Whistling In The Dark Part 10

Troo, who it turned out was not sleeping at all, said, "Did he get in a fight?"

Mr. Fitzpatrick said, "Hall hit Mr. Jerbak over the head with a beer bottle and now Mr. Jerbak is in the hospital."

"And he's in jail for that?" Troo asked, surprise in her voice. Kids were always getting hit and n.o.body had to go to jail.

"Charges are being pressed against Hall," Mr. Fitzpatrick said. He turned on his blinker, which made that soft tick tick tick noise. We turned down Fifty-ninth Street and went past Delancey's Corner Store, which made me think of poor Sara Heinemann going to get her mother some milk and maybe have a gla.s.s of Ovaltine before she got tucked into bed and instead she ended up dead. A couple people in shorts and T-shirts were still sitting out on their front steps, drinking out of beer bottles and listening to the radio that was playing some boogie-woogie. One of them waved to Mr. Fitzpatrick and he waved back.

"Can I press some of those charges against Greasy Al?" Troo asked.

Mr. Fitzpatrick shook his head and frowned. "Don't you worry, the Molinari boy won't be bothering you again, Troo. Officer Rasmussen will see to that."

I could tell from the way he had talked to him at the drugstore that Mr. Fitzpatrick admired Rasmussen. I so wanted to tell him how it was Rasmussen who had murdered and molested his niece Sara. Because of that rash on his neck and because his boy had h.o.m.ofeelya, it made me think he'd understand about some things. "Officer Rasmussen . . . ," I started to say.

Mr. Fitzpatrick's eyes moved back to the rearview mirror. "What about Officer Rasmussen?"

"He's . . . he's . . ."

"Yeah . . . he's a great guy, isn't he?" Mr. Fitzpatrick said. "Dave's been a real help to the family during this hard time."

I squeezed Henry's hand so hard that he yelped out.

"I want to go home," I said the second he parked in front of Granny's.

Mr. Fitzpatrick put his arm along the top of his seat and turned toward me and Henry. He had a nice gold watch and his arm was hairy on his white skin. I had to keep myself from laying my face on that arm because it looked so much like Daddy's. "I'm sorry, Sally. Officer Rasmussen doesn't think it's a good idea for you to go home right now."

I bet he didn't. Rasmussen just wanted to know where I was so later, when it got good and dark, he could tell Granny he'd come to take me home, and because she was so old she'd just hand me over to him like a day-old newspaper.

Mr. Fitzpatrick looked at his watch. "I've got to go pick up my wife now, girls. You'll be fine here for tonight."

Troo, who must've gotten punched a lot harder than I thought because she was being way too quiet, said, "Okay." Mr. Fitzpatrick got out of the car and opened Troo's door for her and gave her nose a quick look-see and said, "Keep ice on that tonight. It should feel better tomorrow."

I turned to Henry and gave him my best smile, the one where my dimples got so big you could hide a piece of Dubble Bubble in 'em. Henry said, "See you at the funeral tomorrow, Sally." And out the window he called, "Don't worry about your bike, Troo. Pop put it in the store to keep it safe. And your ice cream cone, too."

Troo said, "It's not an ice . . . aw, forget it," and turned toward Granny's.

I felt astounded, because suddenly I knew why Troo wanted to do that smooching with Willie. More than anything I wanted to feel my lips against Henry Fitzpatrick's fuzzy pale cheek and whisper thank you for rescuing us from Greasy Al. But Mr. Fitzpatrick was right there and I wasn't sure how he'd take that.

After the car pulled away from the curb, Troo said, "You like him?"

"Yes," I said. We watched the Rambler go down the street. Henry's white hand was flapping good-bye out the back window.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, looking at her nose.

"I've had worse."

She was thinking about the car crash because she always got this look on her face that was different from all her other looks. A sort of Statue of Liberty look.

"Do you miss him?" I asked.

She knew I meant Daddy but she pretended she didn't. She threw the ice down on the gra.s.s and reached into her pocket for an L&M. She lit it and then took a deep puff, blowing it into a ring that floated over my head. She grinned at my amazement. "Fast Susie showed me how to do that. It's called a French smoke ring." The smoke floated above her head like a halo. "Let's go see Ethel. I wouldn't mind playin' some cards with her and Mr. Gary. In fact, that would be a fantastic thing to do right now, go play some old maid. And maybe we could get Ethel to give us some of those blond brownies. I'm famished."

I was so relieved. Troo was feeling lots better because she had just said four f words. I was also relieved that I would not have to sit in that old chair of Granny's by the window and watch Uncle Paulie gluing Popsicle sticks together while he whistled old-timey songs, knowing that Rasmussen knew where I was sleeping. So I said the one thing my sister never got sick of hearing. "Troo genius."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

We were standing on Mrs. Galecki's front porch. After we rang the doorbell, n.o.body answered and I got worried that they might all be asleep. From where I stood I could see the top of our house and the Kenfields' and I knew there would be some Dottie ghost-crying going on in her bedroom. And, of course, I could see Rasmussen's house because I was standing ten feet away from it. His house was bigger than Mrs. Galecki's. Not a duplex, but a house where only one family lived, like our old one out in the country. I so missed that house. Even peeing Jerry Amberson. Things seemed a lot safer out there, if you didn't count the farmers that were always getting an arm or leg whacked off by an International Harvester like what happened to Mr. Jerry Amberson, who had a hand that was hard and hollow and the fingernails were painted a fancy lady pink. But at least out in the country there wasn't a murderer or a molester. Who was a cop. Whose house I could touch right this minute.

"You know, it's gonna be the block party soon," I said to Troo, who looked awfully tired from our seven-block walk over from Granny's. I always mentioned the block party when I wanted to cheer her up because it was her favorite thing about summer. That's when she'd been crowned Queen of the Playground, her favorite part being that rhinestone crown I had told her more than once did not look good with her snowsuit.

Troo didn't answer.

"And the state fair." I added on her third favorite thing about summer.

Troo was sniffing the air. The wind was blowing those chocolate chip cookie smells our way. Those ovens baked day and night, night and day up at the Feelin' Good Cookie Factory. Mother always said the smell of those cookies gave her a stomachache. Maybe that smell was what had made her gallbladder so bad.

"Troo?"

"Shhh . . . I think I hear something." She stepped back down off the porch and looked back up at the house. Then I heard something, too. I followed her around the side of Mrs. Galecki's that was so close to Rasmussen's. Laughter got louder with each step.

Sitting in the screened porch that Mr. Gary Galecki had built for his mother right after the Fourth last summer, so she could enjoy the rest of the summer nights without getting bitten up by the skeeters, were Ethel and Ray Buck Johnson and Mr. Gary. Me and Troo had watched while Mr. Gary built that porch for his ma. The wood smelled so good when he cut it on that buzzing saw. We would get him drinks of water when he asked us to and he told us stories about California and how he had oranges that grew on trees right in his backyard and that he had the loveliest rose-bushes, over twenty of them. Mr. Gary said that maybe someday Troo and me could come out there to visit him and he would take us to Disneyland.

"Well, who do we have here?" Ethel said when we came around the corner, even though she darn well knew who we were.

Mr. Gary got up and opened the screen door to let us in. He was on the tallish side and a lot stronger than he looked. And he had the most beautiful hands you've ever seen. Narrow, with strong clean fingernails. Of course, he had those ears that were a lot like Dumbo's, so G.o.d had to give him those hands to make up for those ears. Ray Buck was sitting on a little straw couch and smoking a cigar. Ethel was waving a punk back and forth to keep the skeeters away just in case one got in there because Ethel absolutely despised skeeters and called them G.o.d's worst idea. They had the record player on in the house and Nat King Cole was singing "Mona Lisa" through the kitchen screen door onto the porch.

Mr. Gary gave us both a really good hug. "It's about time you showed up. Thought maybe you didn't like old Mr. Gary anymore." He wasn't old, he was just making a joke. He was the same age as everybody in the graduating picture in my hidey-hole. The same age as Mother. Thirty-eight years old. "My, how you two have grown," he said like he was surprised and maybe a little disappointed.

We hadn't seen Mr. Gary for a whole year. The last time he was here was last summer, right around when Junie Piaskowski turned up dead, that's all anybody could talk or think about so we hadn't really gotten to spend much time with him. Mr. Gary only came to visit during the summer because the winter cold made his teeth ache, which was why he'd moved to California in the first place.

"How old are you two now?" Mr. Gary placed his hand on Troo's shoulder. He had no way of knowing that she didn't like to be touched unless you were part of her family or one of her very, very best friends. But Ethel knew that so she jumped right up off the chair cushion and said, "My Lord, Troo, what happened to your nose?" She pulled Troo over to the light that was coming out of the kitchen. Troo tipped her head up toward Ethel. "Oh my goodness. Who did that to you, darlin'?"

Since Troo was looking too p.o.o.ped to partic.i.p.ate, I told them the story about what had happened with Greasy Al and how Hall was in jail and we weren't sure where Nell was and how Mr. Fitzpatrick drove us to Granny's but (I lied here, so I'm sorry about that, G.o.d and Daddy) Granny didn't answer her door so we came over here.

"Well, of course you did," Ethel said, and gave a worried look to Ray Buck and Mr. Gary. "I'm sure it'd be fine if you slept right out here on the porch tonight."

Mr. Gary said, "Absolutely. We wouldn't want you wandering the streets with all that's been happening around here."

Ray Buck got up and gave Troo his seat on the straw couch when Ethel went back into the house, probably to check on Mrs. Galecki. The fireflies had come out. Ethel told me once that fireflies had followed her up from Mississippi. And it was true, wasn't it? How special people more than others attracted special things like fireflies and crickets and shooting stars and four-leaf clovers.

Ethel came back out with a plate. Ray Buck took a brownie but Mr. Gary said no thanks. Me and Troo had two each of those best blond Mississippi brownies.

When he was done chewing, Ray Buck kissed Ethel on the cheek and said, "Must be goin'. Early bird catches the worm." We all said good night to him and then Ethel walked him to the front of the house, where he'd catch the bus that stopped on the corner. It would take him home to the Core, where all the other Negroes lived. Ray Buck got to ride the bus for free because he was a bus driver, so that was good for him.

Mr. Gary stood and stretched his arms up and when he did his shirt rode up and I could see his stomach, which was as flat as an ironing board and sunny California brown with black curls around his belly b.u.t.ton that went down in a line to the top of his pants. He said, "It's getting late. Gotta hit the sheets. How about some old maid tomorrow, girls?"

"Sounds good, Mr. Gary," I said, already planning to ask him if he knew my mother and if they were friends in high school. Maybe I'd even ask him a few questions about Rasmussen. "Night."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," he said and walked toward the porch door, but then he turned and smiled kinda sadly at us. Mr. Gary looked like he had something on his mind, but he didn't say nothing. He just rubbed his hands on his pants and went in, pa.s.sing Ethel when he did.

In her arms, Ethel had pillows with pillowcases that were ironed and smelled of Tide laundry soap, and even though it was warm out she covered our bare legs with a clean white sheet. Troo asked if she could please have a gla.s.s of milk and Ethel went and got that for her. Then Ethel lowered herself down in the chair and all the lights were out except for the fireflies and all the noise was low except for the crickets that got loud on those hot summer nights and the Moriaritys' barking dog, and then she said, "Little gals, you're havin' a hard row to hoe right now. Let's pray some together."

Ethel was not a Catholic. She was a Baptist. So every Sunday afternoon she went down to church in the Negro neighborhood while Rasmussen kept an eye on Mrs. Galecki, and wasn't that ever so nice of him to do? Bah.

When I grew up, that was what I was going to be-a Baptist. Ethel let me go with her every so often during the summer. It was the most fun I ever had at church. Reverend Joe preached with such pep. Even peppier than Barb the playground counselor, who was a pretty darn peppy paper shaker. After the service there was always a get-together in the backyard of the church, which really wasn't a church but an old appliance store that still had the sign hanging out front that said in worn away letters: JOE KOOL'S SMALL AND LARGE APPLIANCES FOR THE DISCRIMINATING. They had a ton of fried chicken set out on top of red-checkered tablecloths next to some colored greens, which were like spinach but better. On the number 63 bus on the way back home I once asked, "Ethel? When we come down here again, could we please bring Mary Lane along because fried chicken is her absolute favorite?" Between laughs, Ethel said, "That's a real thoughtful idea. Miss Mary Lane could use a little fattenin' up. That girl is skinnier than a poor relation."

Now, I closed my eyes and so did Troo as Ethel said in her praying voice, "Dear G.o.d, these little gals sure could use some help." Ethel went on to tell Him that we were good girls and that our mother was sick and maybe could He please spare her for a little while longer so she could come back and take care of us. I got so sad in my chest then. A deep sadness, more like a wanting so badly of something. A starving sadness. I must've started crying because Troo kicked me.

Ethel got up with an aaahhhmen and kissed both of us on our foreheads and went back into the house with a slam of that screen door, her sweet lilies of the valley perfume staying behind to sit with us a while longer.

My head was on one end of the straw couch and Troo's on the other and her bare feet were next to my tummy, so I rubbed them a little for her until she fell asleep, which was almost right away. Then I got up as quiet as it is when you can't sleep at night. I stared down at Troo's red waves streaming out of her c.o.o.nskin cap. It was a full moon night and some of its glow was falling across her face and made her look like a saint. I pulled the sheet right up to her chin and then walked over to the edge of the screen porch so I could get a good look at Rasmussen's house. It was all dark except for a light on in what I thought might be the kitchen. Maybe Rasmussen was out looking for Greasy Al Molinari like he told Mr. Fitzpatrick he would. Or maybe he was hiding right around the corner, waiting and watching for me like he had that first night when he chased me down the alley. After Rasmussen did away with me, Troo would be all alone. Even though she acted so tough sometimes, I remembered what she was like after Daddy died. She couldn't take something like that again. She'd turn into a nutcase and have to go out to the county looney bin and live there with Mrs. Foosman from over on Hi Mount Street, who had tried to drown her two kids in the bathtub because G.o.d had told her they were little devils. I couldn't let that happen. I could never let Daddy down like that. I'd rather be dead, that's how much I loved my Trooper.

To keep her safe, I needed to make my scheme come true. I was going over to Rasmussen's house and look around a little to see if I could find Sara's other tennis shoe or Junie's St. Christopher medal she got for her First Holy Communion, which Fast Susie Fazio said had never been found. And then I would come right back to the house and wake up Mr. Gary and he would take the shoe and the medal and drive them over to the police station and then the cops would come to get Rasmussen and electrocute him ASAP.

I wanted to ask Ethel for help, but I didn't. Because I knew she really liked Rasmussen. She even did charitable things for him. Like watering his garden if it had been a hot day and he couldn't come home from the police station. Or if he had to leave very early, Ethel would bring his milk and b.u.t.ter in from the chute and put it in his refrigerator.

One night, I asked Ethel while we were playing go fish why she liked Rasmussen so much. She leaned forward, quickly plucked three cards out of her hand and placed them facedown in front of me. The first card she flipped over was the jack of hearts. "See that?" she said. "Let's say that's Dave Rasmussen." Then she flipped over the middle card. "And then let's say"-she tapped the queen of hearts-"let's say that's . . ." She almost said a name, but caught herself. I slit my eyes at her. Ethel had her no-how-no-way look on her face, so I knew there was no use asking who had just been sitting on the tip of her tongue.

"You know why that jack of hearts has such a sad-lookin' face?" Ethel asked.

I studied the card. "Because he has to wear those dumb-lookin' clothes?"

Ethel snorted. " 'Sides that."

I am usually very good at guessing games because of my imagination, but for the life of me I couldn't come up with anything. "I don't know, Ethel. Why's he look so sad?" He really did look awful.

"Well, it's all because of this here queen." Ethel picked the card up and waved it at me. "She was deep in love and wanted to marry this jack." She put the cards together like a couple walking down an aisle. "But this jack"-she put it right up to my face-"even though he was deep in love, too, he told the queen he couldn't marry her." She tsked . . . tsked . . . tsked. "So the queen done went off and married someone else." She turned over the last card. It was the king of diamonds. "So now the poor ole jack has got a permanent fracture of the heart."

Sometimes I had to pay very close attention to Ethel and her stories. They could be as confusing as one of those soap opera stories she listened to on her kitchen radio while she was ironing.

"Ethel, are you tellin' me that Rasmussen loved a woman with all his heart and soul and all the stars in the sky and starfish in the sea and she married somebody else?"

"That's 'xactly what I'm tellin' you, Miss Sally," she said. "Truth be told"-she leaned in so close I could see the hairs in her nose-"that queen got married to somebody 'sides that jack more'n once." And I could tell by the wrinkle that came between her eyebrows that the whole story had made Ethel, who was a real romantic woman, feel just terrible for Rasmussen.

Oh, poor Miss Ethel Jenkins from Calhoun County, Mississippi. Rasmussen had even fooled the smartest woman I knew. But he couldn't fool me. I pulled carefully on the creaky screen door that led out of the porch so it didn't wake Troo. Then I walked out of Mrs. Galecki's yard into the alley because a white picket fence full of sleeping yellow roses separated the two yards and I didn't want to come back later all scratched up. That would make Ethel suspicious in the morning. I held my breath and looked around. Nothin' seemed like it shouldn't, so I walked around Rasmussen's garage and tried to peek in. I bet when he stole girls he brought them here to molest them. Because those girls were both taken right off the sidewalk. Sara had been on her way to get that milk for her mother and Junie, I heard, had been on the way to her dance cla.s.s at Marsha's Dance Studio, where they had children's tap and ballet lessons. And they weren't found right away after they disappeared. So Rasmussen had to have brought them somewhere after he grabbed them. He probably had a car like Mr. Gary. Hardly anybody had one around here. Most people took the bus or walked to where they had to go every morning, like to the Feelin' Good Cookie Factory or to church or to the Kroger.

I snuck into Rasmussen's backyard, slowly, slowly closing the gate but leaving it unlatched in case I had to make a fast getaway. I couldn't believe my eyes! There was the garden Rasmussen had told me about. Oh, it was a sight. There was a birdbath with water and a little birdhouse on a stick. And carrots and tomatoes and radishes in rows. And small green beans growing on large poles that looked like a tepee. And so many different kinds of flowers, some I'd never seen before. It was truly a Garden of Eden. Mrs. Goldman would just go crazy for this garden. So would Daddy.

I walked on the gra.s.s real quietly up to the house. I leaned against his back door waiting for my heart to stop fluttering like a kite on a windy day. Then I crossed myself and slowly pulled the handle down. And it was then that the whole backyard lit up like daytime. A car was pulling into Rasmussen's garage. I dropped down and belly-crawled as fast as I could toward the garden because that was about the only place to hide. It seemed like forever until Rasmussen pulled that garage door down with a clickety clickety clickety. I could hear his footsteps, but I couldn't see him. I'd gotten inside the green bean tepee to wait for him to go into his house, to hear the slam of the door, but nothing happened. After a few minutes or so, I peeked. I shouldn't have. They always tell you not to do that when you're hiding from someone, but I had to know where Rasmussen was because he was tall enough to look over his fence and there would be Troo sleeping in the screen porch. Easy pickin's, as Ethel would say. I held my breath and looked through the green bean leaves. And in the light of the moon, right next to the yellow roses, Rasmussen was sitting in his glider, rockin' slowly back and forth. Crying his eyes out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

When that puppy of his began barking from inside the house, Rasmussen blew his nose into a handkerchief and said, "Okay, okay, hold your horses, Lizzie, I'm comin'."

After I heard the door clank shut, I sat in that green bean tepee counting up to sixty Mississippi until I thought it was safe to come out. A smart thing to do would've been to go back to Mrs. Galecki's and get back under that sheet with Troo, but I guess I really wasn't that smart like Nell always said because I didn't do that. I had a scheme and I was sticking to it.

I looked around the yard for something to stand on so I could peep in on him. Next to the back door was an orangish flowerpot like the one on the front porch that was full of red geraniums, which I had noticed because they were Mother's favorite flower. But this pot was empty so I kinda dragged it over to the side of his house, right below a window. I crouched up on it and straightened a little at a time. I could see right into Rasmussen's house! There he was opening a can of something that must've been dog food because that puppy was jumping all over his leg like Butchy used to do when I'd feed him. All I could see was the kitchen. I needed to see more of what Rasmussen was doing, how a murderer and molester got ready for bed. Maybe he would take Sara's shoe or Junie's St. Christopher medal out of their hiding place.

I tiptoed down the path and then set the pot down outside another window that looked into the dining room, which seemed a lot like ours but didn't have Pabst Blue Ribbon beer bottles all over the shiny wooden table. But it did have something else. Something so astounding that I wasn't sure if I was imagining it. There, on the dining room wall, surrounded by a golden frame-and I could see this so clearly because there was a little light above it like a lamp-there was a picture of Junie Piaskowski in her First Holy Communion dress. It was the same picture of her that Rasmussen had in his wallet, only a lot bigger. I ducked down when he walked through the dining room. He didn't even stop to look at the picture. Just went past it like it was no big deal.

I closed my eyes and thought maybe I had lost every one of my marbles. But when I opened them, there she still was-Junie. Then Rasmussen walked by again, now in his underwear, which were the boxer kind, and a bare naked chest. He turned off all the lights except for the one above Junie's First Holy Communion picture and disappeared again with that little dog. I looked back at Junie again. She was smiling on an island of white light in the dark, her hands folded on her lap like she was praying the rosary she had wound around her fingers.

Rasmussen was the worst kind of creature there could ever be! Not only had he murdered and molested Junie, he had her picture hanging in his dining room like he was bragging. Like Mr. Jerbak did about those deer heads hangin' on the wall up at the Beer 'n Bowl.

I had to go wake up Ethel and tell her immediately. Here was the proof! Maybe now she wouldn't think Rasmussen was such a good ole boy. I didn't even put the flowerpot back. I just ran right through the garden, back into the alley and through the screen door, past Troo and into Mrs. Galecki's house. Ethel's bedroom was off the kitchen like Nell's was in our house and I didn't even think of knocking, that's how scared I was. I jumped right onto her bed and began shaking her by the hip. "Ethel . . . Ethel Jenkins . . . wake up." Which I hated to do, because I knew that she was not good at this sort of in-the-middle-of-the-night scariness because that KKK club had given her some very bad memories. That's when Ethel said the KKK liked to come. In the black velvet cloak of the night.

Ethel sat right up real fast. She had something over her hair like a hat or something. And she had on a white frilly nightie. "What's wrong!?"

"Oh Ethel, you have to come see. You have to come see." I pulled on her hand and she tossed back the sheet. She slid her feet into the slippers that she called mules and then let me pull her along out on the screen porch.

Ethel whispered, "Is it Miss Troo? Is she feelin' poorly?" She looked over at Troo, who hadn't moved one iota on the little straw couch.

"Troo's fine," I whispered back. "It's Junie Piaskowski."

Ethel looked at me when I said that and then put her hand on my forehead to check if I had a temperature. "You know, you're beginning to worry Ethel."

"Just come with me real quick, Ethel. Real quick. I have something to show you that you are not going to believe!" She looked at me again and then back at Troo but followed me back to Rasmussen's, her mules slapping. Ethel stopped for a second after we went through the gate into his garden and did a whistle and said, "That man has a green thumb like I never seen." She picked off a small tomato and popped it into her mouth, and then because she was getting more awake now and wondering what the heck I was doing, she said, "Miss Sally, I believe you are havin' some kind of nightmare or walkin' in your sleep. Let's go back to bed."

In my most serious voice, one I didn't even know I had until right then, I said, "Ethel, no!"

Ethel frowned down at me because I was not using my manners, but she came along to the side of the house anyway. I stood back up on the flowerpot, but she didn't need to do that because she was taller than a lot of men. I pointed at Junie's picture and figured I didn't need to say anything else. That picture, like Granny said, was worth a thousand words. When Ethel saw Junie in her little white Communion dress and veil, a mixed-up look came over her face. She looked down at me and said, "What is wrong with you, child?" acting like it was la de da normal that Rasmussen had a picture of dead Junie Piaskowski hanging on his dining room wall.

I got so mad and sad all at the same time that I burst right into tears.

Ethel said, "It's okay. It's all right." She ran her hand carefully down my back, like I was one of Mrs. Galecki's china dolls. "Miss Junie's with Jesus in Heaven."

"Ethel, d-d-don't you understand?" I pointed at Junie's picture again. "I saw them together last summer at the Policemen's Picnic and they were flying a kite and Rasmussen was lookin' at Junie in a certain kind of way . . . like he loved her or something . . . and he even had his hand on her shoulder and he was touching her and then she turned up dead. He's the murderer and molester. There's the p-p-proof."

Ethel's mouth dropped almost down to the sidewalk. And then she said in her lowest voice, the one that sounded like a box fan on a hot day, "Oh my, my, my, my, my."

What was wrong with Ethel? Why wasn't she running to wake up Mr. Gary, who would call the police on Rasmussen?

Ethel lifted me up off the flowerpot and set me gently down on the ground. "We need to have a talk, Miss Sally."

I jerked my hand out of hers and whisper-yelled, "Ethel!" "Come here to me." She pulled me into her bosoms and swatted me a little one on my b.u.t.t. "Now just settle down so I can tell you what's goin' on here. It ain't what you think."

I let her lead me around the corner of the house and over to Rasmussen's green glider that still had a slight smell of that orange aftershave he wore. We sat down and she rocked us a few times and then said, "You have gone and done some jumpin' to conclusions, which is a bad business to be in."