you sorry about?” I ask hopefully. I hate to be the only guy who messed up.
”Telling Scout about the secret pa.s.sageway.”
”Yeah, why'd you do that anyway?”
Jimmy shrugs and rubs his gla.s.ses harder. ”I thought you were going to tell Scout yourself; I wanted to beat you to the punch. And I was hoping Scout's opinion of me would . . . you know.”
”Rise above the status of dead girl?” I ask.
He grins into his gla.s.ses.
”I'm not sure which is worse, dead girl or auntie,” Annie complains, s.h.i.+fting her baseball pants the way a guy would.
”Okey-dokey is what I said,” I tell her.
”This is supposed to make me feel better?” Annie snaps. ”Not that I care. I've never been sweet on you, Moose. I've always thought you were a slug.”
”Well thank you,” I say, looking out across the bay where a flock of pelicans are flying in awkward formation.
”You're welcome.” She smiles a little. ”I have no idea why my mother would say that. It couldn't be further from the truth.”
”No offense, Annie, but your mom has some nutty ideas. She and her needlepoint . . .” I tell her.
Annie snorts. ”Moose, Moose, Moose, don't get me started on that. My mom thinks you love love needlepoint.” needlepoint.”
”It's hard to tell when he likes something and when he doesn't,” Jimmy grumbles.
I wish Jimmy would let up.
Annie's big lips pucker like she's thinking about this. ”But that's what we like about him too, isn't it?” Annie looks past me to Jimmy. ”That he tries so hard with everyone.”
I'm glad Annie has said this. I am just being nice. What's the matter with that? But then I remember walking onto the boat with Seven Fingers's arm choking my throat, One Arm marching Natalie across, Buddy dragging Piper.
People say I was heroic by calling for help the way I did, but I know how close I came to staying silent.
I scared myself that night. I saw how much I want to get along. But sometimes you have to make trouble. Sometimes making trouble is the right thing to do.
Life is complicated. You'd think on a prison island-what with the bars and the rules and everything-it would all be so clear . . . but it's not.
THE YELLOW DRESS.
Monday, September 23, 1935
Nat's going back to the Esther P. Marinoff School today. She hasn't pitched a fit about it either. Of course my mom has made sure her yellow dress is brand-new clean-the one with the b.u.t.tons Sadie sews on every time she's done something well. My mom is in the kitchen packing up the lemon cake to take along, just in case Trixle decides to sharpshoot into the bay like the last time. Even though Trixle admitted Natalie helped apprehend the cons, he still isn't her biggest fan. I don't think there's anything Natalie could do to change his mind about that either. Trixle's mind is made of stone. It doesn't change; it just chips off here and there.
Nat is smiling to herself and running her hands along the b.u.t.tons on her yellow dress.
”Good idea Sadie had there. Kind of like badges the generals wear,” I tell her, surveying the small collection of b.u.t.tons on Nat's dress. They look like they belong on the dress because Sadie has sewn them so artfully.
”New b.u.t.ton.” Nat runs her fingers along the bottom b.u.t.ton, which is small and ordinary-the kind sewn on a man's s.h.i.+rt. But when it comes to b.u.t.tons there's no such thing as ordinary for Natalie. It's like me and baseball games, I guess. No two are alike.
”I'll bet Sadie will give you a new b.u.t.ton if you cooperate today,” I tell Natalie.
Nat shakes her head emphatically as if she wants to jiggle the hair right out of her scalp. ”New b.u.t.ton.” She points again to the simple white b.u.t.ton.
”Not that new. You haven't seen Sadie in two weeks,” I tell her.
”No Sadie.”
”No Sadie. Mom put that on?”
”No Mom.”
”Dad?” My voice squeaks hopefully, though I can't imagine Dad threading a needle, much less sewing a b.u.t.ton on.
”No Dad.” Natalie keeps shaking her head. ”Moose.”
”I didn't sew it on, Natalie. Mom's just kidding about me sewing.”
”No Moose,” Natalie agrees.
”Who did it then?” I ask.
”Good job,” Nat answers, handing me a sc.r.a.p of paper-brown with lines folded in half in handwriting I've come to know so well.
Good job, it says. it says.
AUTHOR'S NOTE Alcatraz Island . . . What Really Happened?
Al Capone s.h.i.+nes My Shoes is a novel, grounded in history, but heavily embroidered by my imagination. While the characters of this book and the actions they take are completely fictional, some of the scenes came from true stories. is a novel, grounded in history, but heavily embroidered by my imagination. While the characters of this book and the actions they take are completely fictional, some of the scenes came from true stories.
It was true, for example, that the families of most Alcatraz guards lived on the island during the years Alcatraz was a working penitentiary. Jolene Babyak described her experience living on Alcatraz this way: ”Alcatraz was like a small town with one bad neighborhood. Children played baseball, flew kites and played 'guards and cons' under the shadow of the cell house.”1 The year 1935 was in the midst of the Depression. Money was scarce. Convicts who had trade skills worked for free as plumbers and electricians, painters, movers, custodians, gardeners, and trash collectors in the ”civilian”-as the families on the island were sometimes called-homes and apartments.