mom.”
“Thanks, Bennie.” Trish smiled wanly. “I guess I shoulda told you, I don’t know how soon I can pay you. If we could do installments-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bennie answered easily, turning toward the street. “This one’s a favor to DiNunzio.”
“For real?” Trish sounded as incredulous as Mary felt.
Huh? “You don’t have to do that, Bennie.”
“Don’t worry about it. Trish, take care now. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks,” Trish called after her.
But Mary didn’t know what to say. “Bennie, can we talk?” she blurted out. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Tuesday’s better, nine o’clock,” Bennie answered, then she walked to the street, her trenchcoat billowing.
“That was nice of her, not to charge me,” Trish said quietly.
“It sure was.” Mary nodded, watching her go. She was thinking about what Judy had said about Bennie’s clients not paying. Maybe it was because she’d been doing nice things, like that.
They got into the car and slammed the doors, and Mary turned on the ignition, rewinding the events of the night like a video. Mrs. Gambone had confessed, and Bennie had proposed a plea bargain that would reduce the charge to voluntary manslaughter, with a two-to-four-year term. She had argued that the murder was the misguided act of a loving mother, the inevitably tragic response to domestic abuse, and that Mrs. Gambone deserved credit for coming in voluntarily and preventing an all-out Mob war. The young A.D.A. had said he’d take the offer to his boss and even he appreciated the sympathy factor. The whole time, Mrs. Gambone had remained stoic, if shaky, but Trish had cried hard.
Mary cruised through the drizzle, and her thoughts clicked ahead. She was already thinking of ways to help the cause, maybe with a well-placed leak to the press, to help spin the story in Mrs. Gambone’s favor. She could even notify women’s groups and domestic abuse organizations and tell them what had happened. They might file briefs on Mrs. Gambone’s behalf or support her in the media. Certainly the neighborhood groups would get involved, and Mary made a mental note to contact local magazines like South Philly Rowhome and the newspapers, too.
Mary stopped at a light and glanced over, with concern. Trish’s face was turned away to the window, her shoulders slumped. “How you doin’?” she asked.
“Okay.” Trish voice was hoarse.
“It was a really good deal.”
“I know.”
“Four years, if they go for it, isn’t forever. She might not even serve the whole time.”
“I know.”
“Your mom did the right thing. The smart thing.”
“We’ll see.”
“Brinkley and Kovich will take good care of her. Believe me, they take no satisfaction in locking up someone who could’ve been their own mother.”
“I saw.”
Mary stopped trying to make conversation. She couldn’t begin to imagine how Trish must be feeling, knowing that somehow she was responsible for her mother’s ruin, and even Bobby’s murder. It would change her life. It would change everything. In time, they hit South Philly, and Mary steered the car through the neighborhood. Most of the houses stood dark at this hour, and Mary flashed forward to how difficult it would be for Trish in the morning, when everybody in the neighborhood knew.
“One more thing,” Mary said, and Trish turned, shadows flashing on her face as they drove under the streetlight haloes.
“What?”
“I was thinking we should call Giulia and the girls. Have ’em come over. Agree?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?” Mary asked, and Trish looked away again, out the rainy window.
“What’re they gonna do?”
“They can help.”
“How?”
“Be your BFFs. Do girlfriendly stuff. Hold your hand. Listen to you cry.”
“Gimme a break.” Trish reached for her purse, anticipating Mary’s turning onto her street.
“I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“It would be nice to have some company. Who wants to go home to an empty house?”
“I better get used to it, huh?”
Mary didn’t reply, but pulled up in front of the Gambones’ and set the emergency brake. “Hope you’re not mad at me, but the girls are inside waiting for you.”
Trish turned in surprise. “What girls? Who is?”
“G, Missy, and Yo-Yo Yolanda. I called Giulia when you were with your mom, at the Roundhouse.”
Just then the front door opened, sending a sliver of warm yellow light slicing through the darkness, and there appeared in the threshold three curvy silhouettes, topped by curls. In the next second, the girls hurried down the steps in the rain to meet the car.
“It wasn’t your worst idea,” Trish said, her voice suddenly thick. She looked back, her eyes glistening. “By the way, that thing with Joe is over.”
“Good,” Mary said, relieved. Before she could say good-bye, Trish got out of the car and closed the door, and the girls surrounded her, then swept her up the stoop and inside the house. They closed the door behind them, plunging the street back into darkness.
Mary sat alone with her thoughts, in the idling car. She’d worn a brave face the entire night, the professional mask that came with her law degree. Now that she didn’t have to pretend for anybody else, the reality was hitting home. She stayed in the car for a minute, watching the raindrops creep down the windshield, then pressed the gas and cruised down the deserted street. She steered the car toward Center City on autopilot, then fast- forwarded to a picture of herself at home, in bed, under her comforter in her Eagles jersey.
Who wants to go home to an empty house?
On impulse, she turned left two times and headed back. She knew the address; she remembered it. She didn’t know if she was ready, but she was going anyway. She figured she’d know for sure when she got there, or maybe six months from now.
In no time, she found herself parked in front of the rowhouse Anthony was renting, looking up at the second floor, where a light was on. In the window she could see his head and shoulders as he sat in front of a laptop. The monitor lit his handsome profile with white shadows, and he typed quickly, working away. Mary turned off the engine, dug in her purse for her BlackBerry, and texted him:
Come to the window.
She hit Send and waited, her heart starting to pound. She wasn’t a forward girl. She’d never even asked anybody out. She didn’t know if it was crazy or not, or if she was getting ahead of herself, or him, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t thinking of the end point, or the destination, or even the purpose. The future or the past. She was thinking only of the present, and her heart was telling her she couldn’t do anything but what she was about to do, right this minute.
And upstairs, Anthony jumped from his seat, came to the bedroom window, then left just as quickly, and Mary climbed out of the car, hurried to his front stoop, and reached it just as he threw open his door. She didn’t say anything because she was crying, and Anthony scooped her up in his arms and took her inside.
Finally, out of the rain.
