Every Single Second (18 page)

Mr. DeMarco tried to borrow the bail money, but his credit was no good. He already had a second mortgage on the house and was up to his eyeballs in debt. While he was in the service, his wife had emptied out their savings.

How people knew this, when Mr. DeMarco wouldn’t talk to anyone, when it was even hard to tell if he and Angela were still hunkered inside that house, was not exactly clear.

Mrs. DeMarco? The runaway mother? Who knew? Maybe she was in a mental institution. Or was a drug addict. Or worse.

“Trouble breeds trouble,” said a woman on the church steps. She shook her head like
What a shame, what a terrible shame
, but her upper lip curled as if she’d just bit something rotten.

A faker with a capital
F
.

Nella hurried inside and knelt down. God offers us choices, Sister Rosa would say. He hopes we will do right,
but He leaves it up to us. We are born with the gift of free will.

But really? Most of life didn’t feel like that. Where and when you were born. Who you got for parents. Whether you were pretty or not, smart or not, black or white or brown. Whether you happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and made one mistake and afterward nothing was ever the same. You couldn’t choose or control any of these enormous, important things. What if God only tricked people into thinking they had choices? He was God. He could do whatever He wanted.

Though that would make God a faker too. And Nella wasn’t buying that.

Beside the altar, the red sanctuary lamp glowed. It was always lit, never allowed to go out. It meant God dwelled here. This was His sacred space. Nella bowed her head. She closed her eyes.

One second! That was all it took for Anthony to pull that trigger. All the rest of his life, he was good and kind.

What’s one second to you, eternal God? Just a tiny spark from a fire that never, ever goes out. You are infinite, and we are infinitesimal.

The Mass began. The old lady sitting behind Nella bellowed the responses at the top of her lungs, as if God was as hard of hearing as she was.

More than a thousand people attended the funeral. They held it in a big church downtown, and still people had to stand outside and listen to it broadcast over loudspeakers. The day was hot. People fainted.

Nella watched on TV. The sons wore suits and ties, and the little one kept looking down at himself, like he wasn’t sure who this person was.

“We thank God for the short but blessed time we had with D’Lon,” said the minister. “We thank God for all the love he gave, and the happy memories he left behind. Because of him, we are here together today, grieving yet fortified by faith. Faith and hope.”

Dad always said that funerals were for the living, not the dead. Coming together, sharing memories, crying and laughing, people remembered that they were still alive.

“Let our hearts be free of hate today. Let us search our hearts and find forgiveness.” The minister raised his arms to heaven. “Lord, we pray to you—help us find our way.”

“Amen,” Nella whispered.

WHY GOD MADE SO MANY OF US

now

N
ewspapers lay uncollected on the DeMarco driveway, and the strip of front lawn grew ragged. Mr. Ferraro claimed he offered to mow it, but Tony DeMarco threatened to drill him in the butt if he didn’t get off the property in the next three seconds. That was the thanks you got for trying to do your Christian duty.

The gossip enraged Dad. Why couldn’t everyone shut their traps and mind their own business? He hauled his power mower over and cut the strip of grass within an inch of its life, and nobody threatened to drill his butt.

The ignoramuses dug more holes. They lay in ambush
under the front porch, machine-gunning anyone who passed by. They beat each other with blow-up baseball bats, and challenged each other to head-butting contests. They led a Meaningless Existence, and were happy.

Not Sal, though. Lately, he went off with other boys his age, which broke Kevin’s heart.

The line between Mom’s eyes cut deeper every day. Pretty soon, what was left of her beauty would be entirely used up.

That afternoon Dad had back-to-back burials, so Nella went alone to see Nonni. Mom disapproved, but Nella, to her own surprise, was determined to go. She took the city bus up the hill, the gates of Dr. Patchett’s university on one side, the cemetery on the other. The bus chugged past the art school, where summer students had their easels set up outside, and a model in a long red dress lay in the grass with her head propped on her hand. The only time Nella had ever been to the art museum was on a school field trip, where a guide talked at them like they had mush for brains. The bus sputtered past a boy and girl standing under a tree, kissing like it was their job.

Then came the big houses with the wide lawns, the quiet, tree-lined streets where no one was out. It was like scenery for a movie, though Nella knew real people lived
here. Maybe any foreign place felt fake? Because the people who lived there couldn’t be like you. They must have different ideas, care about different things. But mostly because you knew: you did not belong here.

The bus sped up and Nella thought of the bottom of the hill, D’Lon Andrews’s neighborhood, where the houses were as small and close together as hers. On the surface, the two neighborhoods had so much in common.

But it didn’t feel that way. It felt as if there was a wall between his neighborhood and hers. The wall was invisible, and somehow that made it worse. It was harder to find your way past something you couldn’t see.

Nella wasn’t prejudiced. She wasn’t ancient and ignorant like Nonni.

But now she remembered the night of the vigil, and the woman who tried to comfort her, and the girl who handed her a candle, and how even when she recognized the hymn they sang, she didn’t join in. Nella pressed her forehead to the window glass and her throat got a strange ache, like it was wishing it had. Like there was a song in there that wanted to be heard.

Nella tried telling funny stories about her brothers, but Nonni just stared at the wall. When the physical therapist came in, Nonni refused to do her exercises. It wasn’t like
she was being stubborn. More like she had no energy, for anything, even fighting.

Nella remembered watching Nonni make lasagna. She had a crazy technique where she laid the cooked noodle flat on her arm, spread the filling, then rolled it up, wrist to elbow. It was how her mother taught her, back in the Abruzzi.

Dad had given Nella a Strict Warning: Whatever you do, don’t mention Anthony. Nonni had no memory of the morning of the stroke, and bringing it up would make her upset. It would set back her progress.

What progress?

Usually the obituaries were Nonni’s favorite newspaper feature, but when Nella started to read them aloud, Nonni shook her head. TV? No. Nella described how the barbarians set up a stand to sell rocks, and Hairy Boy actually took pity on them and bought some. She waited for Nonni to flicker to mean-spirited life—Hairy Boy? What means Hairy Boy? But no. Nothing.
Nulla.
She simply lay there, waiting for Nella to give up and go away.

Once, this was something that Nella would have been more than happy to do. But now she waited, now it was a waiting contest, till at last Nonni’s eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep.

Nella smoothed the blanket.

“Everything’s too mixed up,” she whispered. “It’s like . . . like nobody’s in control of anything. Sister Rosa would say God is. But what if He’s not?”

Nonni made no reply. She used to snort and snuffle in her sleep, because she couldn’t stand to be ignored even when unconscious. But now Nella had to watch the rise and fall of the blanket to make sure she was still alive.

Nella suddenly felt so old. Maybe growing up wasn’t smooth and steady? Maybe it happened in lurches and leaps and she had just aged. At last she stood up, tripped over an invisible gnome, and stepped out into the hallway.

Where she could not believe her eyes.

“Sister?” It was as if Nella had conjured up the sight. As if Sister Rosa was a mirage in the desert.

“Darling child!” That honeyed voice! It was truly her, and she was just as surprised as Nella. “What are you doing here?”

First Nella explained, then Sister.

“Visiting nursing homes is my new ministry.” She wore her familiar gray skirt and vest and the big silver cross, but in place of her black lace-up shoes she had bright pink Crocs. She held one out for Nella to admire.

“For my bunions,” she said, then smiled and added, “For fun, too.”

Sister having fun—who could predict? Sister, that’s
who. She trusted that God had a plan for her, and so He did. As they walked down the hallway, she stopped to compliment a woman’s track suit and to pick up the paper dropped by a man pushing a walker. Sister’s bright pink step was light. Her laugh was at the ready. Nella got jealous. She thought Sister’s life would be over without her school and students, but it turned out she liked old people as much as young ones. She was an omni-people-liker.

“If you can wait a bit, I’ll give you a ride home,” Sister said.

“You can drive?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

So Nella waited in the lobby, among the silk flowers and old-timey paintings, till Sister had visited all her people and was ready to go. The car, which belonged to the order, was enormous. It had fuzzy red seats and a statue of St. Christopher, Patron Saint of Travelers, stuck to the dashboard. Perched on a pillow, Sister played soft rock, and it was so peaceful inside that car, Nella almost fell asleep. Actually, she did fall asleep, and only woke up when she felt the car slow. Opening her eyes, she realized they were on the hill.

“Oh dear,” said Sister. “Oh mercy.”

She hit the brakes. The usual group of protesters stood outside the DeMarco house. They looked hot and tired,
gripping their signs in the sun. One man, with long stringy hair, stood apart. Shouting.

“Oh mercy,” repeated Sister. “This is not good.”

“They’re always there,” said Nella. “Anthony . . .”

“I know, dear. I’ve been praying for them around the clock.”

The shouting man began to whip his head from side to side, his long hair lashing his face. The words
hellfire
and
Jesus
were getting a good workout.

“This won’t do,” said Sister.

Before Nella could blink, Sister jumped out of the car. Her Crocs sped toward the man, who was windmilling his arms like he meant to land a knockout punch. He was big and heavy and definitely crazy—one whack and Sister would be flat on the ground.

The other protesters lowered their signs. A man wearing a white shirt moved forward, but Sister barreled past him, stopping a few inches from the shouting man. He squinted like he was trying to decide if she was real or a delusion. Nella held her breath. Without warning, the man swung his head sideways and lunged, grabbing the cross around Sister’s neck. Nella jumped out of the car just as he yanked the cross toward his mouth. Sister tottered helplessly. He’d bite! He’d spit! Nella ran toward them, and the white-shirted protester moved in.

But Sister began speaking, so softly Nella couldn’t make out what she said, and the man seemed to listen. He still gripped her cross, but his face unclenched, and his eyes seemed to focus. Sister’s voice was low and gentle and continuous, and now, in slow motion, the man lifted her cross to his lips. Tenderly, as if it was his long-lost child. When Sister touched his arm, his head fell forward, and Nella watched the anger drain out of him, making an anger pool at his feet.

Now they were walking to the car, Sister was opening the back door, and the man was getting in. As she climbed behind the wheel, Sister arched her eyebrows at Nella.

“Whew!” she whispered.

A minute later they were pulling up in front of Nella’s house. In the backseat, the man mumbled to himself. He stank of sweat and something else. What was Sister going to do with him?

“Will you be okay?” Nella asked.

“Me? It’s our friend we have to worry about. But I know just where to get him a hot meal and some clean clothes.”

“You’re so brave. You didn’t even think, just jumped right out and . . . You were like a superhero.”

“Me?” Sister smiled. “What about you? Riding the bus all alone to look after your poor Nonni!”

“Sister, what did you say to him?”

“Say?” Sister’s brow wrinkled. She shifted on her pillow. “I don’t even remember. He just needed to hear a kind voice, that was all.”

Nella got out of the car, and Sister leaned out the window.

“Remember, Nella. We need one another almost as much as we need God. Why else do you think He made so many of us?”

CAMERA’S EYE

now

C
an you believe the stuff all those people are posting about Anthony?” Clem asked over the phone.

“What people? What stuff?”

“Never mind. They’re all cretin trolls.”

“Cretin trolls?”

Salvatore and Kevin were parked on the family computer. Getting them off would require explosives or highly expensive bribery, so Nella told Mom she had to go to the library. Bobby begged to come, which meant Vinny had to come, so here she was trying to steer the dilapidated stroller up the hill. She didn’t dare suggest they buy a new
one. She needed to believe this was the family’s absolute last baby.

It was a thousand degrees out, and Bobby commenced whining immediately, so Nella had to tow him like a boat. Past the university gates, along the rows of cute, expensive shops, and finally to the library, where the air conditioning bathed them in bliss. She settled the boys in the play area and was lucky enough to snag a one-hour computer.

Going to the local news site, she found the latest article on Anthony and scrolled down to the comments.

Shoot first, then ask questions. Takes brains, Mario!

Everybody knows Little Italy is crawling with maggots and bigots. What do you expect?