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"Maybe you shouldn't watch this part, Maura. This may be what's giving you those nightmares." Sometimes Mom rubs my back when I have my nightmares of houses catching on fire, but lately, she just sleeps when I tug at her at night. I stand in the dark room and watch her pregnant belly go up and down like the ocean, and listen to Dad snore until I am so sleepy I am forced to go to bed alone.
"No, I like this part–it's my favorite."
I dare myself to stare the guy in the face. I drop my mitt and
watch from under my eyelids. This criminal looks like a grizzly
bear, like he is so hungry that if he found you on the playground,
he would kill you for your hot dog or Cream-a-ling apple pie.
He's got scars and bruises and a crooked nose. His eyes look
watery and silver, like our steak knives when they soak in the sink.
I grab my mitt again and lift it up and smell it and wait for Inspector Erskine to end this Ten Most Wanted part. I sniff closer. I smell the stitches in the leather, the meat of the mitt where Dad says you should catch the ball. I bury my face in it, breathe in and out like the doctor says to do when you sit on his cold table. I breathe so much that soon I can't smell or even see anything else.
"What in God's name are you doing with that mitt?" Dad says as he gets up to turn off the television. He steps my way and grabs the mitt stuck on my hand. "I've never seen a house like this in all my–"
"Dad, I don't want us to ever get hurt. Can't you teach me–"
"Maura, come on, now. Don't let your imagination get the best of you." Mom stands up with her hand on her belly. "No one is going to get hurt. Now–bedtime!"
It looks like her belly is smiling, which makes me think my imagination is getting the best of me. Still, I study Dad to see if he agrees with Mom. He waves at the air, then walks out of the room without saying a word, just like he does every Sunday night after we watch "The F.B.I."
* * *
From Monday to Friday nights, I sit in my corner bedroom, by the window, and wait for Dad to come home. I look up and down our street, Margaret Rae Drive, and think of all those pictures that come on the news every night, all the guns and soldiers and hippies in torn clothes who yell and shake their long hair.
Finally, Dad's FBI car rounds the corner, slow, and pulls into our driveway. The headlights stream through the holes of my yellow lace curtains. I duck so Dad can't tell I watch him take off his black hat, which is called a fedora, as he gets out of the car. I get ready to run and greet him at the front door as he goes slower than a snail up the walkway. The fedora rests in his hand, soft next to his important black trousers. I tell Dad he is the smartest father in the whole world, and then I lean into his cheek and smell the blue smell.
CHAPTER TWO
It is Friday night and all I do is drum my fingers as I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the pink telephone and counting from one to ten, hoping for an invitation from our neighbors the Flanigans to see "The Sound of Music." Mom is busy with the new baby, who's three months old today, busy talking to doctors. She tells me she needs privacy when the doctors call. She asks me to go outside and play with Julie and John for a while. I always do, dreaming that the Flanigans will let me watch "The Sound of Music" three times in a row and then take me out for a banana spIit. When the Flanigans took me to see "Mary Poppins," Mrs. Flanigan handed me a Mary Poppins coloring book. I wonder what she will give me this time.
Mom and Dad sit at the kitchen table at night after we all go to bed. Their voices hide in whispers. I hear them from my bedroom, hear spoons clank inside cups, then small slurps. Dad's voice is low like the heater. What they say is top secret. They don't want us kids to hear. I wonder if Dad caught one of the Ten Most Wanted at work. I creep out in my purple pajamas, sneak up to the shut dining room door, but Mom must sense I am near, because right away she pops up and escorts me back to bed.
"You and Dad. What are you talking about?"
"Adult things. Everything is fine. Now it's time for sleep." Mom does not have her orange lipstick on. Her lips are faded, like roses thirsty for water.
"If it's time for sleep, then how come you and Dad aren't sleeping?" I get into bed with her hand on my back, but I refuse to lie down. Mom does not say anything at first, and I can hear the kettle whistle in the kitchen and Dad's chair scraping against the floor.
"Daddy and I have some things to talk about–"
"There's no gangsters on the loose, right?!"
Mom fluffs my pillow. "Gangsters?" She chuckles, catches herself by surprise, and then swallows like there's words tangled in her throat. "No, no. Just things parents talk about. Everything will be fine."
"Dad says you have to play it smart for things to be fine." Mom looks at me and pulls back the covers. I swing my legs in.
"You can play it smart by getting some rest. Good night."
The heater clicks on, and soon its roar travels through our house on Margaret Rae Drive like a choir of ghosts. I lie in bed and touch my warm cheeks and think of our new baby brother. I love the new baby's feel, his skin so soft, like Jell-O. His hair is red, and Mom says wouldn't you know, the fifth baby to arrive is the most Irish-looking of the bunch.
He came home from the hospital wrapped in the official Conlon baby blanket, the one our Gramma Molly made for the rest of us. Dad did not say much when the baby came home. He thanked the Flanigans for babysitting, then put his FBI badge in his gun drawer. I saw him do this. I don't know why agents need badges at the hospital. Someday I will ask. Dad is lucky. The new baby is named after him Joe, Jr. We will call him Joey. His skin is light, like Dad's, and so far, his eyes are just as blue, like the eggs robins lay.
* * *
(continued on the next page)
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