Every Single Second (13 page)

“
Buona festa
, Nella!” Mrs. Manzini called. Her little
daughter, dragging her blankie, did an echo. “
Buona festa
, Nella!”

Nella said it back, but this party didn’t feel happy to her. The bocce players, who always took the game seriously, looked irritable, even more ready to argue than usual. They had the tape measure out, measuring the distance between balls, and everyone was leaning forward, gesturing, offering an opinion.

A bunch of college kids sat on the wall, spooning up gelato. They didn’t know the first thing about bocce. They looked amused, like they were observing zoo animals doing something weird.

Nella’s bad mood got worse.

It was dark now, almost time for the fireworks. Never, ever had Nella missed the fireworks, which she loved. She started back toward the playground, where her family always sat to watch. She’d cuddle Vinny on her lap, put her hands over his ears.
Fireworks,
she’d tell him, pronouncing the word slowly and distinctly, the way the pediatrician said they should.
Gold. Red. Blue.

Was she imagining it, or were there more police here than earlier? She passed one holding a crackling radio. Feeling uneasy, longing for her family, she tried to move faster, but it was gridlock.
Whomp!
The first firework rose and exploded. All around her people craned their necks,
and their faces took on an eerie, red-tinged glow.

Whomp! Whomp!
Nella was trapped. The thick air took on that smell that always made her think of guns and war. The explosions rattled her chest. Hazy smoke rose in the streetlights. Across the street, at the bocce courts, voices began to shout. Nella couldn’t see what was happening, and at first she thought it was just the players having an especially loud argument, but now police officers muscled their way through the crowd.

“Coming through, coming through.”

Whomp! Whomp!
A girl screamed.

“A fight,” somebody said. “Those damn college kids.”

People pushed one another, trying to see. Jostling, shoving. The air itself felt explosive, and Nella wanted only one thing. To be with her family.

Now, another wave of people shoved her backward up the hill, and she stumbled over the curb and onto the sidewalk. In front of Franny’s, where a
SOLD OUT
sign was taped to the window, a lunatic pigeon dodged among all the feet. Peering through the crowd, Nella saw a familiar gleam of yellow hair. Angela? But who was she with? An old man who shaded his eyes as if caught in a blinding glare. Like Nella, they were trying to make their way down the hill, away from this. The old man was stooped almost in half, and Angela’s arm was tight around him, like she
was all that held him together. Like without her, he’d fly into pieces.

Another firework was launched, and as it burst Nella realized—the man was Angela’s father. That old, sick man was Mr. DeMarco. Red rocket light fell across his face, and on it Nella saw her own fear. Times a thousand.

Where was Anthony? Instinctively, she looked around. Something bad was happening—they needed Anthony!

But then she remembered: Anthony worked at night now.

The hungry mouth of the crowd swallowed them down. Trembling, on the verge of tears, Nella pushed her way forward till she finally reached the playground. There they were, in the same place they sat every year: her parents in their lawn chairs and the boys on the pony blanket at their feet. Nella grabbed Vinny and squeezed him tight.

“Nella.” Her mother took her hand. “Where were you? Are you all right?”

Now I am.

It was a fight between neighborhood boys and outsiders, they heard the next day. Kenny Lombardo was hitting on a college girl and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Or a college guy taunted Kenny, calling him a goombah and worse. Or some thugs from the bottom of the hill showed up, just
looking for trouble. Friends got involved. Bystanders got involved. Punches got thrown. A nose got broken. Arrests were made.

“Something wasn’t right this year,” said Mom. “There was a bad feeling in the air. I’m glad it’s over, and things can get back to normal.”

But the street was a disaster: trash everywhere, bushes broken and flower beds crushed, like an invading army had marched through. The bad feeling was still in the air.
Over
didn’t feel like the right word.

What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could

T
he bird having left is, need I say, a great relief.

An enormous relief.

A colossal relief.

That foolishness is
over
.

I can once more resume my monumental dignity.

Hark unto me, Jeptha A. Stone: I do not miss her.

(How could I, with a heart made of stone?)

TOO LATE

now

T
onight Nella had two duties, one pleasant, one a drag. She chose pleasant first.

She let herself into Clem’s house, where the Patchetts had left the AC on low, so Mr. T wouldn’t suffer in the heat. Nella’s heart lifted when she saw him, a sign of just how pathetically lonesome she was. Gentle and Decisive, she worked on winning his confidence. For the first time, when she slid her hand toward him he didn’t do his crazy huffing and puffing. Nella told him what a brilliant hedgehog he was, then gently and decisively put him back.

She opened the drawers of Clem’s dresser. She’d already checked under the bed, and in the closet, but “The Adventures of Bell and Rem” was nowhere to be found. Nella knew she shouldn’t snoop, but she needed to know what happened to those two.

She watered Mrs. Patchett’s patio tomatoes and pinched off the suckers, the way Nonni had taught her. Back inside, cool, silky air washing over her, she fetched a mango-flavored sparkling water from the fridge and lay on the hands-down-most-comfortable couch in the world. She flipped on the TV and watched in exquisite, brotherless peace. When she grew up, she’d have a place just like this. Only in a different city. Chicago, maybe, or New York. Maybe she and Clem would share an apartment. She stretched her legs, and maybe they weren’t so ugly. Maybe they were even getting a little shapely, as they said in magazines.

Nella folded her hands beneath her head. Her fingers gave off tomato-plant stink. On TV, film stars in evening gowns, hands on hips, pivoted this way and that in the flashing lights. Nella chose the red dress. No, the silver one. It was so exquisite, like a bell, a bell made of liquid silver, a bell ringing in a tower, a silvery song pealing across the land,
Nella, Bella . . .

The second she woke up she remembered her other
duty and knew she was in serious trouble. She could feel how late it was even before she looked at the clock. Then realized it was even later.

Nella ran all the way. Nonni would eat her alive. She’d never hear the end of what a lazy, selfish
ragazza
she was.

Nonni’s front windows were dark. Nella peered in, but the hall light was off too. This was bad. Nella couldn’t even apologize and promise it would never, ever happen again. Nonni would be completely in the right, and Nella would be sentenced to life in the Prison of Criticism.

Across the street, every window glowed with light. Keyboard music floated out. Hairy Boy’s bike was locked to a porch spindle.

If only there was no Nonni. If only she’d disappear. Not die, of course, but embark on an endless cruise or train trip.

Music and laughter spilled out the windows across the street. The purple curtains rippled. Over there, everything danced.

Nothing for her to do but go home and get lectured.

She was lucky. Dad had already gone to bed. This summer, the heat, and the lazy-good-for-nothing-college-student summer hires were really taking it out of him, Mom said. She looked pretty tired herself, but she had the sewing machine out, mending the cavemen’s ripped shirts and shorts. In her faded jeans, she reminded Nella
of Cinderella, only her fairy godmother didn’t show up, so she was making her own dress. Nella-Bella-Cinderella, that was another nickname Anthony used to call her. Mom bit off a thread.

“Where have you been?”

Nonni didn’t call and rat on her? It was like a tornado not touching down. A miracle.

“Oh, you know,” said Nella.

Mom cocked her head, considering. “I guess you’re old enough to have a secret or two.” She smiled. “Just remember I trust you.”

“Good night!” Nella took the stairs two at a time.

Sister Rosa rarely talked about sin. She preferred to emphasize the positive. But Nella remembered the time she taught them the difference between sins of commission and sins of omission.

Such as omitting to tell you neglected your duty.

But when you got away with something, it felt like heaven was smiling down on you.
You get a pass,
heaven whispered.

Besides, Nonni would tell. It was only a matter of time.

Time.

Just before she tumbled into sleep, Nella heard sirens. They went on and on. They echoed through her dreams.

THE NEWS

now

A
ll night long, Nonni pestered Nella. She starred in every insane, mixed-up dream, now eating a ripe fig, now dragging a dreadful, inert object down the hallway to the kitchen. Just before Nella woke up for good, Nonni appeared holding a fat white jug. Though Nella tried to stop her, she tilted it and a waterfall of milk poured out.
No!
cried Nella.
No!
But Nonni just shook her head as the last drop drained away.
Too late.

The words jolted Nella awake. Pulling on her clothes, she hurried up the hill. All traces of the Feast were cleaned up by now, but the air still felt unsettled. Disturbed. It was
so early, everything was closed up except for Franny’s, where doughnut fragrance made her weak in the knees.
Doughnut is the universal language,
Clem liked to say.
We all speak doughnut.

Once Nella made sure Nonni was okay, she’d come back and buy a cake doughnut. She’d go home and pour herself a glass of cold milk.

Nonni spilling the milk—the dream broke over her again. And then the memory of standing here watching Angela help her father through the crowd. Like a guardian angel, that’s how she’d looked. Up the hill, on the sidewalk, bits of something glinted in the early light. Was it glass? A car accident? Was that why she’d heard the sirens? Uneasiness rippled out around her, like she was a pebble dropped in a pond.

Across the street from Nonni’s, the purple curtains hung still and lifeless.

Nonni wouldn’t answer the door. It wasn’t locked, a surprise, since Nonni was on perpetual guard against Gypsy thieves. The air in the front hall was a thick soup nobody had stirred for a long time. In the kitchen Nonni sat in her worse-for-wear nightgown, hands folded on the
fake lace tablecloth.

“Ciao,”
said Nella, but Nonni didn’t turn around. The little TV, tuned to a news station, was up loud.

“The critically wounded twenty-two-year-old was a star high school football player,” said a reporter whose lipstick matched her bright-red suit. “According to his family, he is the father of two young boys.”

“Nonni? Hi, Nonni!”

At last, her great-grandmother noticed her. She started to raise a hand, but it drifted back down. What was that on her chin?

“Terror!” she seemed to say.

Terrorists? Was that what she meant? The TV showed a front yard marked off with police tape. A voice-over said something about early this morning, a young mother home alone with her child. A knock on her door. A man trying to break in. Great! This was Nonni’s favorite kind of news story, some terrible tragedy that befell utter strangers. She’d be talking about it all day.

The screen flashed to a young, brown-skinned man with a broad smile. Last night’s sirens echoed in Nella’s head, and she was suddenly cold. She didn’t want to hear this. This was no way to start a day!

“I’m just going to turn this down a little.” But as she leaned forward, the screen split in half and a second face
appeared. A young, white-skinned man with a stunned look. Something made Nella touch her finger to the screen.

“No no!” moaned Nonni, and Nella quickly drew back, sure she was being scolded. But she couldn’t take her eyes from the TV, and a second later she snatched her hand away as if the screen had burned her. Because it was Anthony. It was Anthony DeMarco Jr. who in the early-morning hours shot the handsome, smiling black man.

Two shots, said the reporter with the bloodred mouth and suit to match. One to the arm, the other to the abdomen. In critical condition at University Hospital.

Nella sank into the chair beside Nonni. The TV seemed to grow louder yet, the reporter’s grating voice pressing in from all sides. Nella stared at the screen, wondering how they could make such a mistake. That man looked like Anthony, but it couldn’t be. Not her Anthony.

Unless. Unless he was protecting someone. The mother in the house alone with her baby. But they didn’t seem to be calling him a hero. Crimson Mouth frowned with distaste as she pronounced his name. Nella turned back to Nonni.