Every Single Second (26 page)

She struggled to wake up. Her father’s hand was on her shoulder. “Dad.” Were her eyes open? She wasn’t sure.

“Hey. It’s so late.”

“But not too late?”

“What?”

Nella sat up. She rubbed her eyes. She’d seen her father bone-tired more times than she could count. But this was different. This was deeper-than-bones tired.

Dad told her the doctors were having trouble calming
Mr. DeMarco down, but when he saw Angela, he held out his arms and she ran to him and he began to . . . cry.

Dad coughed. He had to clear his throat three times before he could speak again.

“He’s in rough shape. I had no idea how bad. The doctor said they get way too many vets like him. Some come home with injuries you can see, and some are like Tony DeMarco, with all the wounds on the inside.”

Down the corridor, the young policeman softly whistled.

“What’s going to happen to him, Dad?”

“They’ll keep him here awhile. He’ll get treatment and assessment and . . .” Dad massaged the side of his face. “He’s got some serious charges against him.”

“The gun,” whispered Nella.

“Gun?”

“Didn’t he have a gun?”

“No, thank God.”

He sat down and Nella leaned against him. Her father’s shoulder was strong and sturdy. Her goose bumps melted away. She remembered how he’d leaned the ladder against Jeptha A. Stone’s shoulder, then set the baby bird back safe and sound in its nest.

“Here she comes.” Dad was back on his feet.

“Thank you for bringing me, Mr. Sabatini,” said Angela. “I’m sorry we woke you up. You should go home now.”

“Hey.” Dad smiled. “I’m just glad your father’s going to be okay. He’s one tough guy.”

“That’s what everybody thinks.” Angela blinked in the fluorescent light. “But it’s not really true.”

Dad coaxed her to sit down, but she stayed standing.

“He wanted to say he was sorry. That’s all. He thought if he could talk to the Andrews family, he could make them see it was all his fault.”

“What?” Dad gave her a funny look. “Kiddo, you’re so tired. Sit down.”

“It was Papa’s gun. Anthony took it.”

Inside Nella’s exhausted brain, the pieces slowly moved together. “That’s why Anthony wouldn’t say where he got it?” she asked, and Angela nodded.

“But why?” Dad looked baffled. “Why would a kid like Anthony want a gun?”

“He didn’t want it. He just wanted Papa not to have it.” Angela tugged on a lock of hair. “Because of . . . of how he is. Papa couldn’t legally buy a gun, but somehow he managed to get it. Anthony was more and more worried about it. He was scared one of these nights Papa might . . . you know. Hurt himself. One of his army buddies did that.”

Anthony was trying to protect his father. His father and Angela. Just like always.

“Anthony saw Papa was getting worse, so he took it and
kept it in his car. That was really stupid, but he did. It was there in the car that night. If only he didn’t have it! If only he’d dumped it in the river!”

If only. If only.

“When Papa figured that out, he felt like it was all his fault. He doesn’t want anyone to blame Anthony. He . . . he loves Anthony. He just told me how much he . . .” Angela’s shoulders sagged like they’d carried a huge weight as long as they could bear. She began to cry. “He wanted to talk to the Andrews family. He meant to explain everything and tell them not to blame Anthony. But he drank too much. And now no one will ever believe him.”

NONNI, THE SECRET KEEPER

now

N
ella woke with the birds. Tiptoeing downstairs, she turned on the computer and read the news.

Anthony DeMarco, father of Anthony DeMarco Jr., charged with the murder of D’Lon Andrews, is a veteran of two military tours. During the second deployment, his unit suffered heavy casualties. Military records show he tried to reenlist but was refused due to an undisclosed disorder. According to sources, he has been treated for post-traumatic stress disorder. Arrested near the Andrewses’ home, DeMarco
is expected to be charged with driving while intoxicated, menacing, and resisting arrest.

Nella found an article about post-traumatic stress. It said that in the last few years, mental health disorders had caused more hospitalizations among U.S. troops than any other medical condition, including battle wounds. It said—

Barbaric shouts of joy interrupted her. They’d discovered Angela. Moments later, they were all tumbling down the stairs. Angela was smiling, the boys were smiling, Mom was smiling. It was a smile landslide, an unstoppable force of nature.

Mom made chocolate chip pancakes, Angela’s old favorite. She said that after breakfast, Angela should go get her clothes and whatever else she needed. Angela carefully set her fork down.

“I’m okay. I can just go home.”

“Don’t be silly! You can’t stay by yourself! You’ll stay with us as long as you need to.” Mom’s words made the boys collapse in a heap of boy-joy. She smoothed Angela’s hair, her eyes full of tenderness. “I can braid your hair if you want.”

Upstairs, Angela told Nella, “I can go. I really can. I’m used to taking care of myself.” She looked at the ceiling. “That sounds so pathetic. Anyway, you don’t have to
worry. I know you and Clem have plans.”

“That’s okay. Clem’s busy today. Probably tomorrow and the next day, too.”

“The special second.” Angela remembered now. “I’m sorry. I made you miss it.”

“Yeah well.” Nella drew a breath. “All seconds should be special. They should all matter.”

“You sound like Sister Rosa!”

“That reminds me.”

Nonni smiled as if an angel had flown into her room.

“Angela!”

It sounded as if she’d had one too many glasses of Chianti. Angela looked alarmed—she had no idea how bad Nonni was and what progress she’d made. Nonni pointed at a chair, and Angela sat down, hands in her lap. Now Nonni frowned.

“An-tony,” she said.
“Soccorso.”

Angela slid a look at Nella, who shook her head and shrugged.
Who knows?
Nonni reached under the bedcovers and pulled out her purse, which she must have been hiding from Gypsy thieves. The same purse she’d had forever. The black leather was worn and shredding, but the clasp could still give your finger a vicious pinch. Nonni scanned the room, as if bandits might appear at
any moment, then drew out a single key.

“Sell her.”

Angela and Nella traded looks. Oh no. Just when she seemed to be getting better. She’d slid back. She was all confused, like Dad warned.

“Sell who?” Nella tried.

Nonni held up the key and in slow, exaggerated motion, as if she was dealing with a three-year-old, mimed opening a lock.

“Sell her!”

“Seller?” Angela tried, and Nonni nodded.

“Hiring,” she said, then pushed at her mouth to make it behave.
“Hiding.”

Nella remembered what Dad said: She got all worked up talking nonsense about the basement.

“Cellar! You mean cellar! But Nonni—no one’s hiding down there. I’ve been checking on your house—you don’t need to worry. Actually, I met the girl who lives across the street and she’s nice! She told me—”

Nonni waved her hand, cutting Nella short. She took her wallet out of the purse. Pinching thumb and finger together, she drew out a dollar bill and handed it to Angela.

As if one dollar would help! Stingy old Nonni. The key she put in Nella’s hand.

“Mule-o,” she said. “Mule-o gone day.”

The aide bustled in—time for physical therapy.

“My goodness.” She winked at Nella. “We’re talking up a storm today, aren’t we?”

As the aide wheeled her out, Nonni yelled over her shoulder, “Go! Mule!”

Nella and Angela stared at each other. Nella fingered the key.
Mule-o gone day
?

The basement of Nonni’s house was dark and chill as a dungeon. A single bare bulb dangled from the ceiling. Nonni didn’t believe in saving stuff, so there wasn’t much down here besides her artificial Christmas tree, an ancient, empty freezer, PopPop’s garden tools. Fastened to a heavy, scarred table was the grinder Nonni used for making sausage. Bend down, and you could still get a delicious, licorice-y whiff of fennel seed.

The basement was always off limits. No kids allowed. It felt wrong to be down here.

“I don’t see anything with a lock,” Angela said.

“It’s hiding, remember?”

For the second time in two days, they were searching, searching side by side. Under the freezer, behind the furnace, under the sausage table. Nella climbed a ladder and poked in the rafters. A hideous spider made her yelp. Angela opened boxes marked
DECORAZIONI DI NATALE
.

Another repulsive spider! Nella scrambled down the stepladder.

“Look.” Angela’s voice was hushed. “Nella, look.”

She held up a metal box the size of a fat dictionary. A small, gleaming padlock secured the hasp.

Nella’s heart began to race. As Angela set the box on the sausage table, she pulled out Nonni’s key. Yes. It fit. She lifted the lid.

Molto grande. Huge.

“For the love of God!” said Dad.

The whole family stood around the dining room table. Mom had pushed the army men, Legos, Pampers, and pizza crusts aside. In the middle, in neat, rubber-banded rolls, sat more money than any of them had ever seen.

“Nonni’s a millionaire!” breathed Bobby.

“Millin hair!” said Vinny, who was in Angela’s arms.

“I can’t believe it,” said Mom. “I helped her take the Christmas tree down. I carried that box of decorations to the basement myself.”

“If I know her, she kept moving the money around.” Dad shook his head and grinned. “That batty old lady! She must’ve been saving for years without a word to anyone.”

“Wearing the same thirty-year-old sweater and reusing tea bags the whole time,” said Mom.

When Dad pulled off one of the rubber bands, it disintegrated in his fingers. The money sighed as it unrolled.

There were fives, tens, twenties, lots of hundreds. Dad counted out loud, and Nella added it up. She probably made some mistakes, but close enough. She set down her pencil.

“Thirty thousand, six hundred and seventy-four dollars.”

“Lub a God!” said Vinny.

“This is what she was trying to tell me, only I thought she was talking out of her head.” Dad turned to Nella, his brow creased. “How’d you figure it out, kiddo?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just . . . just get her.”

Dad’s nod was thoughtful.

“She should’ve put it in the bank,” Mom said. “What was she thinking?”

“She’s never trusted banks,” said Dad. “She came over with everything she owned in one cloth bag, and all her money sewn into the hem of her coat. She and PopPop paid cash for everything.”

“Why’d she tell us now, all of a sudden?” asked Salvatore.

“That’s a good question.” Mom patted his gelled, sprayed pompadour. “Maybe being sick made her start thinking.”

“Actually,” said Nella. “Actually, I think I know why.”

They all looked at her.

“She was saving up in case of something. She didn’t know what, but she knew there’d be some disaster. And now there is. She wants us to help Angela’s family.”

Angela almost dropped Vinny. He laughed and patted her cheek. “Oops!” he said.

Dad continued to give Nella that same thoughtful look. “What makes you say that, Bella?”

“She told us.”

“Not really,” said Angela. “We’re not sure what she said.”

“I know,” said Nella.
I know.
“I understand Nonni. She wants to help your family.”

“But why?” said Angela. “Why would she?”

“Nonni’s seen a lot,” said Mom. She stood behind Dad and put her arms around him. “A lot of hurt. A lot of sorrow.”

“But love, too,” whispered Nella. “She’s seen a lot of
amore
.”

Mom and Dad both looked at her, their eyes brimming with it.

“No cry!” Vinny patted Angela’s wet cheek.

“I’ll go talk to Nonni.” Dad stood up. “I’m sure she’ll tell me exactly what she wants us to do.”

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

T
he babies are testing their wings.

They will leave me before long.

Forward! That is the way of our cosmos.

The future is irresistible.

THE NEWS, AGAIN

now

A
fter Dad left, Nella and Angela walked over to her house to fetch her things. Great. The TV van was back out front. That same obnoxious reporter hopped out and hurried toward them. The red-haired cameraman, looking weary, plodded at her heels.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Nella. “She’s not on your side.”

Too late.

“You’re Angela DeMarco, aren’t you?” The reporter was wearing the turquoise suit, which was wrinkled, as if she’d been waiting a long time. “How are you feeling today, Angela?”

“How do you think she feels?” snapped Nella.

Turquoise Suit drew back. Her eye shadow was glommed up in the creases. Something brown was stuck between her bottom teeth. The red-haired cameraman peeked out from behind his camera to smile at Nella.

“I wasn’t talking to you, sweetheart.” The reporter moved in on Angela. “Last night your father was arrested outside the home of the man your brother is charged with killing. That’s a pretty terrible situation for a little girl to be in. Can you tell us about your daddy and big brother?”

She tried to stick the microphone in Angela’s face, but Nella pushed it away. “She doesn’t have to talk to you! She has the right to remain silent.”

Turquoise Suit’s eyes widened. So did the cameraman’s smile.

“It’s okay, Nella.” Angela stepped forward. “I’m tired of being silent. I want to speak.” With that, she lifted the microphone right out of the reporter’s hand. She looked the camera straight in the eye.

“My father wanted to say how sorry we are. To say . . . say that we’ll be sorry for the rest of our lives. I know that doesn’t change what happened. I know . . .”