by Nora Roberts
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of Pastorelli. I still have a hard time believing he’d have gone this far. In my world, you’re that pissed off at a guy, you take a swing at him.”
“Direct approach. If he was involved in this, it could be he wanted to hit you where you live. Your foundation, your tradition, your livelihood. He’s out of work, you’re not. Hey, who’s out of work now?”
“Well, God.”
“You and your employee confront him. Your kids are standing out in front of the restaurant watching you confront him. Neighbors, too, I imagine.”
Gib closed his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, people came out.”
“Attack and destroy your place of business, it sure teaches you a lesson. You want to point out his house?”
“There, on the right.” Gib nodded. “The one with the drapes drawn. Hot day to close the curtains. Son of a bitch.”
“You’re going to want to steer clear of him. Push down that urge you’re feeling to confront him over this. He got a car?”
“Truck. That old Ford there. The blue one.”
“About what time did the two of you go a round?”
“Ah, sometime after two, I guess. Lunch crowd was about done.”
As they walked, several people stopped, or opened doors, or stuck their head out a window to call out to Gib. At the Pastorelli house, the curtains stayed closed.
There was a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk near the restaurant, so John stopped while they were still out of earshot. “Your neighbors are going to want to talk to you, ask questions. Be best if you didn’t mention what we’ve talked about.”
“I won’t.” He let out a long breath. “Well, I’ve been thinking about doing some redecorating. Guess this would be the time.”
“When the scene’s cleared, you’re going to see a lot of damage, a lot that was done during suppression. But the bones of your place, they held strong. Give us a few days, and when it’s cleared I’ll come back and take you through myself. You’ve got a nice family, Gib.”
“Thanks. You haven’t met all of them, but I do.”
“I saw all of you last night.” John took out his keys, jingled them in his hand. “Saw how your kids set up food and sandwiches for the firefighters. People who think of doing something positive in their hard times, they’ve got good bones, too. There’s Arson now.” He inclined his head as a car pulled up. “I’m going to have a word with them. We’ll be in touch,” he said and offered his hand.
John walked to the car as the detectives got out of either side, and he gave them a steely grin.
“Yo, Minger.”
“Yo back,” he said. “Well, looks like I’ve done about all your work for you.” He took out a cigarette, lit it. “Let me bring you up-to-date.”
3
It didn’t take a few days. The police came the following afternoon and took Mr. Pastorelli away. Reena saw it happen with her own eyes as she walked home with her best friend since second grade, Gina Rivero.
They stopped when they reached the corner where Sirico’s stood. Both the police and the fire department had put up tape and warnings and barricades.
“It looks lonely,” Reena murmured.
Gina put a hand on her shoulder, expressing support. “My mom said we’ll all light candles before Mass on Sunday for you and your family.”
“That’s nice. Father Bastillo came to see us, at the house. He said stuff about strength in adversity and God working in mysterious ways.”
“He does,” Gina said piously, and touched a hand to the crucifix she wore.
“I think it’s okay to light candles and pray and all that, but it’s better to do something. Like investigate, and find out why, and make sure somebody gets punished. If you just sit around praying, nothing gets done.”
“I think that’s blasphemy,” Gina whispered, and looked around quickly in case an Angel of God was about to strike.
Reena just shrugged. She didn’t see how it could be blasphemy to say what you thought about something, but there was a reason Gina’s older brother Frank called her Sister Mary these days.
“Inspector Minger and the two detectives do stuff. They ask questions and look for evidence, then you know. It’s better to know. It’s better to do something. I wish I’d done something when Joey Pastorelli knocked me down and hit me. But I was so scared, I could barely fight.”
“He’s bigger than you.” Gina’s free arm linked around Reena’s waist. “And he’s mean. Frank says he’s nothing but a little punk who needs his a-s-s kicked.”
“You can say ass, Gina. Donkeys are asses, and it’s even in the Bible. Look, it’s the arson detectives.”
She recognized them, and the car. They wore suit coats and ties like businessmen today. But she’d seen them in the coveralls and helmets when they’d worked inside Sirico’s.
They’d come to the house and talked to her just like Inspector Minger. And a spurt of excitement hit her belly when they got out of their car and walked to the Pastorellis’. “They’re going to Joey’s house.”
“They talked to my dad, too. He came down to look at Sirico’s and talked to them.”
“Ssh. Look.” She wrapped her arm around Gina’s waist, too, and eased them both back, just around the corner, when Mrs. Pastorelli opened the door. “She doesn’t want to let them in.”
“Why not?”
It took a mighty strength of will not to tell, but Reena only shook her head. “They’re showing her a paper.”
“She looks scared. They’re going inside.”
“We’re going to wait,” Reena stated. “We’re going to wait and see.” She walked down to sit on the curb between parked cars. “We can wait right here.”
“We were supposed to go straight back to your house.”
“This is different. You can go up, tell my dad.” She looked up at Gina. “You should go tell my dad. I’m going to wait and see.”
While Gina ran up the sidewalk, Reena sat, her eyes trained on the curtains that hadn’t opened again today—and watched.
She got to her feet when her father came back alone.
His first thought when he looked at her eyes was that it was no longer a child looking back at him. There was a chill in them, a ferocity of chill that was completely adult.
“She tried not to let them in, but they showed her a paper. I think it was a warrant, like on Miami Vice. So she had to let them in.”
He took her hand in his. “I should send you home. That’s what I should do because you’re not even twelve, and this is the kind of thing you shouldn’t have to be part of.”
“But you won’t.”
“No, I won’t.” He sighed. “Your mother handles things the way she handles them. She has her faith and her temper, her rock-hard sense and her amazing heart. Fran, she has the faith and the heart. She believes that people are innately good. That means it’s more natural for them to be good than bad.”
“Not for everybody.”
“No, not for everybody. Bella, right now she’s pretty centered on Bella. She’s walking emotion, and whether people are good or bad isn’t as important to her at the moment, unless it affects her. She’ll probably get over most of that, but she’ll always feel before she thinks. And Xander, he’s got the sunniest nature. A happy kid, who doesn’t mind scrapping.”
“He came to help when Joey was hurting me. He scared Joey away, and Xander’s only nine and a half.”
“That’s his nature, too. He wants to help, especially if somebody’s being hurt.”
“Because he’s like you.”
“That’s nice to hear. And you, my treasure.” He bent down, kissed her fingers. “You’re most like your mother. With something extra all your own. Your curious nature. Always taking things apart, not just to see how they work but how they fit. When you were a baby, it wasn’t enough to tell you not to touch something. You had to touch it, to see what it felt like, to see what happened. It’s never been enough for you to be told something. You have
to see for yourself.”
She leaned her head against his arm. The heat was thick and drowsy. Somewhere in the distance thunder grumbled. She wished she had a secret, something deep and dark and personal so she could tell him. She knew, in that moment, she could tell him anything.
Then across the street, the door opened. They brought Mr. Pastorelli out, one detective on either side of him. He was wearing jeans and a dingy white T-shirt. He kept his head down, as if he was embarrassed, but she could see the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, and she thought, Anger.
One of the detectives carried a big red can, and the other a large plastic bag.
Mrs. Pastorelli was crying, loud sobs, as she stood in the doorway. She held a bright yellow dishcloth and buried her face in it.
She wore white sneakers, and the laces of the left shoe had come untied.
People came out of their houses again to watch. Old Mr. Falco sat on his steps in his red shorts, his skinny white legs almost disappearing into the stone. Mrs. DiSalvo stopped on the sidewalk with her little boy Christopher. He was eating a grape Popsicle. It looked so shiny, so purple. Everything seemed so bright, so sharp, in the sunlight.
Everything was so quiet. Quiet enough that Reena could hear the harsh breaths Mrs. Pastorelli took between each sob.
One of the detectives opened the back door of the car, and the other put his hand on Mr. Pastorelli’s head and put him inside. They put the can—gas can, she realized—and the green plastic bag in the trunk.
The one with dark hair and stubble on his face like Sonny Crockett said something to the other, then crossed the street.
“Mr. Hale.”
“Detective Umberio.”
“We’ve arrested Pastorelli on suspicion of arson. We’re taking him and some evidence into custody.”
“Did he admit it?”
Umberio smiled. “Not yet, but with what we’ve got, odds are he will. We’ll let you know.” He glanced back to where Mrs. Pastorelli sat in the doorway, wailing into the yellow dishcloth. “She’s got a black eye coming up, and she’s crying for him. Takes all kinds.”
He tapped two fingers to his forehead in a little salute, then crossed back to the car. As he got in, pulled away from the curb, Joey streaked out of the house.
He was dressed like his father, in jeans and a T-shirt that was gray from too many washings and not enough bleach. He screamed at the police as he ran to the car, screamed horrible words. And he was crying, Reena saw with a little twist in her heart. Crying for his father as he ran after the car, shaking his fists.
“Let’s go home, baby,” Gib murmured.
Reena walked home with her hand in her father’s. She could still hear the terrible screams as Joey ran hopelessly after his.
News spread. It was a fire of its own with hot pockets and trapped heat that exploded when it hit air. Outrage, an incendiary fuse, carried the flames through the neighborhood, into homes and shops, along the sidewalk and into the parks.
The curtains on the Pastorelli house stayed tightly shut, as if the thin material were a shield.
It seemed to Reena her own house was never closed. Neighbors streamed in with their covered dishes, their support and their gossip.
Did you know he couldn’t make bail?
She didn’t even go to Mass on Sunday.
Mike at the Sunoco station sold him the gas!
My cousin the lawyer said they could charge him with attempted murder.
In addition to the gossip and the speculation was the oft repeated statement: I knew that man was trouble.
Poppi and Nuni came back, driving their Winnebago all the way from Bar Harbor, Maine. They parked it in Uncle Sal’s driveway in Bel Air because he was the oldest and had the biggest house.
They all went down to Sirico’s to look, the uncles, some of the cousins and aunts. It looked like a parade, except there were no costumes, no music. Some of the neighbors came out, too, but they stayed back out of respect.
Poppi was old, but he was robust. It was the word Reena had heard most to describe him. His hair was white as a cloud, and so was his thick mustache. He had a big wide belly and big wide shoulders. He liked to wear golf shirts with the alligator on the pocket. Today’s was red.
Beside him, Nuni looked tiny, and hid her eyes behind sunglasses.
There was a lot of talk, in both English and Italian. The Italian was mostly from Uncle Sal. Mama said he liked to think he was more Italian than manicotti.
She saw Uncle Larry—he was only Lorenzo when someone was teasing him—step over to lay his hand on Mama’s shoulder, and how she lifted her hand to his. He was the quiet one, Uncle Larry, and the youngest of the uncles.
Uncle Gio turned and stared holes through the closed curtains of the Pastorelli house. He was the hothead, and she heard him mutter something in Italian that sounded like a swear. Or a threat. But Uncle Paul—Paolo—shook his head. He was the serious one.
For a long time, Poppi said nothing at all. Reena wondered what he was thinking. Was he remembering when his hair wasn’t white and his belly not so big, and he and Nuni had made pizza and put the first dollar in a frame for the wall?
Maybe he remembered how they’d lived upstairs before Mama was born, or how once the mayor of Baltimore had come to eat there. Or when Uncle Larry had broken a glass and cut his hand, and Dr. Trivani had stopped eating his eggplant Parmesan to take him to his office down the street and stitch it up.
He and Nuni told lots of stories about the old days. She liked to listen to them, even when she’d heard them before. So he must remember them.
She wiggled through the cousins and aunts to put her hand in his. “I’m sorry, Poppi.”
His fingers squeezed hers, then to her surprise, he pushed one of the barricades aside. Her heart beat fast and quick as he led her up the steps. She could see through the tape, the burned black wood, the puddles of dirty water. The tray of one of the high chairs had melted into a strange shape. There were scorching marks everywhere, and the floor had bubbled up where it hadn’t burned away.
To her amazement she saw a spray can embedded in a wall as if it had been shot out of a cannon. There were no cheerful colors left, no bottles with candle wax dripped down the sides, no pretty pictures on the wall drawn by her mother’s hand.
“I see ghosts here, Catarina. Good ones. Fire doesn’t scare ghosts away. Gibson?” When he turned, her father stepped through the opening in the barricade. “You have your insurance?”
“Yes. They’ve been down to look. There won’t be a problem with it.”
“You want to use the insurance money to rebuild?”
“There’s no question of that. We may be able to get in and get started as soon as tomorrow.”
“How do you want to begin?”
Uncle Sal started to speak—because he always had an opinion—but Poppi lifted a finger. He was the only one who could, according to Reena’s mother, make Uncle Sal swallow words. “Gibson and Bianca own Sirico’s. It’s for them to decide what’s to be done and how. What can the family do to help?”
“Bianca and I own Sirico’s, but you’re the root it grew from. I’d like to hear your advice.”
Poppi smiled. Reena watched the way it moved over his face, lifting his thick, white mustache, and stopped his eyes from being sad. “You’re my favorite son-in-law.”
And with this old family joke, he stepped down to the sidewalk again. “Let’s go back to the house and talk.”
As they walked back, another parade, Reena saw the curtains on the Pastorelli house twitch.
Talk” was a loose word to describe any event that brought the bulk of the family into one place. Massive amounts of food were required, older children were put in charge of younger ones, which resulted in squabbles or outright wars. Behavior was scolded or laughed over, depending on the mood.
The house filled with the scent of garlic and the basil Bianca cut fresh from her kitchen garden. And noise.
When Poppi told Reena she w
as to come into the dining room with the adults, butterflies batted wings in her belly.
All the leaves had been put in the table and still it wasn’t big enough for everyone. Most of the children were outside using the folding table or blankets, while some of the women ran herd.