“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll take care of you, Pop will take care of you. You’ll be fine.” Mary searched for the words, never having comforted her mother in her life. “Ma, I’ll make sure everything’s okay for you, you’ll see.”
“Sì, sì,” her mother said, holding tight to the white blanket, and for a single moment, she permitted herself to be cradled like a child.
By the very child she’d brought into the world.
Mary had a sleepless night, between trying to work and trying not to worry about her mother, and was up at seven, showering in the bathroom down the hall, then changing into one of her sister’s old brown suits, which almost matched a beat-up pair of Aerosoles she kept at her parents’ for emergency Mass. Her black clutch bag and her cell phone had been confiscated for evidence, but she wouldn’t need them where she was going today. She took a second to peek out the bedroom window, and there were only a few reporters out front, leftover from last night. MacIntire was among them, looking up at her lighted window, and she drew away. Mary was glad he had survived the snow shovel. He would come in handy today.
She headed out of the room but stopped at her bureau, taking the time to dab some cakey flesh-colored Clearasil over the purplish bruises on her forehead, which would fool no one and stung besides. She took no pain meds, despite the dull ache from the wound, because she had to think clearly today. She made her bed hastily, turned out the bedroom light, and padded down the hall, checking in on her parents’ bedroom, almost hoping they’d be asleep.
But they weren’t. Their bedroom was empty, dark, and looked the way it always did; their double bed flush against the flowered wallpaper, a wooden crucifix over the dark head-board, a blue plastic denture case on her father’s night table. They were already awake and downstairs, waiting for her. Good! Right?
Mary had told her mother last night that she had to leave the next morning. They’d tacitly agreed that they’d had enough drama for one night and could postpone the fistfight until morning. Now. She left the room, steeled her nerve, and tramped downstairs to do battle over fresh coffee. The DiNunzios may be crazy, but at least we’re civilized.
Five minutes later, Mary was sitting behind a scorching cup, opposite her father, saying nothing as they waited for her mother to sit down. Both her parents were fully dressed, her father in maroon Bermuda shorts, undershirt, white socks and black slippers, with his hearing aid curled in his ear like an electronic snail. Uh-oh. He had undoubtedly gotten an earful last night, and it was a bad sign that he wanted to hear this morning. Her mother wore her flowered housedress, her scuffy slippers, but no pink hairnet, which meant only one thing: she was going to early Mass this morning. A definite bad sign.
Mary sipped her coffee for strength while her mother put the pot down so hard on the stove it made a clank, unseating the cast-iron burner. Then she came over to the kitchen table and sat down behind her cup without a word. Her eyes weren’t too tired to be stern behind the bifocal half of her glasses, which magnified her pupils in a black-and-brown window. Her lips were as tight as last night. “So, where you go, Maria?”
“To court, for Amadeo.”
“You should stay home. You’re sick. Your head.”
“I can’t. I have to go.”
“The newspapers, out front again.”
“I know. They should leave when I do, but if they don’t, don’t talk to them. Don’t talk to them no matter what.” Mary turned to her father. “Don’t let her hit them with the spoon, either. That’s assault.”
He smiled, but her mother frowned. “Today, Judy goes?”
“No, I go alone.”
“E Benedetta?”
“No, not Bennie either.” Mary didn’t even want to think where Bennie was or what she’d say about what had happened. She’d unplugged her parents’ phone for a reason. They’d realize it sometime next year.
“These man, Saracone, he sent the one last night?”
“Yes, the son,” Mary said, without hesitation. Justin Saracone was protecting his secret. No use sugarcoating it. Her mother wasn’t stupid.
“And the police, why the police don’ stop these man?”
“They can’t prove he did it, and they have to prove it.” Like me. “I can’t wait for them anyway. Now, I have to go.” Mary didn’t know how to put it any differently. She was going to court no matter what her mother said. She couldn’t ask permission to do her job, but this was beyond that. She couldn’t ask permission to be herself. Not after Montana, or last night. They had two different paths to follow, mother and daughter. They were separate now. Changed, now and forever. Mary reached across the table and touched her mother’s hand. “I can handle it, Ma. I saved my own life last night. You’re going to save yours, too, right?”
Her mother didn’t reply. Her father looked down.
“We can do it, Ma. You and me. But I have to go now. I’m gonna be late. You have to let me go, Ma.” You have to let me go.
Suddenly her mother stood up, pushing back her chair, which made a familiarly unhappy squeak on the tile floor. Mary knew what would happen next because it happened all the time. Her mother would walk out of the kitchen. If Mary were going to leave today, it wouldn’t be with anybody’s blessing. But in the next minute, instead of storming out of the room, her mother opened her arms.
“Maria, good-bye, Maria,” she said, in a shaky voice.
Mary’s mouth dropped open. She rose reflexively and went around the table. But this time, she did cry.
And when she was finished, she wiped her eyes and went to work.
Forty-Six
The rain didn’t faze the throng of reporters and photographers who mobbed Mary as soon as she got out of the Yellow cab in front of the United States Courthouse. They overflowed the wide sidewalk almost to the glamorous new Constitution Center, spilling off the curb, snarling cab, car, bus, and tourist traffic on an insanely busy Market Street. There were at least a hundred reporters, and Mary spotted ABC, COURT-TV, and CNN logos, as well as locals KYW and WCAU. And to think, all she had to do was almost get killed.
“Mary, Mary, Mary!” Everyone in the crowd was shouting, a reportorial cacophony. Mary had never heard her name so many times, except for Our Lady of Angels. “Mary, did you know the guy who kidnapped you?” “Mary, over here!” “Mary, smile!” “Mary, this way!” “Mary, did the Roundhouse identify the driver yet, Mary?” “Mary, how’d you get outta the trunk?” “Mary, is it true he was related to Justin Saracone?”
“After court! No comment until then!” Mary waved them all off as she made her way through the bubble microphones, boom mikes, and steno pads. They aimed videocameras, still cameras, and handheld klieglights at her Clearasil, and round flexible reflective screens bounced artificial light into her tired eyes. It was even better than she had hoped. “No comment until after the hearing! Thank you!”
Mary pushed her way inside the tall red-brick building, threading her way through its packed lobby of jurors, lawyers, spectators, and reporters who dogged her every step. She ignored everybody, barreling head down through security to the elevators, and she didn’t look up until she reached the courtroom.
The courtroom was immense, with long dark wood pews and a matching wood dais under the huge golden seal of the United States Courts, and even as large as it was, the courtroom was bursting at its federal seams. Spectators crammed the pews cheek by jowl, knee to knee, filling every inch of bench. They stood along the back wall of the courtroom, concealing its heavy acoustical wood panels, and along the sides, under the heavy oil portraits hanging there, framed in gilt. Beyond the bar of court, the courtroom deputies were at full staff, and every law clerk’s high-backed chair was taken. The body heat challenged the air-conditioning, and the air was thick with aftershaves, perfumes, and pencil leads.