Courting Trouble

“Unless Dietz makes her,” Judy said somberly. “He may threaten her. We know he can be violent.”

Mary looked grave. “I wouldn’t like to be responsible for someone getting a beating. Especially her. She’s got enough problems now, with Kevin after her.”

Bennie frowned. “You wouldn’t be responsible. He would, and so would she. Beth Dietz gets no sympathy from me for staying with an abusive man. She’s suing my client, and however much of a jerk he may be, I’m on his side. I’m sworn to it, and he’s paying me for it.”

Anne snorted. “Didn’t you just throw him out of the office?”

“I draw the line. He hit on one of my associates. That is not happening on my watch. Keep your eye on the prize—the trial.”

Anne considered it. “So we really don’t know which way she’ll go.”

“Right,” Bennie answered. “You have to be ready for whatever they throw at you. Just like any good trial lawyer, you’ll have to think on your feet. You can do it. You have been for the past two days, and very well. With only one minor slip in judgment.”

Anne said it before Bennie did: “Matt.”

Everyone’s gaze went instantly to Anne, three pairs of intelligent eyes in various stages of makeup. Mary’s were full of understanding; Judy’s slightly amused. But Bennie’s had a clear-blue frankness that set Anne squirming. “You’re not seeing him tonight, I hope,” she said.

Oh, no. Anne had to fish or cut bait. Matt had left two messages on her cell phone, asking her to stay with him. She had returned one, telling him to tell Beth about Kevin. Truly she wanted to crawl into his bed, wrap his long arms around her, and feel safe and protected. Could she admit to any of these feelings in front of everyone? Was it even their business? All of a sudden she had both girlfriends and a boyfriend. Mental note: Once you actually get a personal life, it’s hard to live it.

“I’m not seeing him tonight,” Anne said. It was the right thing to do. Or not to do. “I’m educable. Young, but educable.”

Bennie glowed. “An excellent decision, narrowly avoiding disbarment. You’re learning, girl.”

Anne took a bow. “But where can I spend the night? I mean, I can’t stay with you, Bennie. I have to get Mel out of there before your nose explodes. I guess I could find a hotel.”

“That wouldn’t be safe.” Mary got up from her chair with a new enthusiasm. “I know a great place to hide you. Our safe house!”

Bennie brightened, too. “An excellent idea! Why didn’t I think of it?”

Judy clapped, jumping to her feet. “Perfect!”

Anne was bewildered. “Where are we going? What safe house?”

“You’ll see,” Mary said. “But we can’t go dressed like this. We’ll be killed.”

That’s safe? Anne thought, but Mary came over and took her by the hand.

24

It was dark by the time Anne and Mary reached the squat rowhouse somewhere in the redbrick warren that was South Philadelphia. They opened the screen door with its scrollwork D in weathered metal, and Vita and Mariano “Matty” DiNunzio flocked to them, hugging and kissing them, clucking and cooing like a pair of old city pigeons. Anne barely had time to set down the Xerox-paper box containing Mel in front of a worn couch. On the front windowsill sat a yellowed plastic figurine of the Virgin Mary, watching over the street from between two tiny, crossed flags, one American and one Italian.

“Come in, girls! Come in!” Mary’s father was saying. He grabbed Mary, hugged her like a Papa Bear, and rocked her back and forth, all at the same time. “Oh, I love my baby girl!” He was a short, bald, seventysomething- year-old in a white T-shirt, dark Bermuda shorts, and a black belt that was superfluous except that it matched his slip-on slippers. He smiled with joy as he held Mary, and his brown eyes melted like Hershey’s chocolate behind steel-rimmed bifocals. “Our baby’s home! Our girl! Look, Vita, our baby, she’s home!”

But Mary’s tiny mother had wrapped herself around Anne and was caressing her cheek with a papery hand that smelled vaguely of onions. “You are Anna? Che bellissima! Such a beautiful girl! More beautiful than your picture!” Mrs. DiNunzio was about her husband’s age, but an Italian accent flavored her English, so the word “picture” came out “pitch.” “Madonna mia, she has the face of an angel, Matty! Look at this one! The face of an angel!”

“Wow. Jeez. Thanks.” Anne’s spirits lifted instantly, her energy surged, and she couldn’t stop smiling. She even loved her new name. It was great to have people throw a party just because you walked in the door. Anne hadn’t felt this good in a long time, maybe twenty-eight years. Mental note: I want to be Italian.

“She’s such a beauty, it’s a sin! God bless!” Dense trifocals magnified Mrs. DiNunzio’s small, brown eyes, and her thinning, white hair had been teased into an elaborate coiffure and stuffed into a pink hairnet. Cotton strings from the hairnet straggled down her nape, and she wore a flowered housedress and a full-length flowered apron. But Anne wasn’t playing fashion police. She was too busy being hugged and breathing in a pleasant, if peculiar, combination of Spray-Net and sweet basil. Mrs. DiNunzio stopped stroking Anne’s cheek and stepped back from her, marveling. “You look like inna movies! Like actress inna movies or TV. Look, Matty, she—”

“She’s a beauty, all right!” Mr. DiNunzio agreed, hugging Mary. The DiNunzios talked over each other and nobody seemed to mind. “A princess, she looks like! We’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of them both!”

“Nobody’s gonna hurt you in my house!” Mrs. DiNunzio said, staring up at Anne with suddenly wet eyes. Mary had told her parents about Anne’s situation, and Mrs. DiNunzio was practically crying for her. For a split second, something else flickered in the older woman’s magnified eyes, then it disappeared. “God bless! You stay with us, everyting gonna be all right!” She squeezed Anne tight, trembling with a sympathy that seemed ironically to strengthen her frail frame.

“Thank you,” Anne said again, which was stupid, but Mrs. DiNunzio appeared not to hear. Her eyes had darkened abruptly, and fierce little wrinkles deepened her brow under the pink hairnet.

“You work also for Benedetta Rosato! That witch, she’s a no good!” Mrs. DiNunzio wagged a finger knotted at the knuckle. On the way over, Mary had told Anne that her mother had arthritis, from years of sewing lampshades in the basement of this very house, her childhood home. Mary’s father had been a tile setter. And they both hated Bennie. “So much trouble she makes! Guns! Crazy men! Benedetta Rosato, is her fault! She no take care of my Maria! Or you! She no—”

“Ma, please don’t start.” Mary emerged from the clinch with her father and looped an arm around her mother. “Let’s not get onto Bennie, right? Like I said on the phone, Anne can stay in my room, in Angie’s bed—”

“Okay, okay. Atsa no problem.” Mrs. DiNunzio patted Anne’s cheek, her anger vanishing as suddenly as a summer thunderstorm. “Is ready, the bed. Clean towels, clean sheets, all clean onna bed, everything ready for you. First we eat, then go to bed. Welcome, Anna!”

“Thank you.” Time number four? What else was there to say when people were so nice? “Did Mary tell you? I have a cat, too.”

“Okay, a cat! I like, a cat!” Mrs. DiNunzio peered behind Anne, and Mr. DiNunzio was already shuffling over to the box and opening the top flaps. Mel popped his head out with an unhappy meow, and everybody laughed. Mrs. DiNunzio clapped her hands, then clasped them together in delight. “Madonna mia! How pretty, the cat!”

“What a nice kittycat!” Mr. DiNunzio lifted Mel from the box, letting the cat’s back legs hang awkwardly until he finally gathered them up and cuddled Mel against his chest. “Vita, look, he’s a such nice cat.” Mel meowed, working the crowd with Love Cat, and Mr. DiNunzio beamed, his teeth denture-even. “See, Vita? He likes us.”

“He’s a nice cat, he likes it here!” Mrs. DiNunzio smiled, her head wobbling only slightly. “Welcome, Anna’s cat!”

Mr. DiNunzio kissed the top of Mel’s sleek head and looked over at Anne. “What’s his name?” Anne told him, but he frowned, wrinkling well past his forehead. For a minute, she thought he hadn’t heard her, but Mary had told her he was wearing his hearing aids nowadays. They sat snugly in his somewhat furry ears. “Mel?” he asked. “Is that a good name for a kittycat, Anna? I never heard of naming a kittycat a people name, like Joe. Or Dom.” His tone wasn’t critical, just honestly confused, and now, so was Anne.

“I didn’t name him. I got him with that name from the shelter.” Anne smiled. “It’s kind of a stupid name, now that I think about it.”

“How ’bout we call him ‘Anna’s cat,’ then?”