The Mighty Miss Malone (6 page)

Once it was for going to a real restaurant and asking a stranger to cook us some food, once for our graduating from college and once for Clarice’s wedding, where I was her maid of honor.

The best thing we imagined was wearing them to Benny and Dolly’s funeral! We’d wear veils so people would think we were crying, but we’d secretly be laughing about how rich and happy we looked while those hoodlums were put six feet under.

The dresses disappeared from the windows in April and we hated what took their place.

I held the piece of paper. Mrs. Needham’s brow wrinkled. “Dear me. Bring that here!”

She undid the safety pin. “That silly child. Wore this all summer and never took the tags off.”

“Thank you, thank you so much, Mrs. Needham.…” My throat betrayed me again.

“Be sure to ask your parents, Deza. They may contact me if
there are any questions. Tell absolutely no one, not even Clarice, about my niece’s clothes. Use that explosive imagination of yours to come up with a story. Now, be prepared for September. I can’t wait!”

My hands were shaking even harder when I put my brand-new clothes back in the sack.

I went to my desk, collected my books and smoothed out my essay even more. The A- wasn’t so bad after all. I headed to the door, then turned back. “Mrs. Needham, you’ll never know—”

“Deza Malone! One more peep out of you and I will mail those clothes right back to Cleveland. Pull yourself together and go!”

I would have gone, but she held up two fingers, touched her cheek, held up one finger and put her hand on her chest. Like she was saying the pledge to allegiance. And she smiled!

I knew I was risking my new clothes but I dropped everything and ran back. She jumped up and made a face, but I wrapped my arms around her and held on tight.

“Mrs. Needham, I’ve always dreamed that one day I’d have the same heart as you, but I thought I’d have to wait until I got to be real old too!”

She let me cry before she got me arm’s length away. “Fine, Deza. Now please go home.”

I grabbed Mrs. Needham one more time.

The only thing that the best teacher in the world could say was “Oh, for the love of Pete!”

I walked into the hallway. My path was lit up with sunshine and happiness and bright flowers. To make it even more perfect, Clarice was sitting on the floor right under the picture of President Roosevelt with tears rimming out of her eyes.

She jumped up. “Oh, Deza, please! I’m really, really sorry I acted that way, I was so surprised and happy and I lost my mind for a minute. Will you ever forgive me?”

“You don’t even need to ask.”

We hooked arms and started our walk home.

“What did Mrs. Needham tell you? She wouldn’t change your grade, would she?” Clarice put her hand to my ear. “Don’t
tell anyone, but I have an uncle in Indianapolis who got tried for murder. He got away with it, Deza. If I write to him he can give us a plan for rubbing Mrs. Needham out without getting caught!”

“No, Clarice. Second place was to teach me a lesson. I won’t even mind if Mrs. Needham gives me a B plus or two. I’m sure your essay was much better.”

Clarice stopped and looked at me. “Deza Malone. Thank you very much!”

I pulled her along, anxious to get home and talk to Mother.

“What’s in the bag?”

I wanted so much to tell Clarice everything and show her the beautiful clothes, but I
had
promised.

“Oh, this. It’s just some papers and a few things that—”

Thank goodness we were walking past Himelhoch’s. Clarice pointed at the window and said, “That dress is so horrible I wouldn’t even wear it to a stoning of Dolly Peaches.”

Maybe Mother would let me give Clarice my other dress, the one I wear to church. It has a lot less patches than the one Clarice wears now.

We reached Clarice’s house and hugged.

She said, “Only one more day, Deza. I’m really going to miss school and Mrs. Needham. Even if she gave you the wrong grade.”

I had to tell Clarice, “Mrs. Needham said she’s going to tutor us after school and on weekends next year!”

Clarice said, “
Really
!”

I said, “Really.”

Clarice walked up on her porch and turned around to wave.

At the same time, we both held up two fingers and made our special sign.

Still two girls sharing one heart.

I ran the rest of the way home.

“Mother! Mother!”

“Hey, sis. You forget it’s the end of the month?”

I
had
forgotten, Mother would be waiting in line for the food they gave away at the mission.

Jimmie was sitting on the couch with a pencil and a couple of pieces of paper.

“What are you doing?”

“This? Just drawing the fight. And making plans.”

Jimmie’s plans were mostly about murdering whoever was the latest bully in his life. It’s lucky he’s kind of lazy. If he followed through with any of these plans I’d get to wear the new dress and shoes to watch Jimmie take that long walk to Old Sparky.

I stuck out my hand. “Let me see.”

As good a singer as Jimmie is, he’s just as bad a picture drawer.

The first page showed a man in shorts with boxing gloves on. He had “MS GERM” written across his chest. By his feet was a head that was frowning. Next to him was a man with “JOE” written across his chest. He had a huge smile and was holding his arms above his head. He was wearing boxing gloves
and was waving a flag that was probably a American flag, even though it only had two stars and three stripes.

Jimmie said, “See, that’s what’s going to happen on the seventeenth. Joe Louis is gonna knock Max Smelling’s head off.”

I rolled my eyes. If I heard one more thing about that ridiculous, worthless fight I’d lose my mind.

I looked at the other drawing. This plan was just as horrible. This picture showed three people and what looked like the biggest Hershey’s Kiss in the world. For some reason there was a big cloud raining down on the kiss.

The first person in the plan was a boy with his arms spread wide. I knew it was Jimmie. In his pictures he always draws himself as big, and bumpy with muscles. In his hand was a box of something that had “NITULS” written across the front of it. He’d drawn lines from the nituls that pointed at the giant Hershey’s Kiss.

On the other side of the Hershey’s Kiss was a boy who was standing with
his
arms spread. This had to be Dolly Peaches because of all the teeth the boy had.

The third person in the plan was me. I was holding something with “BIG BOOK” written on it and had a gigantic toe.

I’m usually the only one who can figure out what Jimmie’s plans mean, but not this one.

I said, “OK, it’s you, Dolly Peaches and me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And Dolly’s standing up but he’s dead, right?”

“Oh, yeah! That’s a picture of the exact second Dolly starts pushing up daisies!”

I pointed at the huge Hershey’s Kiss. “Why is this chocolate here?”

“Naw, sis, that ain’t chocolate, that’s a haystack.”

He said it like
I
was the one who was crazy.

“And why is my toe so …?”

A light went on in my head. A epiphany!

When I was littler I used to have accidents all the time. Jimmie joked that even if it hadn’t snowed for years I’d find something as small as a puddle of frozen bird pee and would slip on it and spring my ankle. And my feet were like magnets for every rusty nail, broken bottle or jaggedy tin can lid in Gary.

I had been six years old and remember Father holding my ankle tight. Mother’s reading specs were on his eyes and a straight pin was between his thumb and pointy finger.

Jimmie was squeezing my hand and had given me a folded-up washrag to bite down on. He’d seen that in a Western movie when someone was digging a bullet out of a white cowboy who got plugged by a Indian. I didn’t have a bullet in me, just another splinter.

Father said, “Deza Malone, looks to me like you’re doing something that only a few of the smartest professors at a few of the best colleges have ever done.”

A little pinch of pain made me squinch my eyes shut.

“Sorry,” Father said. “That’s right, you’re going to be responsible for a change in the King’s English. Another archaic saying is doomed to bite the dust due to Daddy’s Darling Daughter, Deza!”

He dug the straight pin around in my foot to make the sliver show its head so he could tweezer it out.

I pulled out the washrag for a second and said, “How could I change the language?”

“Well,” he said, grabbing the tip of the splinter with the tweezers, “because of you that old saying that something is as hard to find as a needle in a haystack won’t be used anymore, it will become moot.

“Folks will learn if they want to find that needle all they need to do is have you stand within thirty feet of the haystack. That needle will come flying out of the hay at you like it was an arrow shot out of an itsy-bitsy bow and your rusty old foot was the bull’s-eye!”

I felt the sliver slide out.

Father said, “Wow, that’s a beauty even for you, Dar Dawt!” That was what he called me when he didn’t feel like saying “Darling Daughter Deza” all the way out.

Jimmie’s plan was to trick Dolly Peaches into standing by a haystack where my crazy brother had emptied two big boxes of needles, which Jimmie spelled “N-I-T-U-L-S.” Then I’d walk to the haystack until I was close enough for the needles to shoot out at my big toe. They’d come so fast and hard that Dolly would be run through by a hundred needles and would drop dead.

I said, “I get most of it, but why’s it raining in only one spot?”

Jimmie said, “Pa told me about this thing called lockjaw or tendunus, it’s where if you step on something rusty you might think you’re OK once the wound heals up, but you aren’t. The rust puts a bunch of germs in you and they come out later and make it so your jaw gets locked shut, then you starve to death.”

“So?”

“So? It’s raining so the needles will get rusty. Then, once they go through Dolly Peaches, they will kill him in a couple of weeks when the lockjaw germs get strong.”

I gave the drawing back to him. “If you studied as hard as you plot murders you’d get all As.”

“Sure, sis. What’s in the bag, goose?”

I showed him my dress and shoes.

“Wow! Are you going to show Ma?”

“Of course I am.”

Jimmie said, “Hold on, Deza.”

I wish I could rewrite my essay about my family, ’cause there’s a trait that Jimmie has that’s even more annoying than his napoleon complex. It’s when he imitates Father.

He always pretends he’s smoking a pipe even though Father has a little asthma and has never smoked anything. But Jimmie’s voice and acting
are
a whole lot like Father’s.

Jimmie pointed the invisible pipe at me and said, “Let’s look at this clearly.”

He crossed his legs and looked off over my shoulder, something Father does when he’s thinking hard about what he’s going to say.

“You’ve already fallen in love with this dress and these shoes, right?”

“I do like them a awful lot.”