Read Every Single Second Online
Authors: Tricia Springstubb
“What can they . . .”
But something was wrong. Something else. One of her great-grandmother’s eyes was unnaturally wide, while the other was half closed. One side of Nonni’s face drooped, like the muscles had given up.
She opened her mouth and nonsense spilled out.
“Nonni! What’s wrong?”
A moan, soft as a baby in her sleep. Nonni’s arm jutted out, knocking her coffee cup to the floor, where it shattered.
Nella jumped up. She switched off the TV, like that might help. Nonni kept trying to raise her arm, but it flopped on the table like a dying fish. More garbled, urgent sounds.
Stroke.
The word went neon in Nella’s brain. It was something Dad and Mom had worried about.
“I’m calling the doctor.” She tried to keep her voice calm. “Don’t worry, Nonni. It’s going to be okay.”
Grabbing the phone, dialing 911, telling the dispatcher what was happening, reciting the address. All the while, she watched herself from some misty distance.
“They’re coming,” she told Nonni, who kept trying and failing to lift her arm. “Stop, Nonni, don’t. Just stay still, they’re coming.”
But now her great-grandmother summoned a superhero’s strength, and her good hand plucked at her worn nightgown. Nella understood: she was embarrassed to be seen like this. Nella raced to the bedroom and found the pretty robe they gave her for Christmas. It still had the tags on it, because Nonni said it was too fancy, but now she let Nella wrap it around her bent shoulders, and slide the matching slippers on her bony feet, just in time for the EMS guys who burst through the door.
H
er brain was a flip book.
Anthony’s frightened face on TV.
Nonni slumped against the wall, feet cocked at a sickening angle.
Flashing lights, Nonni strapped to a stretcher, disappearing into the back of an ambulance.
The blank TV.
She couldn’t stop the images flashing through her mind.
Mom and Dad were at the hospital, and Nella was in charge of the boys. Vinny and Bobby were parked in front
of some idiotic TV show. Vinny’s head rested on Bobby’s belly. Bobby sucked his thumb and absentmindedly twirled his little brother’s silky hair. They were a two-man comfort machine, and Nella yearned to lie down with them. Instead, she washed dishes, folded laundry. Prayed. She was exhausted and electrified at the same time, and her useless brain kept flashing like an appliance on the blink. Holding the phone, she stepped out on the porch. Salvatore and Kevin raced toward the house.
“Is Nonni dead?” cried Kevin, panting.
“No! Don’t even say that!”
“Anthony DeMarco shot a guy dead,” he said, like being dead was contagious. “He shot him right between the eyes.”
“In the stomach,” Salvatore corrected. “And he’s not dead yet.”
“There was blood all over the sidewalk!”
“They washed it off.” Salvatore swallowed. “But you can still tell.”
“Anthony’s in jail,” Kevin said. “Angela’s crying her head off.”
“You saw her?”
“No, but I bet she is.”
They looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to tell them it was okay, it would be all right. Nella, who spent
half her life wishing they’d vaporize, felt helpless and terrible. She was letting them down.
“It was at Mrs. Manzini’s house,” said Salvatore.
“What?”
This had to be wrong. Mrs. Manzini? Nella had just seen her at the Feast, her and her little girl dragging the blankie.
Buona festa!
they sang. They were not the kind of people to have a shoot-out in their front yard. Blood on their sidewalk. Her knees went weak.
“The black guy banged on their door,” said Salvatore.
How could he know so much more than she did? The phone in Nella’s hand rang. She’d forgotten she was even holding it, and a tiny scream flew out of her. Both brothers jumped in fright.
It was their mother’s cell.
What if Nonni died? The world faded, all its colors bleaching away. Everything went flimsy, even the massive wall of the cemetery.
The phone kept ringing. As long as Nella didn’t answer, Nonni was alive. Her brothers gaped at her.
“Answer!” said Salvatore.
How could she ever have gotten upset over things like being too tall or having too many brothers? How could she ever have wished Nonni would disappear? All the vengeful things she’d done, like pretending she couldn’t find
Nonni’s remote or favorite black sweater, lying to Ernestina that Nonni couldn’t come to the phone when she’d been waiting all day for her friend to call. How could Nella have done that? How could she have been so stupid and selfish?
Salvatore grabbed the phone and hit
talk
. She grabbed it back.
“Nella! At last!”
“Mom!”
“Nonni had a stroke. It’s serious, but they think she’ll pull through. Nella?”
“Oh. Oh!”
“Is Nonni okay?” asked Salvatore.
Nella nodded, and Kevin threw his arms around her middle as if she’d saved Nonni. Crazy love flooded through her. Fierce, feverish, big-sister love. She’d never get mad at them again, no matter what they did. Never, ever would she take people she loved for granted as long as she lived.
“It’s so lucky you were there,” Mom was saying. “The doctor says quick treatment saved her life. What were you doing there so early? Never mind, tell me later. I’m coming soon. Wait. . . .”
Nella heard her father’s voice in the background. Her mother got back on. “Dad says to tell you how proud he is of you, Bella.”
Nella croaked something and hung up. Kevin wriggled
away from her, and already her relief started to ebb. The only reason she was there so early this morning was she was too late last night. Why didn’t Nonni call Mom and Dad last night when Nella didn’t show up? Maybe she was already getting sick, while Nella lounged on Clem’s couch, sipping mango fizzy water and dreaming of a silver evening gown.
The cemetery wall once again rose straight and blunt, no longer flimsy. She was not a hero. Saving Nonni was a big fat accident.
A yellow-flecked bird swooped over the cemetery wall and vanished among the trees. Salvatore and Kevin went inside, letting the screen door bang behind them.
Clem’s cell phone went straight to her message.
“You’ve reached me in a galaxy far far away—if only!”
Clem would listen. She’d sympathize and try to help, but she wouldn’t understand. She barely knew Nonni. All she knew was that Nonni enjoyed making Nella’s life miserable.
Angela. She was the one who’d understand. Angela was practically an honorary great-grandchild.
Now it came rushing back. Anthony. Anthony shot someone.
Inside, Vinny was crying. Nella wiped his runny nose, fed him lunch, read to him till he fell asleep. When Mom
finally got home, she was a wreck. Nonni couldn’t talk. Her left side was useless. She was too fragile for surgery and it was too soon to say if she’d recover.
“How much, I mean,” Mom corrected herself. “Not if.”
Was that supposed to be a smile? Mom was a relentless optimist, so seeing her this upset was scary. Vinny staggered into the room, rubbing his eyes, and Mom cuddled him.
“Why did the stroke happen?” Afraid as she was of the answer, Nella had to ask.
“We don’t know. She takes medication for her high blood pressure.” Mom’s voice broke, and Vinny patted her cheek, murmuring incomprehensible comfort. “The doctor said sometimes an emotional upset can trigger a stroke, but that can’t be. Nonni’s always upset!”
Mom said they needed to wait till the swelling in the brain went down before they knew more. Nella imagined a brain inflating like a pink blister. She pressed her hands to the sides of her head as if it was hers.
What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
T
his afternoon, I could scarcely credit the evidence of my own expertly carved eyeballs.
Singing merrily, winging her way back to me.
Huzzah! Hooray!
Ahem.
I mean,
Alas! Alack!
T
hey used the same two photos over and over.
One: D’Lon Andrews, wearing a confident smile.
Two: Anthony, looking like he was gripped by a nightmare and couldn’t wake up.
Nella read the newspaper account so many times she could almost recite it.
UNARMED MAN SHOT IN LITTLE ITALY
Early Thursday morning, an off-duty security guard shot an unarmed man in the neighborhood known as Little Italy. D’Lon Andrews, 22, was
seeking help following a car accident when he was shot, police officials said. He remains in critical condition at University Hospital.
According to authorities, Anthony DeMarco Jr., 19, fired twice, striking the victim in the arm and abdomen.
Andrews, who lives in the Garfield neighborhood, had spent the night with friends. While Andrews was driving home, his car went off the road and hit the massive wall of Hilltop Cemetery. Andrews proceeded down the hill seeking help. He knocked on several doors, none of which opened.
Elaine Manzini, 30, heard knocking shortly after midnight. Thinking it was her husband, who was at work, she opened the door. When she saw Andrews, whose face was bloody, she panicked and called 911. She reported a man trying to break into the house, where she was alone with her child.
DeMarco, on his way home from his shift as a guard for Vigilant Security, arrived on the scene. Hearing screams from inside the house, he ordered the man to halt. Instead, Andrews ran toward him.
Nella had to pause when she got to this part. She saw Anthony all alone, a stranger rushing toward him in the
dark. She heard the screaming.
According to DeMarco’s account, he ordered Andrews to put his hands up. Andrews continued to yell incomprehensibly and to come toward him. He reached inside his jacket. DeMarco opened fire.
Police arrived as DeMarco was performing CPR on the victim. Andrews is employed as an aide at Stone Gardens Nursing Home. He is the father of two young sons.
Little Italy was the scene of other recent arrests at the Feast of St. Amphibalus. A number of residents were charged with disturbing the peace, assault, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest.
Nella laid the paper down. Inside her, questions crashed into each other like bumper cars. What was wrong with D’Lon Andrews? Why didn’t he call somebody he knew instead of knocking on strange doors? Why didn’t he stop when Anthony told him to? What was he yelling, and why did he reach in his jacket if he didn’t have a gun?
The last time she’d seen Anthony was that afternoon at Nonni’s house. She remembered his dark uniform and close-clipped hair. The belt he wore, with all those unfriendly things attached to it. He looked like he was
wearing a costume, like an actor cast in a role he didn’t want.
And he was angry. Anthony, always so scrawny, had muscles, coiled tight under his skin. Ready to jump and strike.
Nella pushed that memory away. Far away.
Dear God, please make D’Lon Andrews get better. Please don’t let Nonni die. Please shower Your loving mercy upon them both. And on those who love them.
At noon, she and Mom watched the news. Mr. Andrews’s fiancée, a slender woman with eyes swollen to slits, attempted to make a statement. She stood outside the house where she lived with their two little boys, a small house with a crooked metal awning. It looked a lot like the houses here in Little Italy.
“D’Lon is a loving son, a loving fiancé, and a loving father.” Her eyes filled with new tears. “We are all praying . . . praying to God . . .”
Her voice broke. Another woman put an arm around her and took her inside.
They played the 911 tape of Mrs. Manzini. She yelled that a black man covered in blood was trying to break into her house. Her little girl screamed in the background. Mrs. Manzini sobbed, she was alone, please hurry, hurry.
“Someone else is here,” she said then. “Oh my God! He
has a gun!” The tape broke off.
The reporter, today wearing a turquoise suit, repeated: “Andrews was unarmed. Toxicology reports are incomplete.
Channel 6 News
will continue to closely follow this tragic event.”
Mom grabbed a sponge and scrubbed the same spot on the counter over and over.
“I can’t understand it,” she said. “Anthony of all people!”
“What do you mean?” Nella saw him in that uniform—angry and tense and miserable. “It’s not his fault! He thought the guy had a gun!”
Way too much time went by before Mom spoke.
“That poor, sweet boy.”
Which boy did she mean?
“One mistake.” Mom scrubbed and scrubbed. “That’s all it takes.” All of a sudden she stopped and turned to Nella. “What about Angela? Did you call her?”
“Mom.” Nella looked away. “We’re not really friends anymore.”
“Don’t be silly! Of course you are.”
Mom didn’t like complicated. She preferred simple, a philosophy that worked fine with snot-nosed little boys.
The TV, showing some kids at a cooking camp, suddenly cut away. Breaking news.
“We have just received word from doctors at University Hospital that D’Lon Andrews, unarmed victim of a shooting in Little Italy, has died of a gunshot wound.”
Time stopped.
The reporter said it again, as if she knew Nella wouldn’t believe it the first time.
“We have just received word . . .”
“Oh no,” whispered Mom. She clutched the wet sponge to her chest, where it made a dark spot. “Not again.”
Dad.
Somehow Nella knew her mother was remembering what had happened to him. The past rushed up and plowed into the present, a terrible collision, a horrible accident.
The TV cut to someone—who was it? Some man, a friend or relative of D’Lon Andrews.
“D’Lon’s the guy always helping others. He’s there for you, man, no matter what.” He was so angry, he could hardly choke the words out. “When he got hurt he went looking for help. He thought he’d get treated the way he treated any living creature—animal, human, no matter.” He dug the heel of his palm into his eyes. “Instead, he got shot. He trusted other people and he got a bullet.”