Mary picked up the front page and skimmed the article again. OTHER SHOE DROPS WITH BARBI MURDER read a sidebar, and the article went on about the history of the Mob in South Philly, with a list of so many Italian names it sounded like a menu. Mary hated the Mob stereotype because she knew that most Italian-Americans were smart, honest, and hardworking citizens, who kept her in business by slipping on wet sidewalks, crashing their bumpers, and winning the occasional contracts case. She scanned the other news articles, all on the Mob war, and pictured the crowd at Biannetti’s, excitedly comparing notes and trading gossip, murder as spectator sport.
She turned back to the front page, and the lead article reported that there were still no suspects in the Mancuso and Barbi murders. Another sidebar showed the blurry cell-phone photo of Trish and reported that the mobster’s “former live-in love” had returned to her family’s home and wasn’t returning reporters’ calls. There was no suggestion that Trish was suspected of his murder in any way. Brinkley wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles, and neither he nor the FBI must have contacted Trish or she would have called.
Mary watched Tim Russert and tried to think good thoughts. She was a defense lawyer, and the representation was over. Judy, the world’s best girlfriend, had been right. Bobby had been buried, and that chapter of her life closed. She had to pick up the pieces, and right now they were messier than all the newspaper sections. She wanted to feel better. She was so sick of being down on herself for being down on herself, for having no job and no boyfriend, and she felt lost and empty, betwixt and between.
Which told her exactly what to do.
“Ma, I’m hungry,” Mary called from the door, but the noise and commotion from the kitchen took her aback.
“Honey!” her father called back, emerging with a small crowd following him. They flowed into the dining room and expanded to fill it, like last time. But as angry as that crowd had been, this one was joyful.
“Pop?” Mary asked, bewildered. “What’s going on?”
“At church, the neighbors were so happy that you found Trish and they came over to visit.”
“Mare, you done good.” Mrs. DaTuno smiled at her and so did Mrs. D’Onofrio, dressed in their nice church housedresses. Everyone called out “Way to go” and “Congratulations, Mare,” unanimously restoring her status as Neighborhood Girl Who Made Good.
“I’m so proud a you, I could bust,” her father said softly. He gave Mary a bear hug, pressing her to the freshly pressed white shirt he saved for Mass, and she breathed in his mothballs scent, mixed now with meatballs.
“Thanks, Pop. Thanks, everybody.” Mary waved like a Windsor, and they all started clapping. She swallowed the lump in her throat, her emotions mixed. Would they feel the same if they knew Trish could be guilty of murder? Or would they forgive it, given Bobby’s abuse? So she hammed it up and took a low bow, feeling vaguely like a fraud.
“Maria,” her mother called, raising her arms, and Mary gave her a big hug, scooping her off her tiny feet. Her mother gestured to a flock of women behind her, also in their flowered dresses. “Maria, my ladyfriends, you know, from church.”
“Hello, ladies.” Mary turned to them and extended a hand.
“Good to meet you,” the one said, with a Puerto Rican accent. “Your mother, she make my baby’s dress.”
“Mine, too,” said another, grinning, and the woman next to her nodded, too.
“She did a wonderful job. So beautiful, we tell our friends.”
“You have the best seamstress in the business,” Mary told them, realizing suddenly that she’d inherited her business-getting ability. Vita DiNunzio was the rainmaker of South Philly, and Mary’s heart gladdened when she saw her mother beaming.
“Come, see, Maria.” Her mother took her by the hand. “We have friend for you, for dinner.”
“Who?” Mary asked, and the crowd seemed to clear a way to the kitchen, where Anthony was standing with a tentative smile. His dark eyes were bright, and he wore a tan sport coat with khaki slacks and a lightweight black turtleneck. He gestured at her mother.
“Your parents saw me at church, and they insisted I come to dinner. I hope that’s okay.”
Yay! “I think it’s a great idea,” Mary answered, wishing she’d worn her contacts.
Later, the house cleared out except for the four of them, and they had a great meal, during which Mary tried to get used to Mike’s chair being occupied by a another man who, by all accounts, was pretty wonderful. Anthony joked with her mother in Italian and listened to her father’s old construction stories, and when dinner was finished, he even offered to do the dishes, which was when the afternoon skidded to a halt.
Mary froze at the table. Her mother construed an offer to help in the kitchen as an insult, akin to a puppy offering to take the scalpel from a neurosurgeon.
“Grazie mille, Antonio,” her mother answered, with a grateful smile that Mary had never seen in this situation. She watched, mystified, as her mother rose slowly and touched her father on the arm, saying, “Come, Mariano.”
“Wha’?” her father asked, looking up in confusion until he received the Let’s-Leave-These-Kids-Alone message her mother was telecommunicating via her magical eyes. Mary tried not to laugh. Her mother had a varied repertoire of eye messages, and the bestsellers were: Don’t-Eat-With-Your-Fingers, Leave-That-Piece-For-Your-Father, and I’ll-Never-Trust-That-German-Pope.
“That was awkward,” Mary said, after her parents left the kitchen.
“No, that was cute.” Anthony rose, picked up the plates, and took them to the sink. “Let me do dishes.”
“No.” Mary got up with her plate. “You’re the guest and you have nice clothes on.”
“Let me, I like to.” Anthony slipped one of her mother’s flowered aprons from the handle on the oven, and tied it around his waist. He grinned. “Too gay?”
“Nah.” Mary laughed again. Actually, she loved the look. What was it about men in aprons? It was so homey, and in some odd way, kind of sexy. Maybe because it meant that somebody else was doing all the work?
“So.” Anthony turned on the water. “You didn’t mind me barging in?”
“No. I wanted to apologize, too, for not calling you right back.”
“You weren’t blowing me off? ‘You broke my heart, Fredo.’”
“Ha!” Mary turned back to the table, ostensibly for the other dishes, but she didn’t want him to see her smiling. She felt a little dorky and worried that she had gravy spots on her glasses, spaghetti blowback.
“I knew you were busy, saving the neighborhood.”
“Well, just one, who I’m not sure deserved it, anyway.”
“We both knew that.”
“I guess,” Mary said, but didn’t elaborate. Her doubts were confidential, and she didn’t want to spoil her nice mood. Maybe that’s what moving on meant, but she didn’t know. She hadn’t done it before. She took more plates to the sink and set them on the counter. “I decided I was right about the neighborhood, by the way.”
“Funny, so did I.” Anthony rinsed a dish, making a landslide of tomato sauce. “I think you were right. That’s what community is. People taking care of each other.”
“Really.”
“That’s what you said.”
“It is?” Was I drunk? “I mean, it is.”