Plainly, Tony was not gaining any headway. He made one last-ditch effort. “Why don’t you guys sell this place and buy a real house in the suburbs, someplace normal that isn’t falling down around our ears?”
Julia and Michael darted each other one of their parent-to-parent glances. “Sorry,” Michael said. “That’s not an option.”
“Why not?”
“Zio Angelo’s will was actually a little complicated, but the bottom line is we’re sort of stuck here for a while.”
“What could be so complicated about hanging a for-sale sign?” Tony said.
Michael ruffled Tony’s hair. “What do you say we grab a sandwich? Then maybe you and the twins can go out and explore the new neighborhood while your mom and I deal with the bed.”
“The exercise’ll do you good,” Julia said.
(That was the other thing, besides portion control, she was now obsessed with. She’d been harping at Tony since school got out: stop chatting online with God-knows-who and start tagging along to the twins’ pickup Wiffle ball games in the park. As if! Angey laughed at the way the thighs of his jeans scratched when he ran, and Mikey said he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn whenever he threw a ball.)
“But they hate me,” Tony said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Julia said. “They’re your brothers.”
“They are totally ashamed to be seen with me, and you know it,” Tony said.
Michael laughed. “They’re ashamed to be seen with me,” he said. “It’s sort of normal. They’re in puberty. Now how about that sandwich?”
Tony saw no choice but to follow his parents out of the room. That’s when he noticed the door didn’t even have a lock. Oh, great. There was no actual way to keep the twins from bursting in. Seriously, could his birthday get any worse?
Tony stooped to tie his sneaker in front of the Paul Revere House. At Michael’s insistence, he and the twins had grudgingly agreed to explore the Freedom Trail—a redbrick line embedded in the sidewalk connecting one historic site to the next. So far they had seen the Copp’s Hill Burying Ground and the Old North Church. Mikey and Angey wanted to skip the house tour. They were in a hurry to get to the next stop down the line—Quincy Market—where some kid back in Ann Arbor had told them they could watch street performers outside a giant food court. Tony was secretly enjoying himself. As upset as he was about 13 Hangmen Court, he had to admit the North End itself was kind of great. Famous landmarks of the Revolutionary War were jumbled up with caffès, pizzerias, and cannoli shops. Plus there were all these other layers of history. He would never have known, for example, that hundreds of African Americans were buried in unmarked graves at Copp’s Hill—back when this neighborhood was known as New Guinea because of the runaway slaves who lived here—unless he had stopped to read the plaque at the gate.
He stood back up, determined to make the twins take the tour.
They had vanished.
Tony peered around the cobbled street; they were usually pretty easy to spot. Nope, they were definitely gone. Had they gotten swallowed up in the hordes of afternoon tourists? Or had they just ditched him—as he had pretty much predicted they would—because they hated his guts? He saw no choice but to set off along the Freedom Trail, hoping to catch up. A little ways down North Street, though, the redbrick line took a sharp right onto Richmond Street. He stumbled along the uneven sidewalk for a block, until it suddenly disappeared at Hanover Street—obviously the North End’s main drag. Tony swore he could be in Italy. Skinned rabbits hung in the front window of a nearby butcher shop. Grannies dressed all in black dipped their fingertips in holy water and crossed themselves as they exited a church. Old men argued in Italian over dominoes at tables set up on the sidewalk. In the middle of it all, a blind man played “That’s Amore” on an accordion.
Tony decided he’d better ask somebody where the Freedom Trail went. He turned to the shop directly behind him. In the display window was a dusty jumble of furniture, vases, antique clothes, and framed maps. He glanced up at the purple-striped awning overhead: YE OLDE CURIOSITY SHOPPE, MILDRED PICKLES, PROPESS.
A tiny bell jangled as he passed through the front door. He gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. The store was crammed full of old machines and mysterious mechanical devices; Buddhas and Madonnas and Shiva-the-Destroyers; rickshaws and telescopes and red-lacquered chests with dozens of puzzlelike drawers; a gilded glass case full of crystals and geodes; carved elephant tusks and a stuffed mongoose entwined with a snake. On the right, there was an entire wall of dusty leather-bound books. On the left—
Tony did a double take. Standing behind a counter of rough-hewn slate was a girl a couple of years older than him. She wore a long purple dress, a white apron, and a gathered cotton cap, though she also had punked-out black hair and a nose ring. Tony made his way over. Carved into the top of the counter was an odd spiral. Hanging overhead was a very old American flag.
As for the Colonial Maid Goth Chick, she didn’t bother to look up from the book she was reading—Astrophysics for Dummies—until Tony cleared his throat. That was when he noticed her eyes. Not blue, and not brown. Violet. He’d never seen anyone with purple irises before. She curtly informed him the video shop was a few doors down, just past the hardware store.
“I’m guessing you’re not Mildred Pickles?” Tony said. “The proprietress.”
“Course not,” she said, then went back to her book.
Tony had every intention of asking her for directions, of course. But that wasn’t what came out of his mouth next. “You don’t see many of Francis Hopkinson’s quincuncial layouts these days,” he said, “outside of museums.” He was referring to the Stars and Stripes above her head.
That caught Colonial Maid Goth Chick’s attention. “Most people think it’s a Betsy Ross,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly scratchy and low, like Peppermint Patty’s in a classic Peanuts cartoon.
“Betsy Ross arranged the stars in a circle,” Tony said, cribbing from Michael’s lecture on flags during their last family trip to the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. “But she was just copying someone else as a seamstress. We don’t know who created her circular design. All we really know for sure is that Congress adopted Hopkinson’s straight-across layout as the official American flag in 1777.”
“Dude, did you want something?” Colonial Maid Goth Chick said. But she was obviously impressed.
“Too bad the first star in the fourth row is missing,” Tony said. “If it’s real, your flag would be worth a lot more money.”
“It’s real. But it’s not for sale,” she said. “Mildred’s great-great-great-plus-grandmother Abigail plucked the star off when she was a girl. The ninth star represented the new state of Massachusetts—though, technically speaking, Massachusetts isn’t a state, it’s a commonwealth. But no one knows why, or what she did with it.”
“So there is a real Mildred Pickles,” Tony said.
“Who said there wasn’t?” she said.
“You got any Freedom Trail maps?” Tony said.
“Nope.”
“Can I ask you something else?” he said.
She rolled her eyes.
“Does Mildred Pickles make you dress like that to work here?”
“I don’t work here,” she said. She didn’t elaborate.
Okeydokey, then. Tony turned and made for the door.
“Try the hardware,” she called after him. “They have all sorts of tourist crap.”
Tony was now drenched in sweat and totally out of breath. But he had finally found the right cul-de-sac of town houses. He’d been circling the neighborhood for a half hour—just like Julia had done with the car that morning—trying to get back to Hangmen Court. He’d given up on the Freedom Trail when the hardware store didn’t sell maps either. The twins were still MIA. They had probably gorged their way from one end of that food court to the other. Meanwhile, he himself hadn’t had a single snack since his hummus sandwich at lunch. Strangely, he hadn’t th
ought once about a Snickers bar. Though now, of course, he was wondering if there were any left in the secret-stash pocket of his backpack, up in his so-called room.
“You there, boy!”
A distinguished-looking gentleman beckoned Tony over to the manicured front lawn of No. 15, where he was pruning a trellis of roses with a pair of hedge clippers. It was the same old guy who had stared out the window when the DiMarcos had first arrived.
“Hi,” Tony said, extending his hand over the front gate. “I guess we’re neighbors.”
The old guy just frowned. “I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the one who owns Number Thirteen.”
“Well, no, not personally,” Tony said, pulling his hand back. “My dad inherited the house from his uncle, Angelo DiMarco. Did you know him?”
“Half uncle,” the man scowled. “Your father isn’t a full-blood relation.”
“Sure he is,” Tony said. “Our name is DiMarco, just like Zio Angelo’s.”
“That was Angelo’s adopted name,” the man said. “His real name was Saporiti.”
“And you are?” Tony said, not sure where to go with that.
“The name is Benedict Hagmann. Double n at the end. I was Angelo’s oldest and dearest childhood friend. So there’s no point in trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I know a lot more than you think about the whole situation.”
“What situation?” Tony said. But he edged away from the gate, just in case Old Man Hagmann—double n at the end—suddenly got a little wild with those clippers.
“Angelo’s bizarre decision to bequeath Number Thirteen to you,” Old Man Hagmann said, “a distant relative by marriage—a child he barely knew—as the result of an utterly unexpected and not entirely welcome visit from your father. A visit that took place, I might add, on the very morning of Angelo’s sudden and quite mysterious death.”
“What are you saying?” Tony stammered.
“I’ve already said more than I should,” Old Man Hagmann sniffed. He lopped a couple of withered roses off the trellis. “But it’s all highly suspicious.”
“I’m, um, late for dinner,” Tony said. Then he hightailed it up the front stoop to No. 13.
Crazy old fart.
Hopefully.
URPRISE!”
The whole family leaped out of hiding. They were wearing corny birthday hats and blowing noisemakers. They had decorated the new—well, not new —dining room with crepe-paper streamers. They’d hung a banner from the mantel: HAPPY 13TH, TONY!
Michael ushered the totally stunned Tony over to the seat of honor at the head of the dining table, where a small stack of presents awaited on a plate. Everyone sat, and Michael started serving up pizza out of delivery boxes. “Pizzeria Regina,” he said. “The oldest in Boston, and it’s just a few streets over. Zio Angelo bought after-school slices from there when he was a boy.” He turned to Tony and asked, “Pepperoni with extra cheese or veggie-the-works?”
“Neither,” Julia said, before Tony could answer.
Right. Those twenty-five pounds that never got lost. “Just pass me the salad bowl,” Tony sighed to Angey.
“That’s not what I meant!” Julia said, flushing. “I meant: Not until you clear off what’s already on your plate.”
Oh. The presents.
“Better get busy,” Michael said, squeezing Tony’s shoulder. “Mine’s on top.”
Tony unwrapped a small flat box. Two tickets for the Boston History Mystery Tour. Tony and his dad had seen the commercial for it a million times while watching their favorite cable program over a bowl of breakfast cereal. It was sort of like the Freedom Trail, except a trolley with a real detective guide drove you around to sites of the city’s most famous unsolved mysteries: Whose bones were actually under the Mother Goose tombstone in the Granary Burying Ground? Did Paul Revere really ring a handbell to wake the countryside during his Midnight Ride? Did they catch the Boston Strangler—who murdered something like thirteen people—or did they blame it on some random and totally innocent guy?
“Awesome, Dad, thanks,” Tony said.
“You and me, tomorrow. Right after breakfast,” Michael said.
Tony could hardly categorize his dad’s behavior as suspicious. He was just acting like goofy old Michael: wolfing a slice of veggie-the-works pizza while serving the twins pepperoni-extra-cheese; teasing Angey that he needed a haircut more than Mikey, even though the twins looked exactly the same and had gone to the barbershop together; kissing Julia’s forehead and complimenting her on how fast she had whipped the dining room into festive shape.
“My present next,” Julia said. “It’s the blue one.”
Tony opened it. A cell phone. He had sort of been expecting it—the twins had both gotten theirs when they had turned thirteen—but this one was a much cooler flip model. He reached over and gave Julia a big hug.
“Sorry about the pizza thing,” she whispered. “I didn’t think.”
“That’s way too much phone for him,” Mikey groused. “He doesn’t even have anybody to call.”
Which was when, coincidentally, the wall phone started to ring.
“The account must still be in Zio Angelo’s name,” Michael said, reaching up to answer it. He frowned. He covered the receiver with his hand. “Won’t be a minute,” he said. He stretched the cord into the hallway and shut the door.
OK, so that’s a little suspicious.
“Open ours,” Angey said.
Tony unwrapped the last gift on his plate. A new Red Sox cap. A supercool one, in fact, with a flat hip-hop brim. It must have set them back a few allowances.
“We bought it at Quincy Market after we ditched you,” Mikey said. “So you wouldn’t embarrass us by wearing that moldy old piece of crap Zio Angelo sent you.” (To be fair, neither he nor Angey knew yet that it had probably belonged to Ted Williams; Michael’s plan had been to wait and have it appraised in Boston by a real Red Sox expert before he got everyone’s hopes up.)
“Do you like it?” Angey asked. Strangely, it sounded like he really wanted to know.
First time for everything.
Michael stepped back into the room. He hung up the phone. “Ready for a slice?” he asked Tony.
Tony nodded. He promised himself he’d eat only one. Then he really would have salad. Michael handed him a slice of pepperoni. Tony took three huge bites. He set the rest down on his plate, slightly alarmed that it was already half gone. He frowned. He couldn’t get that crazy old fart next door out of his mind. “Who called?” he said.
“Nobody,” Michael said. “Just the cable guy.”
“Why did you step out of the room if it was only the cable guy?” Tony said.
“Terrible echo,” Michael said. “Probably need to replace that phone.”
“Is it true you’re only Zio Angelo’s half nephew?” Tony blurted without really intending to.
“Who told you that?” Michael said.
“The next-door neighbor,” Tony said. “I ran into him just now. He said he was Zio Angelo’s oldest friend.”
Michael sat. He grabbed the half-eaten slice of veggie-the-works off his plate. He didn’t take a bite, though. “Mr. Hagmann’s right,” he admitted, setting the slice back down. “Zio Angelo and my dad—your nonno Guido—were only half brothers.”
“So it’s true Zio Angelo’s real last name was Saporiti, not DiMarco?” Tony said.
“That’s right,” Michael said. “Zio Angelo’s own dad, Armando Saporiti, died when he was a little younger than you. His mom remarried your granddad, Antonio DiMarco.” Michael went on to explain that when Zio Angelo’s dad, Armando Saporiti, died of emphysema, his mom, Isabella, started running a boardinghouse at 13 Hangmen Court to make ends meet. One of her boarders, a guy named Antonio DiMarco, asked her to marry him—which she did, on condition he adopt her son, Angelo. A few years later, Isabella and Antonio had a son of their own—Guido—who was Angelo’s half brother and, eventually, Michael’s dad.
(Basically, families were just a
s complicated then as they are today.)
“I don’t get it,” Tony said. “Why did Zio Angelo leave us this place?”
“He never married,” Michael said. “He never had kids. We’re his closest living relatives, except for Nonno Guido. But they were never very close.”
“Maybe he was gay,” Angey said.
“Like you,” Mikey said to Tony, cracking himself up.
“Maybe he was,” Michael said. “Either of you got a problem with that? Because I’ve got a big problem with homophobic jokes.”
They both turned red and shook their heads.
“Good,” Michael said. He admitted Zio Angelo’s life was a bit of a mystery to everyone. He was never much of a talker, except about baseball. He left Boston as soon as he turned twenty-one. No one really knew where he went or what he did. He only came back to live at Hangmen Court after his mother died. By then, though, he was already sort of old. Which is why he sometimes hired Michael (who was in high school at the time) to do odd jobs around the place. Michael was about the only relative Zio Angelo ever kept in touch with—not even Nonno Guido—until Tony came along. For some reason, Zio Angelo took a real shine to him.
Tony wolfed the rest of his pizza. He reached into the box and served himself another slice, though he had sworn to himself to ask Angey for the salad bowl. Avoiding eye contact with Julia, he took a big comforting bite.
Julia excused herself to fetch something from the dumbwaiter.
Somehow, the pizza didn’t taste very good, then.
“Is that why Zio Angelo left me this house?” Tony said.
Mikey and Angey both froze, mid-bite.
“Just how long did you and Mr. Hagmann chat out there?” Michael said.
Tony shrugged.
“He did,” Michael said. “The house is actually yours, not mine.”
“Shut up!” Angey said.
“Tony’s our landlord?” Mikey said.
“Zio Angelo made me legal custodian until Tony turns twenty-one,” Michael said. “So, technically speaking, I’m still the landlord.”
Michael apologized for not telling Tony sooner. He and Julia had honestly thought it was best to wait until they were all a bit more settled in their new life. But as long as Mr. Hagmann had let the cat out of the bag, Tony might as well know the rest. For whatever reason, Zio Angelo had decided at the last minute to leave No. 13 to Tony—on condition he live there until he was a legal adult. So Michael couldn’t sell the house, not even at Tony’s request, unless it was a documented emergency. Not only that, but legally speaking, Tony sort of had to sleep up in the attic as another stipulation of the will.
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