Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five by Constance C. Greene

you.” Two more pretty girls stopped to buy a pretzel from a street vendor and the guy began to serenade them with a spirited tune, flashing his eyes, taking tiny steps, inviting them to dance with him. They turned their backs and walked away, not giving him a second glance.
    â€œSorry, girls,” the guitar player called in a loud voice as we walked away. We looked back, not knowing if he was talking to us or to the girls who’d ignored him.
    â€œRudy wouldn’t have taken off like that, without letting us know,” Al said.
    â€œHow could he let us know? He didn’t even know our last names,” I said. “Or where we live. He didn’t know anything about us. When you come right down to it, he didn’t know squat about us. We knew about him, or what he told us about himself. We’ll probably never see him again.”
    â€œWe’ll never find that woman, either. I feel it in my bones.” Al’s shoulders slumped, and she fumbled in her pocket for the five dollars. We both looked at the money stupidly, as if wondering how it had gotten there.
    â€œThe city’s too big,” I told her. “You hardly ever find anyone you’re looking for.”
    â€œLet’s go to St. Patrick’s,” Al said. “Sit down and smell the incense.” Al was crazy about the smell of incense.
    â€œAll right,” I said. St. Patrick’s Cathedral is beautiful and vast. It makes me feel as if I’m in Europe when I go there. There are lots of cathedrals in Europe, I understand. St. Patrick’s may be as close as I’ll ever get to Europe.
    We sat and watched the people taking pictures, wandering around, admiring everything. On our way out, there was a box marked For the Poor of the World. Al carefully folded her money and slipped it in the slot. We went down the church steps, and the humidity made us gasp.
    â€œAt least I did something positive,” Al told me.
    â€œThat beats nothing,” I said.

chapter 21
    â€œHow’s your little boy?” I asked Mr. Keogh when Al and I stopped to see him Monday morning on our way to class.
    â€œHe’s a pistol. Turned two last week. We gave him a set of blocks for his birthday. First thing he did was make a towering structure which he says is a church. My wife thinks he’s aiming to be an architect. I think he might be aiming to be a priest.” Mr. Keogh grinned. “Hard to tell, at this age.”
    Mr. Keogh fiddled with a pencil.
    â€œI have a favor to ask of you,” he said.
    â€œSo ask,” Al said.
    â€œRight. Well, here it is.” Mr. Keogh cleared his throat. “If you’re not busy next Saturday morning, how about coming with me to visit my father in his nursing home?”
    I looked at Al, and she looked back. Flabbergast city.
    â€œTo do what?” Al got out.
    â€œTalk. Read to them, the old people, I mean. Sing songs, if you want.” Mr. Keogh tapped his teeth with the pencil. “The point is, they need distraction. Most of them sit in the same chairs, in the same places, day after day. They watch television, but that’s about it. Lethargy sets in and it’s bad for them. They lose interest in things, in life. The doctors asked me, after they found out I was a teacher, if I knew any kids who might be willing to visit the patients. They’ve experimented and found that old people benefit greatly from contact with young people. Just having them around, the doctors said, is extremely beneficial, even for a short while.
    â€œSo I thought of you right off. You’re good kids. I wouldn’t ask just anyone to come up there with me.” Mr. Keogh smiled tentatively at us.
    Al said, “I could tell their fortunes.”
    â€œGreat! Who doesn’t like to have their fortunes told?”
    â€œI can’t do anything,” I told Mr. Keogh. “I can play the harmonica but only a little.” I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to