Killer Smile

“Ma,” Mary began, talking to her mother’s flowered back, “so what’s the matter with Mrs. DiGiuseppe? I saw her outside and hardly recognized her.”

“She’s got the cancer,” her father interrupted. He evidently didn’t understand about the force field and the secret plan. He scuffed in black slippers to the cabinet and retrieved two cups and saucers, which he brought to the table and clunked down in front of Mary and Judy. Mary straightened her cup in the chipped saucer, happily mismatched, and took another shot.

“What kind of cancer, Ma?”

“Liver,” her father interrupted again, but he missed the dirty look Mary shot him. He turned around and headed for the silverware drawer, retrieved two forks and two spoons, then brought them to the table. “How she suffered, with the chemo. It’s a sin.”

“She looks so thin, Ma.” Mary would need Kryptonite to crack this force field. Or her father would have to shut up. “She even looks shorter. Smaller. What could make her shrink, Ma?”

“It happens when you get older,” her father said, coming to the table with two dishes. Mary caught his eye with a meaningful glare, and he met her gaze, his milky brown and a little sad behind his bifocals. And then she knew. Her father wasn’t being dumb, he was playing dumb. He was hiding something.

“Dad?” Mary said, involuntarily, but he waved her off.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“For real?” Mary’s heart lodged somewhere in her throat. They both knew they weren’t talking about Mrs. DiGiuseppe.

“Not now,” he said firmly, easing into his seat at the tiny round table.

Mary’s gaze shifted to her mother at the stove, where she was shaking salt into the gnocchi water and stirring it with her wooden spoon. Then she turned on the burners under the pot of gravy and the old-fashioned coffeepot they had used forever. In a few minutes, everything would boil, bubble, and perco-late, and Mary would pretend everything was all right, at least for the time being. On the sidelines, a mystified Judy looked from Mary to her father, staying silent. She had been around the DiNunzios long enough to know that English was their second language and their first was Meaningful Eye Contact.

“So how’s Angie?” Mary asked, about her sister. A former nun, Angie had gone on a mission in Tajikistan, teaching English and helping build homes for poor people. Because of Angie’s life and works, the entire DiNunzio family had an E-ZPass to heaven. The girl took pro bono to a new level, and Mary couldn’t help but miss her. “You hear anything lately?”

“Not since last month,” her father answered. “Tell us about Brandolini’s case. They been askin’ at church.”

“I haven’t gotten anywhere. I haven’t even found his file yet.” Mary filled him in against the throaty gurgling of the coffee, and in the next moment, its aroma scented the already fragrant kitchen. And just when the room was too small to fit even one more smell, the tomato sauce started to bubble.

“Brandolini was sent to a camp in Montana?” Her father’s eyes widened. The DiNunzios never left the house, much less traveled, and their only summer vacations had been to Bellevue Avenue, in an Atlantic City that no longer existed. “ Montana? That where they shipped him? Why?”

“I don’t know, not without the file, anyway. There were forty-something internment camps around the country, and I haven’t figured out the reason for who went where.”

“But Montana!” Her father smacked his bald head, as if she’d said Pluto. “That’s way out. That’s cowboy country!”

“They packed the internees on trains, and when they got to Missoula, they called it bella vista.”

“Beautiful sight,” her father translated, undoubtedly for Judy’s benefit.

“Right, because there were mountains and all. Or at least that’s the propaganda the government was putting out.” Mary had researched Fort Missoula, read a book about its history, and pieced together what she could from the other internee files. “Most of the Italian internees at Fort Missoula were from cruise ships that were at sea when war broke out. Some had been waiters at the Italy Pavilion at the World’s Fair in New York. Amadeo was one of the ones from Philly.”

“How did they keep the records?” Her father was a smart man, albeit uneducated. Mary, who had graduated from the University of Pe

“I think they were kept at Fort Missoula, and when the camps were opened and the internees released, the files ended up in the National Archives.”

“So maybe not all the files made it.”

Mary shrugged. The coffee was done. She wanted to get it herself, but that was against the rules. Her father was already on his slippers, fetching the pot and bearing it back to the table. Simultaneously, her mother reached over and turned off the burner, one of the smoothest moves in their kitchen dance. Mariano and Vita DiNunzio had been married forever, and it showed.

“Maybe his file got taken out, because he died in the camp.” Her father poured hot coffee into Judy’s cup in a glistening brown arc. She thanked him and dumped in three spoons of sugar, followed with the light cream that was always on the table after di

“From my research, three other Italian internees, all of natural causes. None by suicide except for Amadeo.” Behind her, Mary heard the hiss of fresh gnocchi hitting the boiling water and the gurgling of the gravy in the pot next to it, bubbling its heady brew of ripe tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil, and bits of chicken cooked until it melted off the bone. As delicious as she knew the meal would be, none of it tempted her. Between her mother and Amadeo, she was too bummed to be hungry. “I’m double-checking the files for references to him. Maybe that will lead me to whatever happened to his boats and business.”

“Poor guy.” Her father poured Mary’s coffee, and she thanked him. “So what else is new, girls?”

“Mary has another date coming up,” Judy chirped. “With a lawyer, a friend of A

“That’s nice,” her father said, before Mary could start whining. “It is about time, you know, Mare? If A

“I am, Pop. I will.” Mary nodded. She knew when she was beat. Her parents had loved Mike as much as she did, but lately even they were trying to fix her up, most recently with an accountant who lived with his mother on Ritner Street. Her father returned to the table and eased into his chair, his movements stiffer than before the subject of Mike came up. Behind him, her mother was pouring cooked gnocchi into the colander, then shaking it to drain off the excess water. Slap, slap, slap. Steam billowed out of the sink. Nobody said anything, letting the empty moment pass.

“Is ready!” Mary’s mother turned from the counter with a steaming plate of gnocchi, then picked up a metal ladle and poured gravy in a tomatoey ring on top. Everyone brightened at the sight of the meal, and her mother bore it to the table and set it in front of Judy with pride. “Alla fresh for Jud’! Cheese o

“Thank you, Mrs. D!” Judy said, grabbing her tablespoon and digging into the hot gnocchi. She would burn her mouth, but nobody warned her because she wouldn’t listen anyway. In the next minute, her mother was setting a plate in front of Mary.

“This looks great, Ma,” she said. Her mother looked so happy that Mary swore she’d eat, hungry or not. “Thanks.”