“Your mother’s put me to work.” Her father pulled up his chair opposite her, easing heavily into the seat and placing a hand flat on the table.
From the stove, her mother answered, “For…macchina da cucire.”
“Your sewing machine?” Mary translated. Her mother, an Italian immigrant, had spent her working life sewing lampshades in the basement of this house, having almost gone blind with the effort. Mary didn’t get it. “You sewing again, Ma?”
“Si. Your father, he fix alla for me. Alla work good now.” Her mother’s face lit up, and her small brown eyes flared behind thick glasses whose stems disappeared into teased white hair, like an airplane into clouds.
“Your mother’s got a business idea,” her father said, with a soft smile. “Tell her, Veet.”
“E vero, Maria,” her mother answered, her flowered back turned as she twisted on the gas under their dented perk coffeepot, then went into the refrigerator, fetched a pot of tomato sauce, and set it on the stove near the dish rack. Her parents didn’t own a coffeemaker or a dishwasher; her mother was the coffeemaker and her father the dishwasher. The DiNunzios were like the Amish, only with brighter clothes.
“What’s the idea, Ma?” Mary asked, mystified.
“Aspett’, Maria, aspett’.” Her mother turned the knob to fire up the gravy pot, then scurried from the kitchen and disappeared into the darkened dining room.
Mary turned to her father. “She’s starting a business, Pop? She doesn’t have to work, does she?” She offered them money all the time, but they consistently turned her down, their finances a state secret.
“Nah, she wants to work, and the babysitting took too much outta her.” Her father shrugged happily. “What’s the harm?”
“Okay, but let me get her a new machine. She can’t use that old one from the cellar.”
“The Singer with the pedal? Runs like a top.”
“Pop, please.” Mary moaned. “We have electricity now.”
“She loves that machine.”
Mary gave up. Usually, you couldn’t fight progress, but progress never met Vita and Mariano DiNunzio. “Okay, you win. Tell me, how’s Angie? You hear anything?”
“She’s still in Tunisia. Says she’s fine.”
“When’s she coming home?” Mary asked, suddenly missing her sister, a stab of longing like a phantom pain.
“She’ll be back in three months, the letter said. I’ll show you later, it’s upstairs.” Her father leaned over, his elbows on the table. “Hey, what did Bernice say? She gonna apologize about Dean?”
Oops. “I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“It’s okay, Mare. Don’t worry.”
It got Mary thinking. “Pop, you hear anything about Trish Gambone lately?”
“From high school? She was one o’ the fast ones, right?”
“Yes.” Mary hadn’t heard the term in years. “She was in my office today. She’s living with a guy in the Mob.”
“That, I heard from Jimmy Pete. He said the wiseguy is that kid you used to teach. Remember him?”
Boy, do I. “Yes, it is him.”
Her father clucked. “I thought he was a nice kid, but you never know.”
“No, you never do.” Mary didn’t want to dwell on it, not here. The coffeepot started to boil but her father didn’t hear it, despite the hearing aid curled behind his ear like a plastic comma. She rose to get the coffee and turned off the gas under the pot before it percolated into its eleventh hour, then retrieved three mismatched cups and saucers. She set the table and got the pot, then poured her father a cup in a glistening arc, releasing the dense aroma of DiNunzio Blend, coffee distilled to brown caffeine.
“Eccoli,” her mother said from the door, and Mary set the coffeepot down in astonishment. Displayed across her mother’s arms was a perfect little gown of white cotton. Layers of miniature pleats fanned out from its sweet yoke, crosshatched by the finest threads, and its neckline curved like a tiny shell. Cap sleeves puffed from either side like the ears of a child’s teddy bear. Smiling, her mother asked, “Che carino, no?”
“Ma, this is beautiful. It’s amazing!” Mary stepped closer to see better. “You made this?”
“She makes christening dresses,” her father answered, with quiet pride. “She did that one by hand and three others. Each one takes her a week, so I figured we had to get the old machine goin’ again.”
“It’s lovely!” Mary marveled, and her mother beamed, displaying the dress like a human store window. “How did this come about?”
“She was sweepin’ the stoop, and Mrs. D’Orazio said she was gonna spend $150 on a christening dress for her granddaughter. Your mother tol’ her she could make it cheaper and she did. Then she sold it for seventy-five.” Her father clapped his heavy hands together. “For a dress the size of a baby doll.”
“Si, Maria, e vero.” Her mother nodded happily, and her father continued:
“So then the grandbaby had it on at the christening, and Mrs. D told everybody how cheap it was, and now all them want the dresses for their grandkids. Then this Puerto Rican lady from Wolf Street found out and she told all the other Puerto Ricans in their parish, and you know they love to dress their kids up.”
Mary flinched. “Don’t say that, Pop.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“It sounds racist.”
“I’m not racist, you know that.” Her father looked wounded, his forehead troubled, and Mary felt horrible. Matty DiNunzio wasn’t racist in the least. He’d been a foreman and always gave his crew an equal shot at jobs and overtime, even bringing them home to dinner in an era when it raised eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, Pop. I’m just tired.” Mary sighed, and on the stove, the gravy began to bubble, warming the kitchen with the aroma of tomatoes, garlic, basil, and fresh, peppery sausage.
“I know, I can see.” Her father sipped his coffee, then his smile returned. “Anyway, your mother’s in business. She’s got twelve orders already.”
“Wow.” Mary managed a smile, and her gaze strayed to the little dress, so small and white. She could almost imagine the baby in the gown, pure and pink, its arms sticking out of the puffy sleeves. Her husband Mike had wanted kids, but she had always thought that would come later. But she had been wrong about that and many other things. A wave of despair swept over her, as she stood at the intersection of life and death.
“Mare?” asked her father.
“Maria?” echoed her mother.
Mary put on a happy face. “I’m hungry,” she said, and her parents brightened, knowing exactly what to do.
But tonight, not even spaghetti would do the trick. All through dinner, Mary thought about Trish.
Mary got home to her apartment, ignored the day’s mail, and went to her bedroom, where she undressed quickly, changing into gray sweats and her old Donovan McNabb jersey. She stopped by the bathroom, unpeeled contacts from her corneas, and washed off her eye makeup, leaving two attractive skidmarks in the white towel, then finger-combed her hair into its Pebbles ponytail and slipped on her glasses.
Mike.
Grief struck without warning, an emotional mugging, and Mary stood still at the sink, steadying herself, resting her fingertips on the chilly rim. Then she fled the room, padding barefoot to her home office, and headed for her computer. She moved the mouse, and her home page, www.phillynews.com, burst onto the screen. The headline read, SOCIETY HILL BABY ABDUCTED. She scanned the story, reporting that a year-old baby girl, Sabine Donchess, had been kidnapped from the home of a wealthy family. An Amber Alert had been issued, and the police were hunting for suspects. Mary felt relieved. No news about Trish.
He’s connected. He deals drugs, heroin and coke.
Mary sat back in her chair, her memory unspooling. Even though she’d only known him in high school, he’d been her first real love. He’d come to her house for a full year of Wednesdays, and the two of them sat at the kitchen table while she tutored him in Latin, so close she could have kissed him. He was a jock in a black Neumann sweatshirt, sweaty from a shower after practice, smelling of hard soap and Doublemint gum. Always antsy in the chair, his big legs jiggled under the table. She kept her crush to herself, so far gone that she used to look forward to going to bed at night, just so she could think about him.
