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On Sunday night at eight o'clock, our whole family watches "The F.B.I." It is our tradition. After we eat mashed potatoes, green peas that taste like mushy Wonder bread, slices of beef that float in red meat juice, and ice cream with Bosco chocolate syrup, we pile into the family room. This is after Dad has washed the dishes and dried them–it's never good enough just to wash them without drying them–and Mom has asked us to put our brown-checked St. Bede school uniforms and clean socks out for the next day.
During the first commercial break, I roll over on the spindly green carpet and look at Dad. He sits in the corner of the blue tweed couch, wedged in like apple pie.
"Dad, I think Inspector Erskine–I mean Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.–is the tannest movie star I have ever seen."
"Is that right?" His eyes zoom like a fastball from the TV to the "Los Angeles Times" open on his lap as the commercial continues.
"Dad, do you have to go on car chases and jump over buildings and handcuff those smelly gangsters, just like Inspector Erskine?" I ask, nice and slow.
Dad does not say anything. He stretches the newspaper past his face, like it is a curtain. I wait for it to drop. Instead, he keeps turning pages. I wait for him to speak. Dad turns another page, the newspaper crinkling in his fingers. Maybe he would be put on detention at work if he told how they catch criminals. Maybe that information is top secret, to keep the gangsters from finding out.
Billy Romero, the first kid on our block to get a ten-speed bike, tells me they are out to get us. Every time I pass his house on my way home from St. Bede Elementary School, he zooms out of his driveway, sits on his seat, and crosses his arms, right in the path of my stingray bike.
"Hey, Maura, your father could be killed by criminals anytime–did you know that!" That is what he yells.
"No. Never," I say, veering past, like I am the mermaid captain of my own ship, although I say it so soft Billy Romero must not hear, because he already blurts his next warning.
"And "you"–"you" could get kidnapped on your way home from school. FBI kids get nabbed all the time."
I keep riding my bike, faster, in my heart of hearts saying, "Bad things will never happen to my family, because Dad is tougher than the worst criminal out there." No gangster would dare come close. They could never outmaneuver Dad. He is the smartest special agent in the whole FBI.
Dad clears his throat when the second commercial comes on, finally dropping the newspaper.
"What is your baseball mitt still doing in here?"
The mitt, which I have worn all day, sticks to my left hand. I shrug my shoulders.
"Why didn't you give it to Michael to put back where it belongs?"
Before I can answer, the Crest toothpaste commercial ends, and that special-agent music starts up again to tell us we are back to "The F.B.I."
It is time for the epilogue. Inspector Erskine and his agents capture the bad guys each week and sentence them to prison. After we know they are locked up for sure, spicy FBI music begins.
I stare straight ahead to the picture of J. Edgar Hoover, my dad's boss, that hangs on the wall above the television. Mr. Hoover must wear that stiff Brylcreem, like Michael does since he started St. James High School, to keep his hair straight and narrow. Mr. Hoover's looks are serious, like he has not had a dessert for twenty years. I switch my eyes back and forth, from Mr. Hoover to the television screen. I imagine it is really Dad's boss talking to me as Inspector Erskine points to the poster behind him with the black-and-white photographs of the Ten Most Wanted. Inspector Erskine's voice sounds like gravel. He tells us to be on the alert. The gangsters are armed and dangerous. They could be in our neighborhood.
I roll over on the carpet and look at Dad and wonder if he thinks a gangster would ever sneak around Thrifty's Ice Cream or the Fox Movie House or the St. Bede ball field. I wait for Dad to notice me, but he is busy inspecting the faces of the Ten Most Wanted.
"Dad, does that mean armed and dangerous with golden bullet shells?"
Dad's eyes clamp onto the television screen in such a way I know I should stay quiet. He folds his legs, the newspaper dropping to the floor, and he barely opens his mouth. "The inspector means you should play it smart. Otherwise, you'll get hurt."
"How do you play it smart?" I crawl just a bit closer toward his dark shoes.
He lights a cigarette, cups it, curls of smoke escaping the cracks between his fingers. Mom stares at Dad like she would prefer for him to talk about pleasant things, to switch the topic away from how we have to worry about all the danger. Dad looks back at Mom with that face that says he has nothing pleasant to say. Then he slants his head and squints his eyes.
"Avoiding dangerous areas is one way to play it smart."
I gulp. I watch him turn up his sleeves and stare straight ahead like one of the Ten Most Wanted has just jumped through the television screen into our family room. I turn back to watch the set. The camera zeros in on one criminal, the gangster's face hogging the entire screen. I lower my face and let it rest in my mitt.
(continued on the next page)
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