CHAPTER FORTY
Cullen Avenue, read the sign on the street where Machiavelli’s mother and Paul’s mother lived, but Mary didn’t want to use the front entrance, to avoid being seen by Machiavelli’s mother or Machiavelli, in case he happened to be visiting. She directed the cab to go around the block, since Paul’s family had the corner property, with a side door on the cross street, Evergreen. Of course there were no evergreens in sight, only the typical block of redbrick rowhouses, gum-spattered sidewalks, and dirty gutters, though there was plenty of parking because there were fewer families, since Machiavelli’s mother, Flavia, occupied the west side exclusively, except for the Patriocas.
Mary and Paul got out of the cab, beelined for the side door, and entered his house through the back, greeted by a noisy hubbub. Older women filled the kitchen, laughing, talking, and having a great time as they baked cookies, pasted magazine pictures on homemade greeting cards, gift-wrapped hand-knitted baby hats and receiving blankets, and packed paper plates, water bottles, and soda in brown-paper bags. The kitchen was warm with the aroma of fresh coffee and baking chocolate chips, and there were so many fluffy heads of gray hair that it looked like a stormfront had rolled in.
Paul moaned under his breath. “Oh Jeez, I forgot. She’s got the Rosary Society today. Please don’t make me tell her in front of everybody. It’ll embarrass her.”
“Paul!” “Paulie!” “Yo, Paul!” The older women came clucking toward Paul and Mary with open arms, a moving mass of bifocals, painted sweatshirts, and polyester pants, wearing slippers loose enough to accommodate bunions. “How you been, Paul? You got so tall!” “And who’s that? Mary DiNunzio!” “Mare, you’re havin’ a baby?” “Look, Lil, she’s havin’ a baby!” “How’s your parents, Mare?”
“Great, thanks!” Mary recognized her clients Margie Moran and Ann Butchart, accepting their fragrant hugs, which smelled of fading rosewater and hot glue gun. “Margie, good to see you! How’s that new boiler working out? Ann, how’s your shoulder? Better after the operation? Lorraine, is Brian doing okay at Pathway? It’s one of the best schools around.”
“He’s so happy, thanks!” Lorraine chirped. Margie said she loved her water heater, and Ann’s shoulder was on the mend, so Mary had completed her client relations for the day.
“Paul, you’re home! How’s school?” Paul’s mother, Conchetta, hurried delightedly toward them, from the living room. She had the Patrioca nose, hooded blue eyes behind her pink acetate glasses, and a sweet, warm smile. Her orange-red hair looked freshly colored, set in spongy pink rollers, and her long, lined face revealed that she was probably in her seventies but she moved like a fifty-year-old in a white T-shirt, wide-leg jeans, and white Keds.
“Mom, you look nice.” Paul gave her a hug. “What are you all up to?”
“Me and the girls are goin’ over to Pennsylvania Hospital. We’re bringin’ the sick kids and the families some treats. You know, cheer ’em up!” Conchetta turned to Mary, engulfing her in a hug. “Hey, Mare! Long time, no see! Teresa will be sorry she missed you! She’s on a business trip, big shot now.”
“Hi, Conchetta!” Mary smiled, releasing her from the embrace. “Tell Teresa I said hi.”
“Look at you!” Conchetta beamed, patting Mary’s belly. “About seven months now, right? How you feelin’, honey? You’re carryin’ high. It’s a girl.”
“You think?” Mary realized that she was with a bunch of mom experts, for a change. “But you know what, usually the baby kicks a lot, but for about a day and a half, no kicking. Is that weird? Or bad?”
“This is your first baby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because you worry too much. You can take your temperature every five minutes, Mare. I was that way with Teresa, she was my first, but by Johnnie, I knew better. And my fourth, you know Elizabeth, was like that too, slept all the time, she still does. She couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, missed the bus all the time.” Conchetta patted her arm. “You know what you gotta do? Eat. Did you eat.”
“No, but I’m not hungry.”
“Still, you gotta eat. Here, we made cookies. Sugar will perk the baby right up.” Conchetta plucked some chocolate chips off a cooling rack, put them on a paper plate, and handed them to Mary, with one for Paul, too. “Mare, eat that cookie, and I’ll get you a cuppa decaf. I’ll make fresh.”
“Good.” Mary chowed down on the cookie, which was soft, warm, and delicious. She tried not to worry about the baby. She’d been so preoccupied, she hadn’t focused on her. Or him.
“It’s fine, Mare, sometimes they sleep. Paulie was like that, too. He stayed still, all the time. I couldn’t wake him up.” Conchetta ruffled Paul’s hair with a loving grin. “And now, he sits for hours at that computer and he’s a big success!”
Paul forced a smile. “Ma, I came home because I was telling Mary about that guy named Stretch, who Machiavelli sent over? You remember that? He beat up Joey?”
“Do I? Ha! Those Machiavellis are a disgrace to the neighborhood! Rotten to the core!” Conchetta gestured in the direction of Flavia Machiavelli’s house. “Who does she think she is, trying to take my home right out from under me? Our family home? Just because she has money, she thinks she can push me around? She picked the wrong family! Her and her crooked son! Crooked!”
“Right!” The other women started nodding in vigorous approval. “She’s got some nerve! Sits in that place like it’s a palace!” “How selfish can you be? Try to force everybody out on the whole block!” “She’s greedy, just like her husband was! Just like her son is! All that money and it’s never enough! And they call themselves Christians!”
Mary wanted to get to the point. “Conchetta, I need to know Stretch’s real name. Do you know it?”
“Stretch? Yeah.” Conchetta nodded, so did women behind her, adding to the chorus. “Stretch!” “I know Stretch!” “I heard a Stretch!” “My mother went to West Catholic with his mother! Now you’re taking me back!”
“Okay, good,” Mary said, hopeful. “So what’s his real name? And his last name? I need to find him.”
“Uh, um, I don’t know.” Conchetta shook her head, frowning. “I used to know, but I forget. They just called him Stretch.”
The other women chimed in, “I forget his name!” “I never knew it in the first place!” “What’s the difference?” “His last name had an L in it, that’s all I can tell you!”
Mary hid her dismay. “Did it start with an L?”
“I don’t know.” Ann scratched her head. “I just know there’s an L somewhere.”
Mary felt stumped. “I really need to know his name. It’s very important.”
“Aha!” Conchetta eyed her, knowingly. “Is this about the murder I saw on the TV? You think Stretch had something to do with it? He’s a thug, and I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Lorraine scowled. “I saw that on TV, too. Mare, Machiavelli was saying you and the other lady lawyers killed somebody, another lawyer! I said to myself, Mary should sue him! That’s a terrible thing to say! We know it’s not true!”
“Of course it’s not true!” Ann waved her off. “I called your mother, Mare, and I told her we knew better! Between you and Machiavelli, we know who’s the good one!”
Margie scowled. “I told my Chiara, ‘that Machiavelli, he’ll say or do anything to get himself in front of a camera! He’s just jealous of Mary! Because everybody loves her!’”
“We love you, Mare!” they all chorused. “We love you, Mary!” “We know you’re a good girl!”