do?”
“I don’t do any criminal cases, if that’s what you mean. Stalling would never touch anything like that.”
From downstairs, my mother calls, “Angela! Maria! Dessert!”
Angie gets up. “Maybe it’s your imagination. You always had a vivid imagination, you know.”
“I did not.”
“Oh, really? What about the time you hung garlic in our room, after that vampire movie we saw? It was on our bulletin board for a whole year. A foot-long ring of garlic.”
“So?”
“So my sweaters smelled like pesto.”
“But we never got any vampires.”
She laughs. “You look stressed, Mary. You need to relax. So what if they don’t make you partner? You’re a great lawyer. You can get another job.”
“Oh, yeah? Being passed over isn’t much of a recommendation, and the market in Philly is tight. Even the big firms are laying people off.”
“You need to stay calm. I’m sure everything will turn out all right. I would tell you that it’s in God’s hands, but I know what you’d say.”
“Girls, your coffee’s getting cold!” calls my mother.
“She’s waiting for us,” Angie says. “And I still have to go to the bathroom.”
I get up, reluctantly. “I wish we could get time to talk, Ange. We never talk. I don’t even know how you’re doing. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, with a pat smile, the same smile you’d give to a bank teller.
“Really?”
“Really. Now go. I have to pee.” She ushers me out the door. “I’ll pray for you,” she calls from inside.
“Terrific,” I mumble, walking down the stairs to a darkened living room. The double-header is over, and my father is standing in front of the television watching the Phillies leave the field. Red, blue, and green lights flicker across his face in the dark. Despite the carnival on his features, I can see he’s dejected. “They lose again, Pop?”
He doesn’t hear me.
“They lose, Pop?” I shout.
He nods and turns off the ancient television with a sigh. It makes a small electrical crackle; then the room falls oddly silent. I hadn’t realized how loud the volume was. He yanks the chattery pull chain on the floor lamp and the room lights up instantly, very bright. They must have a zillion-watt bulb in the lamp; the parchment shade is brown around the middle. I’m about to say something when I remember it might be because of my mother’s eyesight.
“You want some cannoli, honey?” my father asks tenderly. He throws an arm around my shoulder.
“You got the chocolate chip, don’t you? ’Cause if you don’t, I’m leaving. I’ve had it with the service at this place.”
“What kinda father would I be that I don’t have the chocolate chip? Huh?” He gives me a squeeze and we walk into the kitchen together.
My mother clucks about the cold coffee as we sit down, and Angie joins us at the table. My father’s soft shoulders slump over his coffee. We carry on the conversation around him, and my mother chatters anxiously through dessert. Something’s wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is. Angie senses it too, because after my father declines a cannoli for the second time, she gives me a discreet nudge.
“Pop,” I say, “Have a cannoli. I’m eating alone here.”
He doesn’t even look up. I don’t know if he doesn’t hear me or what. Angie and I exchange glances.
“Pop!” Angie shouts. “You okay?”
My mother touches my hand. “Let him be. He’s just tired.”
My father looks up, and his milky brown eyes are wet. He squeezes them with two calloused fingers.
My mother deftly passes him a napkin. “Isn’t that right, Matty? You’re tired?”
“Ah, yeah. I’m tired.” He nods.
“You’re leading the witness, Ma,” I say.
She waves me off like an annoying fly. “Your father and I were talking about Frank Rizzo last night. Remember, it was this time of year, Rizzo had the heart attack. It’s a sin. He coulda been mayor again.”
My father seems lost in thought. He says, half to himself, “So sudden. So young. We couldn’t prepare.”
“It’s a sin,” repeats my mother, rubbing his back. With her lipstick all gone, her lips look bloodless.
“Pop, Rizzo was almost eighty,” I say, but Angie’s look silences me. Her eyes tell me who they’re grieving for. The one who loved percolated coffee, the Phillies, and even an occasional cigar-Mike. I feel a stab of pain inside; I wonder when this will stop happening. I rise stiffly. “I better get going. It’s a school night.”
My parents huddle together at the table, looking frozen and small.
Angie clears her throat. “Me too. I have to change back.”
I walk to the screen door with its silly scrollworkD, looking out into the cool, foggy night. I remember nights like this from when I was little. The neighbors would sit out in beach chairs, the women gossiping in Italian and the men playingmora. Angie and I would sit on the marble stoop in our matching pajamas like twin mascots. It was a long time ago.
I wish I could feel that air again.
I open the screen door and walk down the front steps onto the sidewalk. The air is chilled from the fog, which hangs as low as the thick silver stanchions put in to thwart parking on the sidewalk. A dumb idea-all it does is force people to double-park on the main streets. Like my father says, in South Philly the cars are bigger than the houses.
Suddenly a powerful car barrels by, driving much too fast for this narrow street. It comes so near the curb in front of me that I feel a cold chill in its wake.
“Hey, buddy!” I shout after him, then do a double-take. It looks just like the car from last night.
I run into the middle of the street, squinting in the darkness. I catch sight of the car’s flame-red taillights as it turns right at the top of the street and disappears into the dark. My father comes out of the house, followed by my mother.
“Pop! Did you see that car? What kind of car was that? Was that an Oldsmobile?”
“What?” He cups a hand behind his ear, making a lumpy silhouette in front of the screen door.
“Ma! Did you see that car?”
“What car?” she hollers, from behind her bullet-proof glasses.
Behind them both, at a distance, is Angie.
5
“Iwould say this is Evil mail, wouldn’t you?” Brent asks grimly. He holds up a piece of white paper that reads:
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR
PARTNERSHIP, MARY
The letters are typed in capitals. It looks computer-generated, like the laser printers we use at Stalling. State-of-the-art. The paper is smooth. The note is unsigned.
I read it again. “Weird.”
“Very.”
“It’s not a nice note, is it?”
“No.” Brent’s face looks tight.
“Who do you think it’s from?”
“I have no idea. There’s no return address, either.”
“Let me see.” I take the envelope, a plain white business envelope, and flip it over. On the front is my name
