“Yes!” Ann cheered, and Margie and the others joined in, “Mary would do anything for us, and this is our chance to do something for her!” “Let’s help Mary!” “Mary needs us!” “Let’s go see that witch and find out what Mary wants to know!” “Yes, let’s go!” “Here we go!” “Get your coat! It’s chilly!”
They marched toward the front door, a senior-citizens mob on estrogen replacement, missing everything but the flaming torches and clubs. Mary didn’t know whether to be delighted or horrified, but she realized how very strong these women were, each of them so quietly powerful in their own families, but too often marginalized outside of the house. They spent their time taking care of their grandchildren, their children, and their children’s dogs, plus sick babies they didn’t even know, but they wanted to take care of her, and in that moment, she felt grateful for them, walking examples of pure goodness in the world, in contrast to the Machiavellis.
“Let’s go!” Mary charged ahead, taking Paul by the arm.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Mary stood on the step with Paul and Conchetta, knocking on the black-lacquered door, which had a beautiful brass knocker. The façade of the house looked otherwise normal, of red brick, though it had been newly repointed and the front stoop was a fancy flagstone. The other women were trying to peek into the front windows, and Mary sensed that it wasn’t solidarity that made them want to come, but nosiness.
The heavy door opened, and Flavia peeked out, blinking, her round brown eyes behind equally round bifocals and a bubble of gray pincurls, set with old-school bobby pins. Mary had remembered her bigger, but Flavia seemed to have shrunk, collapsed into herself. She couldn’t have been five feet tall, with a short little nose, and her mouth was bow-shaped. She didn’t seem scary or intimidating, and on the contrary, came off as timid as a baby snow owl in a white Eagles Super Bowl shirt and sweatpants.
“Hello?” Flavia said, eyeing the crowd with alarm.
“Flavia, I don’t know if you remember me. I was in the same grade as Nick and I think I met you once—”
“Mary DiNunzio.” Flavia’s eyes darted to Conchetta and Paul. “Conchetta? Paul?”
“Hello, Flavia,” Conchetta shot back. “Surprised you even know who I am.”
Mary interjected quickly, “Flavia, I was wondering if we could come in and speak with you.”
Flavia looked uncertain, her gaze returning to the other women. “What about them?”
“Whataboutus?” Lorraine called back. “What, you can’t let us in? You don’t have enough room for us? You got ten times more room than anybody else!”
Ann added, “Flavia, we won’t stay long. We got cookies in the oven. And baked ziti but that takes longer.”
Mary kicked herself for bringing them all. “If you wouldn’t mind, Flavia. I would appreciate it if we could come in for a quick visit. There’s something important I need to talk to you about.”
“Uh, okay. Hold on a minute.” Flavia slammed the door shut, and when she opened it again, she had taken out her bobby pins and fluffed up her pincurls. She opened the door wide and stepped aside, somewhat timidly. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” Mary entered the house, with the others filing in behind her, hushed by the awesome interior, which was like stepping into a cool, cavernous Tuscan villa. It was the size of four rowhouses, with the living area on the right and the dining room on the left, and the most remarkable feature was hand-painted Florentine murals that covered the walls on all sides, featuring tall green cypress trees, red-clay roofs, gold-stucco houses, and winding backstreets of cobblestone, like a Vegas version of the city.
Formal couches covered with gold velvet filled the living area, encircling a gold-painted coffee table and end tables, topped by ornate lamps with shades of golden silk and tall millefiori glass bases, obviously authentic, from Murano. Heavy brocade curtains with generous swags and deep maroon-and-gold tassels covered the windows, and the single sunbeam thatslipped through fell on the lustrous mahogany dining table, which had carved chairs on either side. The house was decorated to perfection, but so devoid of clutter and other signs of domestic life that it seemed hollow, as if no one lived here at all.
“Holyshit,” Conchetta said under her breath.
“Your home is so lovely,” Mary said quickly, and Ann, Margie, and the other women started walking around, oohing and aahing, looking at everything in amazement.
Conchetta cleared her throat. “Flavia, I just want to say that I’ve been angry at you all this time for what your Nicky did to my Joey.”
Flavia blinked behind her glasses. “What did he do?”
“You know, about my house and about sending Stretch over to my house to beat my Joey up.”
Flavia recoiled, aghast. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly. She clasped her hands together in front of her, as if she were holding her own hand.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Conchetta shot back again, though her tone had softened. “You don’t fool me.”
“But I don’t know. I didn’t know. If you’ll tell me—”
“You wanted to buy my house, and when I wouldn’t sell it to you, you and your son sent Stretch over to beat Joey up.”
“Your son Joey, the one in the Army?’
“Yes.”
Flavia shuddered. “I didn’t do that. I didn’t know that Nicky did that—”
