Spy in the Alley (16 page)

“Yes,” I said, more definitely. “We can be friends.”

“Great!” Then Mr. Wellman said:

“To repeat what I said a short while ago, Ms. Galloway — that was one heck of an audition.”

Which was how I became part of the “talent” at Wellman Talent. Mr. Wellman, as my agent, started finding me jobs singing, a suburban theater musical here, a charity event there.

The work didn't pay well; in fact, sometimes not at all. That's how it is when you're just beginning, Mr. Wellman says. It's fine with me. I just like to sing. Wherever and whenever.

Like I've said, it was Dad who encouraged me to make the most of singing. After his death, when I sang, I sang to him. Well, the
thought
of him, if you know what I mean. The memory. It was my way of missing him, okay? Not for me, the snuffling into Kleenexes and all that, which Mother and Madge did for a long time.

But something happened when I was singing in the broom closet. When I was singing to get somebody's attention and break out of there.

What I realized that day was that, ultimately, I have to sing for myself. Just like Madge has to draw for herself, and, well, Cindi has to scream for herself. I realized that creativity is a gift, just like Dad always told me. Whatever creativity you have is yours, and to make the most of it, you have to take it out and use it first of all for
yourself
.

Not that I don't still miss Dad — and feel frustrated with him for throwing his life away, even while I feel grateful to him. I guess there will always be sad notes and happy notes to my life.

And annoying notes. Now I have to put up with Mother referring to all this as another godsend. But when she overdoes it I can always escape down to Julio's Gelati and earn an ice cream cone by belting out “After You've Gone,” or find Pantelli and play catch or climb trees.

Oh, I don't mean climb trees for
exercise
, you understand. We're keeping an eye on the neighborhood. We figure it needs careful watching over, after the excitement of the spy in the alley.

“You just want more excitement,” my sister says.

Speaking of whom, you should know that Mr. Wellman got Madge into an animation program with the film school. She's slowly easing out of modeling. “When people recognize my face and figure, I'd like that face and figure to be something that I've
drawn
, not a photo of me putting on some silly pose,” she says firmly.

At first she was worried about not bringing in so much money, but Mother assured her, “We three and Wilfred have each other, and we'll get by. After all, we love each other.”

Yech! What
is
it about mothers?

Mr. Wellman found Buckteeth, a.k.a. Theo Nickablock, a position as assistant janitor in the office building. Sometimes I see Theo in the hall, swabbing down the linoleum with his mop, and he flushes and mumbles, “Sorry about that spy stuff, Ms. Galloway.”

As he says this, his buckteeth flash silver. His new job, it seems, comes with an orthodontic plan.

Now there's an ending with a
bite
to it, right?

The Last Word

(I always like to have it, too)

Except that there's Roderick waiting outside, and
Madge heading out to meet him, and that's not a
satisfactory ending at all.

Shoving the window up, I position myself
on the sill. I'm ready to start shouting insults at
Roderick: you guessed it, a lot of them will begin
with d and end with b.

Madge is on the path now. She strolls past the
bluebells and phlox that, to the Dubuques' disap
proval, crowd thickly over it. Their path, needless
to say, is pruned back cleanly as a crewcut.

Roderick has been volunteering at the lung
cancer clinic, an arrangement made by his dad to
show him the effects of smoking. Roderick's no
grudging volunteer, I'll give him that. Within a
month of arriving at the clinic, he organized plans
for a newsletter and brochures for community cent
ers, warning about the dangers of smoking.

Roderick's jumping out of his car. He's smil
ing delightedly at Madge. “I was hoping you'd be
home,” he gushes.

“Hi, Roderick,” she says. “I'm glad you're here.”

Glad? Oh, no.

She continues, “I wanted to give you these neat
tomato recipes. My mom was telling your mom
about the spy chase through the Rinaldis' tomato
patch, and — well, you know how moms are. They
got to talking recipes.”

She pulls a sheaf of papers from her bag.

His delighted smile grows slightly dimmer.
“Recipes? I, uh — great, but I thought maybe we
could — ”

“Not today, Roderick.”

Madge crosses the street. With all the chestnut
trees being in full foliage, I have to duck to see
where she's headed.

Huh! Some detective I am. A rattly old jeep
with a sunroof that only goes partway back is
parked there, in the shade, and I hadn't even
noticed it.

Jack jumps over the driver's door to greet her.
It's a pretty neat move, though also pretty practical:
the driver's door doesn't actually open anymore.

He and Madge grin at each other. He escorts
her round to the passenger-side door, which, not
being stuck fast, he is able to open for her.

I'm getting a crick in my neck, so I straighten
up. “Ow,” I say, massaging it, to Wilfred the cat.
He's arrived in the den to bask in a patch of
sun.

“Things have turned out satisfactorily, after
all,” I inform him. “You and I can both congratu
late ourselves for that. After all, you uncovered
Theo to start with.”

The jeep roars off along Wisteria Street. The
white scarf Madge has fastened around her hair to
keep it from blowing flutters in the distance like
a daisy petal.

I remember that Madge had a part in solving
the case of the spy in the alley. “I guess she deserves
some congratulations, too,” I tell Wilfred grudg
ingly. “Some minor ones.”

I snuggle into Father's ripped, but extremely
comfortable, old chintz armchair, from which
foam is bursting everywhere like bubbles. I have
a music sheet to read over for my next audition.
If Roderick sticks around, gazing glumly off the
sidewalk at the retreating jeep, he'll soon be able
to hear me belting out notes.

“Music for the lovelorn,” I tell Wilfred, and giggle.

Then, more seriously, it occurs to me how
proud Dad would have been to know that my
singing was starting to reach audiences. There will
never be an audience as appreciative as he was,
I think. Boy, I miss him! What makes people do
dumb things to themselves?

Wilfred begins cleaning his paws. I swallow
the lump that's been building in my throat. I'm
reminded yet again what a mixture life is. It doesn't
fit into convenient extremes, into good or bad. You
just take them both, one with the other. Much like
how at breakfast, you take gobs of the rich black
berry jam you adore — plus the thick, whole-grain
bread your mother insists you spread it on.

Wilfred glances at me while paw-cleaning. “As
for you,” I say. “Do you ever intend to escape down
our back path again?”

I'm thinking that Madge was right. I wouldn't
mind if Wilfred, however unintentionally, sniffed
out another exciting case someday.

But Wilfred, as usual, isn't giving anything
away. He merely switches from cleaning a white
paw to a pumpkin-colored one.