Think Twice Page 4

  “Was Geno husband number four?”

  “No, two, I think. She gets around, evidently.”

  Judy snorted. “Who knew widow’s weeds had spandex?”

  Mary didn’t laugh, looking outside the window. The shops along Broad had gone dark, except for the nail parlors and funeral homes, which seemed like the only two growth businesses in this economy. Whoever did nails for the dead would make a killing.

  “Don’t worry.” Anthony patted her leg. “Did you tell your mother what happened with the stain?”

  “No, I didn’t get a minute alone with either of them.”

  “You should.” Anthony steered the car onto Lombard. “Fiorella’s ruining it for all home witches.”

  Mary didn’t smile. “She was supposed to be praying to God to ward off the evil spirits.”

  “Isn’t that ironic, if not heresy?”

  “No,” Mary and Anthony answered in unison. Mary loved that she didn’t have to explain her family to him. His parents lived in South Philly, too, though their house was in Epiphany parish instead of St. Monica’s, a two-block distance that made him a foreigner.

  Judy asked, “Meanwhile, do you believe in evil, anyway?”

  “Of course,” Mary answered. “Evil exists in the world. Look at serial killers.”

  Anthony nodded. “And history. Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot.”

  Judy scoffed. “But that’s people. Evil resides in people. Anyone, given the right circumstances, is capable of evil. Evil is within us. That’s what’s so scary about it.”

  Mary turned around. “You really think that? You’re capable of evil?”

  “Yes. I’m human, and part of being human is evil, or at least the potential for it. Why, what do you think, Mare?”

  All of them fell suddenly silent, and Mary sensed they were waiting for her answer. The car came to rest at a stoplight, bathing them in blood-red.

  “I hope you’re wrong,” she said, in the dark light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bennie braced herself, with a bolt of new fear. All of a sudden, the box had started to vibrate. The scratching and rumbling had grown so loud they blasted in her ears. What was going on? The box shook harder, the noise intensified.

  She hollered and pounded on the lid. Something was scratching on the lid. Just then she heard growling. It had to be an animal. Frantic, she pounded on the lid to scare it away, but it kept growling and scratching. The rumbling got louder and the shaking stronger. She kept pounding and screaming and fighting. She refused to die this way, spent, crying, broken, bleeding.

  The growling and scratching grew frenzied, faster. It sounded as if the animal was trying to get away from the noise. She pounded harder, her heart hammering, her chest heaving, the wood shaking on all four sides.

  Suddenly the scratching and the growling stopped, leaving only the rumbling, deafening. The animal had gotten away but she couldn’t. The box shuddered like an earthquake.

  She screamed at the top of her lungs as the box shook, rattling her teeth, jolting her bones. She gave way to a terror she could never have imagined, the unknown. She had no idea what was coming toward her. It had the force of a tornado, the power of an express train. The clamor intensified to ear-splitting levels. Her head slammed against the box. Her shoulder banged against the side. Roaring surrounded her, obliterating all other sounds. She didn’t know if she was still screaming, because her cries disappeared into its unearthly maw.

  Swallowing her whole.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a sunny morning, bright and early, and Alice locked Bennie’s front door behind her, dropped the keys in her messenger bag, and trekked down the street, heading to the office in her Bennie Rosato costume: curly topknot, oversized Penn Rowing T-shirt, baggy khaki shorts, and old-school tan Birkenstocks that made her walk like a duck. No wonder her sister couldn’t get laid.

  She headed down the Parkway to the business district and in no time approached Bennie’s building. Skyscrapers lined the street, and people filled the sidewalks, some slinging backpacks even though they were middle-aged, proof positive that they were lawyers. She knew the MO; to an attorney, the weekend was the time to work even harder.

  “Hey, Bennie!” called a man, and Alice startled a moment, then flashed him her sister’s big, easy smile.

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Great! Nice article in the Journal!”

  “Don’t believe a word of it!” Alice shot back, and the lawyer laughed and kept walking.

  She powered ahead, channeling Bennie, and it worked like magic. Her duck-walk changed to a stride, and she eyed the lineup of shops and office buildings. Ahead should be number 1717, and though she’d never been to the new digs, she had a hunch which building was Bennie’s. Most of the office buildings were modern with reflective windows, but one was smaller than the others, with a smooth limestone front and art deco– type brass plaques. Its entrance was a pair of old-fashioned glass doors, and their shiny brass handles glinted in the sun.

  “Big Ben!” shouted a voice behind her. “Where’s my hello?”

  Alice glanced back, uncertain about the nickname. Behind her, an old man in a turquoise street-cleaner uniform was leaning on a pushbroom, and she waved at him, like Bennie. “Sorry! Didn’t have my coffee yet!”

  “I hear that!” he called back, grinning.

  “Take care!”

  “You, too!” Alice suppressed an eye-roll. The test-drive was going well, but she was feeling like a combination Mayor, Girl Scout, and Lawyer Barbie. She crossed the street, and next to the doors of the small building, a discreet brass sign read 1717, so she made a beeline for the entrance, opened the doors, and hit the lobby. A security guard, an older man with bifocals and a blue uniform, sat behind a wooden desk, reading a newspaper.

  “That air-conditioning feels good, huh?” he called out, looking up.

  “Sure does.” Alice managed a smile, but remembered that Bennie used ex-cops as guards, so this geezer was no dummy and she didn’t know the building’s security procedures. She wiped her forehead. “Boy, is it hot out.”

  “We shoulda taken vacation this week.”

  “Agree. I feel like Cinderella.” Alice sneaked a glance at the guard’s nameplate, STEVEN PALMIERI. She didn’t know if he went by Steven or Steve, and she’d have to get the details right. “You want my license and registration, Officer Palmieri?”

  “Nah, you’re above the law, boss.”

  “Thanks.” Alice walked past the desk.

  “But sign in for me, will you?”

  Alice froze. She had forgotten what Bennie’s signature looked like. It would be on her driver’s license, but that was in her wallet and the guard was already pushing the black log across the counter toward her.

  “Need a pen?” he asked, handing her a Bic.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mary was too nearsighted to read the bedside clock, but it was morning, she guessed around nine o’clock or so. The bedroom was bright, with the curtain over the air conditioner trying vainly to block the sun. Anthony snuggled with his back to hers, and she stayed still not to wake him up. They hadn’t made love last night, and she knew why.

  She’d been thinking of Mike, running a mental movie of their life together, until the inevitable unhappy ending. Their marriage had been cut short by his death, and even in their few years together, back when she was a rookie lawyer, he’d been so supportive of her, even bringing his grade-school class to the courtroom to watch her. He would have been thrilled that she was up for partner, cheering her every step of the way. Maybe that’s why he’d been so much on her mind lately, and thoughts of him popped up at the strangest times, the ambush of true grief. She shouldn’t have slept at Anthony’s, but she hadn’t wanted to make him drive her home so late. She should have known better, after meeting Fiorella, the woman who gave a bad name to widowhood and witchcraft.

  Her gaze wandered over the neat modern dresser, bookshelf, treadmill, and a rack of free weights.
It was a man’s bedroom, and she felt like a hypocrite, in bed with one man, thinking of another. She heard Anthony turning over, and in the next minute, he ran a palm along her bare shoulder.

  “You up, babe?” he asked, his voice soft.

  Mary considered not answering. She could pretend she was asleep. She had done it before. “Yeah,” she answered after a minute.

  “You hardly slept. You still thinking about that witch?”

  No, that ghost. “Not really.”

  “Is it work?”

  “Yeah.” Mary went with the easy answer. They had been house-hunting, and that played into it, too. Everything was coming to a head at once, but she couldn’t tell him that. The truth would cut too deep, and sometimes a lie was merciful.

  “What’s up at work?” Anthony threw an arm around her, drawing them together. “What’s bugging you, the partnership thing?”

  “Yes.” Mary’s thoughts turned to the office. Bennie had told her she’d decide whether to make Mary a partner in September. “She decides in, like, ten days, remember?”

  “Sure. You going in today?”

  “Yes, I have to. Sorry, I know it’s Saturday.”

  “I figured. Will Bennie be in today?”

  “She usually is, but I’m not sure. She never tells anybody anything, you know that.”

  “So if she’s in, ask her. Go for it.”

  Mary shuddered. She was still intimidated by Bennie, who was older, smarter, and the best trial lawyer in the city. They rarely socialized, and as the boss, Bennie maintained a professional distance from the associates. “We don’t really talk, except to say hi. Our practices are so separate, lately.”

  “So say, ‘Hi, Bennie, you gonna make me a partner?’ ” Anthony kissed her neck. “Just do it. It weighs on your mind. Take a risk.”

  “But she hasn’t even mentioned it. She may not even be thinking about it.”

  “Trust me, she is. Anybody who has to slice up another piece of the pie is thinking of it. Besides, it shows you have initiative. Ask her. You might be happily surprised.”

  Half an hour later, Mary was heading to work, standing in a packed C bus, where the air-conditioning was set to Public Transportation. She’d showered and put on a casual white dress with flats, but still felt wilted as she slid her hand along the greasy overhead bar, picked her way through the dimpled arms, big bottoms, and Payless sneakers, then fell into a seat by the window. Her hair would explode in this humidity. Maybe she shouldn’t talk to the boss today. She didn’t have partnership hair.

  The bus lurched off, and she looked out a window smeared with Vaseline, motor oil, or maybe anthrax. They passed a check cashing agency, a dollar store, and a storefront diner, and she did a double-take when she spotted a couple at one of the tables. It looked like her father and Fiorella Bucatina were sitting at a table in the window.

  “Pop?” Mary blurted out, standing up as the bus lurched forward. She bumped into a teenager, almost stumbling, then caught herself on the overhead bar. “Excuse me, sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  Mary tried to get off, but a tourist with a suitcase blocked her way. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, I have to get off.”

  “Hold your horses,” the tourist said, but the bus was already moving down Broad Street, rocking from side-to-side.

  “Wait, please, stop the bus!” Mary wedged her way through the crowd, but she couldn’t reach the front fast enough. The diner receded into summer haze, so she hung on to the pole and dug into her purse, found her cell phone, flipped it open, and pressed H for Home.

  “Allo?” her mother answered.

  “Ma? It’s me, how you doin’?”

  “I’m a good, Maria, how you?”

  “Good, Ma.” Now that they had established everybody was good, Mary got to the point. “Ma, where’s Pop?”

  “He’s a no here. He take Fiorella to St. Agnes Hosp’.”

  So it was him! “The hospital? Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “She cut her finger, onna bread knife.”

  “Was it bad?”

  Her mother made a pfft noise. “No.”

  “Did he eat breakfast before he left?”

  “Sì, what you tink, I no feed your fath’?”

  “And Fiorella, too?”

  “Sure, sì, why, Maria?”

  Mary wasn’t sure what to say. “Ma, I don’t like Fiorella.”

  “Shh! Maria, no say such a thing, be nice, be good, she have such power, she hear.”

  “She’d hear us, on the phone? Mom, that’s ridiculous. She’s a fake.” Mary told her mother what Fiorella did last night during the prayer, and nobody within earshot even looked over when she talked about the evil eye. They weren’t all Italian, but every ethnicity had its own superstitions, which was what they contributed to America, in addition to better food.

  “Shh, Maria, basta, is bad luck, per favore, no, shh. She’s a nice, she got no family, no no-ting.”

  The bus was almost at Mary’s stop. “Okay, Ma, tell Pop I said hi. I gotta go to work now.”

  “No work so hard. Is too hot. Come home. Eat.”

  Mary smiled, touched. Other people had parents who pushed them, but her earliest memory was her mother telling her that reading would ruin her eyes. “Bye, now, Ma. Love you.”

  “Love you, Maria, be good.”

  Mary pressed END, made her way to the front of the bus, and stepped out into the humidity, where her hair exploded.

  Definitely not a good day to talk partnership.

  Or maybe things couldn’t get worse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bennie didn’t know where she was, whether she was conscious or dreaming, alive or dead, but she didn’t want it to stop because it was light and golden and she was so happy. Her mother was alive, healthy, and well again, a vision holding out her arms, her long fingers moving and white as bone, reaching for her daughter.

  Benedetta, her mother whispered. I am here.

  Bennie hadn’t understood how much she had been hurting, she had been in pain, her heart sick and sore, part of her had stopped living, too. But that was over now and her mother was back, her hair loose and raven-dark, her skin smooth and soft, like when she was young, in the picture.

  Her mother was wearing her blue chenille bathrobe, a welcome sight until later, when that was all she wore and she got so sick, and nothing could make her happy or cheer her up or cure her. If Bennie only tried harder, she could make her mother well again, but nothing she did worked, no good grades, no library books read, no spelling bees won, no merit badges, jokes, funny faces, nothing at all could make her mother smile again. But Bennie knew, even when she was little, that her mother was still inside her body and would come out if only she could, and the thing that stopped her was the disease.

  Bennie was sitting at the kitchen table, and her mother was cooking pancakes, and she could breathe in the nice baked smell and hear the butter sizzling in the pan. Her mother was showing her how the bubbles popped on the pancakes, a secret clue they were ready to be turned over, and Bennie was standing next to her mother, barely reaching the pan, feeling the heat from the burner near her nose, watching the pancakes flip over so that the golden side came up, all smooth and fresh.

  The best part was that they were together again, just the two of them, standing so close that Bennie could smell her mother’s tea rose perfume, hear her voice, reach out and touch her soft robe, and she was so happy to have her mother back again for just one pancake breakfast, just one morning, just one day would be all she could ask for. Her full heart told her what she knew was true, that this was surely heaven.

  And even though they were both of them dead, Bennie felt that this moment was the only time she felt truly, happily, fully alive.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alice accepted the pen from the guard while he watched her, his cop eyes narrowing. Her hand hovered over the log, then she said, “Between you and me, what time did the associates leave last night?”

&nb
sp; “Don’t know. I wasn’t here. Herm was.”

  “Let’s see.” Alice flipped the page backwards and ran her finger down the signatures. Her finger stopped at Judy Carrier’s signature but she glanced a few lines up at Bennie’s, took a mental snapshot, then flipped the page back and scribbled a decent forgery. “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

  “The kids work hard, Bennie, and you know Mary’s shootin’ for partnership. She always comes in on Saturday.”

  “I know.” Alice handed him the pen. “But I gotta whine about something, don’t I?”

  “Don’t we all, Cinderella?” the guard said, and they both laughed as she told him good-bye, walked through the turnstile, and headed for the elevator bank. She found a swipe card in Bennie’s wallet and used it over the electronic reader, then glanced quickly at the building directory for ROSATO & ASSOCIATES.

  Third floor.

  She got inside, and when the elevator doors slid open, she exited and walked through a reception area stuffed with hotel art, blue chairs, shining tables, and a stack of fancy magazines. She came upon a hallway that opened onto a conference room with a table made from a single slab of wood, its edges rough, black bark. It must have cost a fortune, and it was surrounded by soft navy blue swivel chairs, a walnut entertainment center, a plasma TV, and a mini-kitchen in matching walnut. It was classy down to the tartan dog bed that read BEAR, which reminded her to get the dog’s body out of the basement before it started to stink.

  There were four offices off the conference room area, each with a shiny nameplate: MARY DINUNZIO, JUDY CARRIER, and ANNE MURPHY, and at the end, BENNIE ROSATO. She went into the office, where sunlight streamed through the tall window onto a nubby tan rug, walnut desk, and matching credenza with files. Bronze plaques covered the walls, and the end tables were blanketed with crystal bowls and engraved Lucite.