“A sister-promise can never be broken, no matter what,” drifting Birdie lowers her anchor and says. (Joke!) Or maybe she pulls her derailed brain into the train station and says that. (Also quite funny.)
Mr. McGinty grins at Birdie and says, “Speaking of sisters . . .” He looks over at his closed bedroom door and lowers his already soft voice. “I have a favor to ask of you, Tessie. I realize that Marty can be quite . . . quite . . .” Because he’s such a good egg who follows the Golden Rule down to the letter, I think he’s trying to come up with a nice way to say that his sister can be mean as hell. “In my experience, people often grow up to treat others the way they were treated as children even though they don’t mean to.” He gets this faraway, sad look on his face. “So I’m afraid my sister has a tendency to be a little—”
“Too strict and really bossy and whip-cracking,” Charlie says.
“Yes,” Mr. McGinty admits with a sigh. “She can be a stickler for rules and at times too hard on those who don’t follow them, but as you saw tonight, her heart is in the right place.” My guts are telling me that there is a lot more to the McGinty twins’ story that I will have to drag out of him during one of our fishing trips. “So if you could just take it a little easier on her, kids, I’d appreciate it.”
Well, long as she doesn’t suddenly change her mind and become a stickler for the rule about turning thieves in to the police, I figure what the heck. I owe it to the guy who has been such a good caretaker, not only of the cemetery, but of Birdie and me and even Charlie. “I can’t sister-promise you,” I tell him, “but . . . as the president of The Mutual Admiration Society I have the authority to regular-promise that we’ll all try and be a little nicer to her from here on out.”
“Thank you for washing and ironing my habit, Jimmy,” Sister Margaret Mary says when she returns from the bedroom looking like her usual scary self in black and white. “As you said, I best be leaving before the Pagan Baby meeting ends.” She tucks the paper bag that’s got the loot and the P B and M inside under her arm. “I wouldn’t want to bump into Missus Klement while I’m returning the money.”
Charlie, my little gentleman, picks up my Roy Rogers flashlight and says, “I was planning to stop by the church to say some prayers for my mother, it’s her birthday on Saturday, so I would be happy to escort you, Sister. We don’t want you to fall into another grave with the Pagan Baby money, because statistically speaking that would be very bad timing.”
“And I have Mister Peterman to attend to,” Mr. McGinty says, “but perhaps the Finley sisters would like to accompany you as well. It’s a beautiful evening, and according to the weatherman, it might be the last one for quite a while.”
I tug Daddy’s Timex out of my shorts pocket.
7:25 p.m. I was hoping that Birdie and me would have enough time to swing by Lonnigan’s Bar to visit with Suzie “That French Slut” LaPelt, but just like Mr. McGinty, we have a grave to attend to, and we can’t do both if we want to get home before Louise does.
“Thanks for the offer, but we have a previous commitment,” I say very politely to Mr. McGinty, then I turn to Sister Margaret Mary and, yes, this kind of sentimental sloppiness usually makes me want to throw up, but I hug the nun who is letting my partner in crime off the hook, and then I do the same to her twin brother, and, of course, so does my lovey-dovey sister. I really, really, really, really want to nuzzle Charlie, too, the way Birdie did, but being an innocent, she can get away with that sort of thing. I just wink at my one and only before I pick up my sister’s hand and his “babies” take off at a run toward Daddy’s tombstone to tell him about our day and our plans for tomorrow, because that’s something we’ve done since we lost him, and we will keep doing it until the day when the good one of his daughters joins him on high and the other one of us takes a trip below . . . below . . . below.
Because even if he isn’t here in body anymore, the Finley sisters know in a certain kind of way that nobody else can ever hope to understand, that our daddy has no trouble hearing us loud and clear. His death might’ve ambushed Birdie and me, kicked us over and over again where it hurts and will continue to do so, but, believe me, it will never, ever beat the love outta us. We are all for one and one for all forever and always.
23
A CONFESSION