“No, I wasn’t there.”
“Didn’t you ever hear his name?”
“They called him Stretch. I don’t know his real name or his last name.”
“Why do they call him Stretch, is he tall?” Mary asked, though she should have known better than to make sense of South Philly nicknames.
“I don’t know. I never saw the guy. I was young when it happened.”
“Did your mom or Joey call the cops?”
“No, we don’t snitch.”
Mary let it go. “So then what happened?”
“After Joey got out of the hospital, he called Machiavelli at his office and told him that Stretch could beat him up every night, but it wouldn’t make any difference, our mom would never sell. So he bought the houses on the other side of his mom’s house. My mom’s the only holdout on our side of the street, I think.” Paul’s forehead buckled. “I felt bad taking his money for tuition after what he did to Joey, but it was the only way I could go to college. I figured what my mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Do you think Joey would remember Stretch? Can we call him?”
“No, Joey’s in Afghanistan. Third tour.”
“What about your mom? Think she knows anything about Stretch, like his real name?”
“Don’t know.” Paul frowned, his eyebrows sloping unhappily down. “Are you really gonna tell her about me?”
“No, you are.”
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.”
