21.
SHINY BUTTONS
Same day—Friday, September 6, 1935
At home Nat wants no part of Mom or Dad. She heads straight for her closet, opens the door, and counts the dresses and blouses hanging there. She skims her hand over the bedcovers. She puts her fingers inside the folds as if she is measuring the depth of each one. She runs her hand, fingers splayed out, along the wall to see if every bump in the plaster is still there. She turns the doorknob and opens and closes, opens and closes the door. She moves on to the bathroom, running her hand along the wall until it hits the towel.
When she’s done she comes out to the living room and sits on the couch, her hands deep underneath her legs as if she is protecting them. For a second, she looks right at me, which is spooky, like having a teddy bear all your life and one day you see his eyes move. Then she’s back to her solid focus on the floor.
“Natalie, it’s so nice to have you back,” my mom says, her voice choking. But Natalie does not look up. It’s as if holding her hands beneath her legs requires all her concentration. “Do you want to unpack your suitcase?”
“Yoo-hoo, Helen! Cam! Yoo-hoo.” Mrs. Caconi knocks on the door. “It’s your turn.”
“Our turn for what?” my mom whispers to my dad.
“Her new icebox. Got one that runs on DC. We have to go see it,” my father explains.
“Doesn’t she know Nat’s here?” my mother asks.
“We have all weekend with Natalie. Moose will keep an eye on her. Mrs. Caconi doesn’t have much in her life these days,” my dad whispers to my mom.
“Yoo-hoo.” Mrs. Caconi is huffing and puffing from her climb up the stairs. “You’ll never guess what Bea said.”
Mrs. Caconi is standing in our living room. She is big, like her limbs were blown up with a bicycle pump. She has on her good blue flowered apron—the one she wears for entertaining—and her face glows with pride.
“She said she thinks mine is even larger than the warden’s. Can you imagine? Of course I didn’t get out my measuring tape, but you see what you think.”
“Moose, you keep an eye on Natalie while we run down to Mrs. Caconi’s. Maybe you and Theresa can help her unpack,” my father says before he and my mom follow Mrs. Caconi outside.
Inside Nat’s room we watch her go through her buttons, organizing them just how she likes them.
“You’re going to go talk to Piper, right?” Jimmy asks.
“I already said I would,” I say, trying hard not to sound as annoyed as I feel.
Theresa and Nat sit cross-legged on the floor. Nat unpacks her yellow dress, the special one, which now has seven of Sadie’s “good day” buttons sewn neatly in a square on the front.
“Is Mom going to sew buttons on that one when you have a good day here?” I ask. My mom’s not much of a seamstress, but she could probably manage a button.
“No Mom. Sadie,” Natalie says firmly as she takes out her socks and puts them in her drawer. They make a peculiar thump when she drops them, like they are made of metal.
“You think she’ll tell you the truth?” Jimmy is still focused on Piper.
“Hey, wait a minute! What was that?” I jump up and paw through Nat’s drawer. My hand snags something hard. I pick up a sock sagging like it’s full of stones.
Inside is an enormous metal screw—maybe eight inches long and a good one inch wide with a washer on it.
“What is that?” Theresa asks.
“Bottom drawer,” Natalie says.
“That was in her suitcase? Let me see.” Jimmy takes the big screw from me. He turns the thing over in his hand, twists the washer up, twists it down. “This is for . . . It’s used to . . . push things . . . force ’em . . . apart. Uh-oh!” Jimmy’s mouth drops open, like someone poked him hard in the ribs. “I know what this is . . . They use it to push the bars apart. It’s a bar spreader,” he says.
“What bars?” Theresa asks.
Jimmy leans in to whisper the answer in my ear.
Theresa gives him a swift sock in the arm. “No secrets or I’m telling!”
Jimmy pulls at his glasses. “The prison bars, Theresa, so they can escape,” he explains.
Theresa’s mouth drops open. “You’re lying. That’s a big fib, Jimmy Mattaman.”
I grab the bar spreader. It’s in my hand now. We all stare at it.
“What’s it doing in Nat’s suitcase?” Theresa asks.
“Nat, how did you get this?” I ask.
Nat doesn’t answer.
“That’s what set the snitch box off. My father should have found it,” Jimmy whispers.
“He thought it was the metal buttons,” I say.
“But she’s taken her button box through before, it never set the snitch box off. He should have kept looking—” Jimmy again.
“Trixle’s not going to like this,” I say.
“My dad’s already on probation,” Jimmy says.
“They’re both on probation,” I say.
“He’ll be fired,” Jimmy says in such a low voice I can barely hear him.
“They’ll both be fired or . . . or killed,” Theresa says.
“Not killed, Theresa,” I tell her.
“But definitely fired,” Jimmy says. “They already think Nat’s a security risk.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone. We can just throw it away, right now,” I say.
“Bottom drawer,” Natalie mutters, taking the bar spreader, her head twitching left, then left again.
“Why’s she keep saying that?” Theresa asks.
“How’d you get this, Natalie?”
Nat’s shoulders creep up to her face. “He told me to.”
“Who did? Who is he?”
“105. 105. 105.”
“You don’t mean Alcatraz 105?” Jimmy whispers.
“105 didn’t give you this . . . did he?” My voice cracks high.
Nat’s green eyes pass by my face. She cocks her ear to her shoulder and freezes.
“When did you see 105?”
Natalie dives back in her button box. Stacking and restacking.
“Natalie!”
“Don’t yell at her,” Theresa barks at me.
“Okay.” I blow air out of my mouth and try again as gently as I can. “Nat, when did you see 105?”
Nat is silent.
“We got to get rid of this,” Jimmy tells me. “But we can’t throw it away. The cons pick up the trash.”
“We’ll throw it in the bay,” I say.
“We can’t just take it outside like that,” Jimmy says.
“We need a bag.” I look around Nat’s room for something to wrap around it.
Natalie’s grip is tight on the bar spreader. “Bottom drawer. Bottom drawer, bottom.” She begins to spin in her spot.
“Natalie.” I put my hand out to steady her, but she’s spinning even faster now.
“He said to put it in the bottom drawer.” She struggles to say the sentence correctly, struggles to be understood, as if that is the only problem here.
I try to make my voice as calm as possible. “That’s good, Natalie. That’s just right. But I need it, okay? Will you let me borrow it?”
“No,” she says, each time she comes around, “no, no, no.” She spins faster and faster.
The door bangs. My parents are back. I hear them in the living room. “How much do you think it put her back?” my dad asks my mom.
Natalie has her hand on the bar spreader. She won’t let go.
“We should tell,” Theresa says.
“My dad will tell the warden. And he’ll be fired,” I say.
“They won’t be fired if we tell the truth.” Theresa is firm about this.
“Sure they will, Theresa. They messed up,” Jimmy explains.
“Natalie,” I say. She’s still spinning but not so fast. “Look, I’ll give you five buttons for this, okay?”
She stops. Her eyes get suddenly bright. “Five gold buttons?”
I know the ones she means. They’re on my suit jacket—the one I wear for special occasions. She loves those shiny gold buttons. My mom will kill me if I cut them off, but what else am I going to do?
“The gold ones you like,” I tell her, trying to wiggle the bar spreader out of her grasp.
She nods, but doesn’t let go.
I get the scissors and my good suit jacket and snip off the gold buttons, while she plays with the bar spreader, absorbed in twisting the little screw and washer up and down.
“Here. Five gold buttons.” I toss the buttons in my hand. They make a satisfying clinking sound.
Nat seems not to hear. All her attention is on the bar spreader.
“It’s nice she’s got something she’s proud about. It must be so hard for her on her own.” My mom’s voice from the other room. Then she stops. “Moose, awful quiet in there. Everything okay?” she calls through the door.
“Yeah, fine.” I try to make my voice sound normal.
“Nat,” I whisper. “Let’s take the bar spreader with us, okay? Let’s put it in this bag.” I grab my tote and offer it to her. “You can carry it.”
Nat takes the bar spreader and carefully places it inside. Then she holds the bag close to her, the way my gram holds her pocketbook when she thinks pickpockets are around. I motion to Nat, Jimmy, and Theresa to follow me.
“Dad, we’re going out,” I tell him as he walks into the kitchen and pours himself some coffee.
“Not now, Moose.” His voice cuts a crisp line.
“We’re taking Natalie with us,” I offer.
My father shakes his head. “It’s getting late. I want you to stick around here today.”
“Bottom drawer,” Natalie says, carrying the tote bag back to her room.
“Sounds like she hasn’t finished unpacking yet,” my father points out.
“Okay sure,” I say awkwardly, and then hurry Natalie back in her room before she says anything else.
Once I get the door safely closed behind us, Jimmy and I stare at each other. “What are you going to do now?” he asks.
“I’ll think of something,” I whisper.
“What?” Theresa wants to know.
“I haven’t thought of it yet.”
Theresa nods, but she’s screwed up her face.
“Natalie.” It suddenly occurs to me. “You want to give Theresa the bar spreader. She gave you those checkers, remember? You need to give her something back.”
Natalie appears to be thinking about this. She rocks back and forth. “Hair comb,” she decides.
“Theresa already has a hair comb. She wants that bar spreader. You want Theresa to be your friend, don’t you?”
“Friend.” Nat keeps rocking, holding the bar spreader tight to her chest. “Friend, friend, friend.”
Uh-oh. I don’t like the way she’s doing this. What if she throws a tantrum with the bar spreader in her hands? How in the world will I explain that?
“Nat, please don’t pitch a fit. Please,” I beg.
“It’s okay, Moose.” Theresa pats my arm like she is twelve and I am seven. “She’s just talking . . . aren’t you, Nat?”
“Friend, friend, friend,” Nat says, but I see her arms slowly unfurl from her chest, then her hands and fingers.
Theresa waits quietly until Nat gives her the bar spreader. “Thank you, Natalie,” she says.
“Throw it in the bay,” I whisper in Jimmy’s ear. “Get it out of here for good.” Jimmy nods, his eyes keen.
“I know! I can handle it, Moose, okay?” Jimmy snaps.
“Sure,” I whisper. “Of course.”
When he’s gone I feel better for about thirty seconds and then I begin to understand the full extent of the problem.
Somebody expects to find a bar spreader in her bottom drawer. Somebody will be looking for it very soon.