Every Single Second (16 page)

Holding the phone, Nella paced the backyard. Other things she somehow couldn’t tell Clem included how what happened was her fault. And how scared she was that when she saw Nonni, her great-grandmother would miraculously regain her speech. She’d sit up in bed, point,
and shout in fury, “It’s all her fault! Her, that lazy selfish
ragazza
!”

And D’Lon Andrews? Nella didn’t even know where to begin.

They washed the blood off the sidewalk, but you could still tell. Would you always be able to tell?

Her brothers were digging behind the garage. They adored repetitive, meaningless activity. They could throw a ball against a wall for hours. They could practice karate kicks or dig a hole to nowhere all day long. Nella envied their Brainless Joy.

“I can’t believe it about Anthony,” said Clem, and Nella stopped pacing.

“You already know?”

“It’s in the
New York Times
. Zoinks, Nell. Angela’s brother! What was he like?”

“Not was! He still is! You sound like one of the stupid reporters.”

The other end of the phone grew quiet. Nella heard a low whooshing sound, rhythmic and hypnotizing. The waves, she guessed. Nella had never seen an ocean. Clem had been to the Atlantic a million times, and also to the Pacific, and once to the Bering Sea.

“Anyway,” said Clem.

“I’m sorry. You’re not stupid.” Nella watched Bobby
jump into the hole. It was amazingly deep—only his head showed over the edge.

“My mother says it’s proof we need stricter gun-control laws.”

“Don’t be stupid! Anthony’s allowed to have that gun.” Nella had decided this, on her own. “It’s part of his job.”

“Patch says there’s no justification for shooting an injured, unarmed man. He says racism is alive and well in this country.”

“Anthony isn’t racist! He used to have a black girlfriend. Your father doesn’t know the first thing about Anthony!”

“You definitely don’t need to shout, Nell.”

“You definitely don’t need to keep quoting your parents.”

Silence again. Now Kevin jumped into the hole. Nella stepped to the edge and peered down. Her brothers were curled up like grubs. They didn’t even notice her. She wasn’t part of whatever make-believe world they were in. On the other end of the phone, the sea whooshed and sighed.

“I know you’ve known them a long time,” Clem said. “That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying. Maybe you need to look at the bigger picture.”

“You mean like the
cosmic
picture?”

“That wasn’t too sarcastic.”

Nella listened to another oceanic sigh.

“Isn’t there something you want to tell me?” asked Clem.

What could she possibly mean? “Didn’t I already tell you enough?”

“Fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Nella said again. But she didn’t really mean it. And she knew Clem could tell. FART.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Pause. “Approximately 1,768,000 seconds till I get back.”

As soon as Nella clicked off, something strange happened. The whoosh of the ocean gave way to another low, hushed sound. This sound was sad and frightened, like a crying child rocking herself back and forth.

It’s the wind, Nella told herself, even though not a single leaf stirred.

Later, Nella sat down at the computer and checked the news.

Anthony DeMarco Jr. was charged with voluntary manslaughter.

He would be arraigned tomorrow.

If convicted, he faced up to fifteen years.

Fifteen years. Longer than Nella’s entire life.

She scrolled and clicked, scrolled and clicked. The story was getting reported everywhere. Yet nowhere could
she find anyone, except for Mr. DeMarco, who said this must all be a big mistake.

Slaughter. She couldn’t think of an uglier word.

The hushed sound once again filled Nella’s ears, like she was holding up a seashell, one as big as the world.

What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could

T
ruth #1: It is a mistake to lay eggs this time of year.

Truth #2: A bird’s heart beats at a frightening rate.

Truth #3: Life can surprise you, even when you’re dead.

LANDSLIDE

now

P
olice speculated that D’Lon Andrews fell asleep at the wheel and hit the cemetery wall at twenty-five to thirty miles per hour. He suffered head injuries as well as the gunshot wounds, the one to the abdomen judged to be fatal. Complete autopsy and toxicology reports were pending. Found in the dead man’s pocket was a wallet containing a photo of his two sons. Ages four and two.

This photo got a lot of screen time.

The weapon Anthony DeMarco Jr. fired was not registered. It was not issued to him by Vigilant Security, the company where he is employed.

Was employed.

It appeared to have been illegally obtained. So far it could not be traced.

Anthony’s court-appointed lawyer said her client didn’t know about the car accident. Her client acted on what he saw: a menacing figure, a terrified neighbor. Her client had no further comments at this time.

There was a new photo: Anthony being arraigned. He wore one of those orange jumpsuits. Handcuffs. A stony-faced jailer on either side of him, as if they were guarding a dangerous criminal who might attempt escape any moment. Nella studied his face, trying to recognize anything in it. His deep-set eyes and full lips had slipped beneath a veil. A screen had gone up between him and the world, and Nella couldn’t see in. She wondered if he could see out.

Zooming in, she could just make out the scar over his left eye.

Did handcuffs hurt?

“For the love of God. What was that kid doing with a gun?” Dad swore under his breath.

“He needs a good lawyer,” Mom said. “But how will they ever afford that?”

Dad was home from visiting Nonni. The smell of the hospital clung to him—strong soap, gross food. After a visit there, he spoke the foreign language of doctors. He
used mysterious abbreviations and quoted numbers and scores on tests. Dad tried to sound like an authority, but Nella could tell: he was just repeating what they told him. Nobody, maybe not even the doctors, could predict what Nonni’s brain was going to do.

Mom looked so tired. When she frowned, she got a wrinkle that came to a point just above her nose, like the marking on some exotic bird.

“His bail’s sky-high,” Dad said. “They’ll never be able to post it.”

Vinny climbed into Mom’s lap. It had been a long time since he’d nursed, but he patted her breast like they were old friends. Mom took his hand and pressed it between both of hers.

“Do you want some cereal? Do you want a banana?” Her voice was a little desperate, like she was talking to someone who spoke another language. Which she was.

When Vinny grinned, his eyes closed right up. His hair, which Mom still didn’t have the heart to cut, was a tornado of curls. When he replied in gobbledegook, Dad echoed it back to him.

“We’re supposed to talk in slow, clear English!” Mom scolded. “The doctor said.”

“He’s saying he loves you.” Dad’s face softened. He touched Mom’s cheek. “It’s clear as day to me.”

“Ba-na-na,” said Mom, holding one up. “Ap-ple.” Bobby bounced into the room and grabbed the banana.

“Bobby,” said Dad, “do you love Vinny?”

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby looked suspicious.

“Try and say.”

Bobby flattened his nose with his palm. “I just do, that’s all.”

“I rest my case.” Dad pushed back his chair.

“What case?” said Mom.

“The things that matter most?” Dad paused in the doorway. His eyes met Nella’s, then flicked away. “You don’t need words. You just know.”

Since Clem had left, Nella hadn’t once gone on CRAPP patrol. Plastic bags lodged in the sidewalk trees, and bad thoughts in her mind. She couldn’t pluck them out, not the bags or the thoughts.

Everyone was still on Anthony’s side, but whispers started. Who really knew the first thing about him, after all? He had that girlfriend, remember. Maybe he got mixed up with people from her neighborhood. Maybe it was a gang thing. Gangs, drugs, crime—that’s what went on down in that part of town. That’s where you went when
you wanted a gun with no questions asked.

Janelle lived up the hill in the Heights, Nella knew. She wasn’t from
that part of town.

And now they heard there was going to be a vigil at the Manzinis’. D’Lon Andrews’s church and some other organizations were sponsoring it. By early evening, cars circled the streets, looking for parking spots. The neighborhood watched, uneasy. Why did they have to have the vigil here? What was wrong with their own neighborhood? What were they trying to prove?

Late that afternoon, on the way to Nonni’s house, Nella stopped at Franny’s. A jar on the counter was labeled
ANTHONY DEMARCO JR. BALE FUND
. It held a few bills and some change. Nella dug quarters and dimes out of her pocket and dropped them in. She trailed back out, behind two guys wearing muddy work boots and Hilltop Cemetery shirts. Probably summer hires, the college kids who drove Dad crazy.

“Who’s Anthony DeMonte, anyway?” one of them asked, reaching in his bag for a doughnut.

“Some butthead from the neighborhood. He shot an unarmed black guy. Trying to be a hero!”

“Christ!” The guy shoved half the doughnut in his mouth. “What’s wrong with these people?”

“Plenty. But they got doughnut making down.”

Nella glared. The Fury of Nonni pulsed through her. She turned on her heel, immediately tripped, and hit the pavement. One of the guys offered her a hand.

“You okay?”

Nella got to her own feet. “He’s not a butthead! And since you’re so superior, why don’t you do us all a favor and go away!”

The boy tucked his chin against his neck and stared. “Sor-ree!”

“She told you, loser,” said the other one, grinning.

Nella dusted herself off and charged away, heart thudding. She couldn’t believe she did that. She never told people off. But she was still furious.

And then it came to her: the stupid things those stupid guys said about Anthony—they were no different from the stupid things her stupid neighbors were saying about Janelle.

Nonni’s house was like a crime scene. The broken coffee mug still lay on the kitchen floor. A crusty dish and glass of curdled milk still sat on the table. The garbage reeked. Nella swept, washed the dishes, and scrubbed out the can.

When she hauled the garbage to the curb, Hairy Boy and Turtle Girl were coming down their front steps. Turtle Girl stopped and called to Nella.

“Hey. The lady who lives there? Is she your grandma?”

“No,” said Nella, technically not a lie. She hurried back inside.

She gathered the things on the list Dad gave her: underwear, lipstick, photographs, rosary beads. Every drawer she opened had a bag of candy stashed in the back, and Nella took some Laffy Taffy, in case the rehab center where they were transferring her didn’t serve sweets.

Next Nella went to Clem’s. She watered the tomatoes, though they didn’t need it, and worked Mr. T’s program. By now he let her scoop him up, and never spurted green poop on her. Tonight he made a sniffing sound that sounded like
You’re okay.
When she fed him, he grunted like a minuscule pig.
This is delicious.
Even hedgehogs, it seemed, yearned to communicate.

Nella sat on Clem’s bed. The glow-in-the-dark stars looked innocent and hopeful, like a remnant of some happy, ancient civilization. If only you could store up happiness. Dig a hole or keep it in a happiness piggy bank.

Clem’s digital clock blinked forward. She jumped up.

Outside, Nella didn’t recognize the sound. The wind, maybe? Except the trees behind the stone wall didn’t move. A flock of birds with heavy wings? Except the sky was empty. Ghosts? Except of course that was ridiculous. A girl
who’d lived her whole life across from a graveyard did not let herself believe in ghosts.

The July night was warm, but she shivered. Until a few days ago, Nella knew every sight and sound, smell and taste of her neighborhood. The steep hill and narrow houses, the cheesy music at Mama Gemma’s, the supernatural perfume of fresh doughnuts, and the zing of lemon ice. She and Angela used to love— No. Don’t think about Angela. Just don’t.

The world tilted and went blurry.

“You okay?” asked a soft voice at her elbow.

A stranger. A woman with long dreads and dark, anxious eyes. Nella had almost reached the street where it happened, and suddenly she was surrounded by other people, all intent on getting to the source of that sound. Looking into the woman’s concerned face, Nella at last recognized what that sound was. Voices. Voices singing.

“I’m all right,” said Nella, and then, who knew why, she said thank you in Italian.
“Mille grazie.”

The woman hesitated, but the sound, the singing, was pulling her too. She reached up—Nella was taller than she was—and gave Nella’s head a motherly pat. Then disappeared around the corner.

Police cars blocked off the street. Cops leaned against them, arms folded. Maybe they were here to protect people,
but they scared Nella. There were news vans, men with cameras on their shoulders. She looked around, recognizing no one. A tornado snatched up every person she knew and spun them away. An earthquake gobbled them down. A landslide pulverized them.