Think Twice

“Ladies, open your eyes.” Fiorella’s lipsticked mouth curved into a smile. “Judy, you feel better now, don’t you?”

“I do!” Judy blinked, then broke into a grin. “Thank you!”

“Yes, thank you,” Mary managed to say, but now she was wondering about Fiorella Bucatina.

And she worried that her parents were about to have bigger problems than mushy gnocchi.

Chapter Eleven

Be

She tried to get a grip on herself. Something about the scratching wasn’t like Alice, who always had a purpose for what she did, an angle she was working to get something she wanted. Alice was an excellent pla

Be

Be

Suddenly the scratching started again, but it was faster, which terrified her. If it wasn’t Alice scratching, what was it? And what was the rumbling? Were they the same thing, related or not?

She started pounding and yelling again, fighting against the maddening noises, the confusion, and the pain.

Chapter Twelve

Alice walked to Be

She walked to the dresser, where Be

Now we’re talking.

She searched the top drawer, but all it contained were cotton bras and panties, the kind that came three-in-a-pack at CVS. She opened the next drawer; no hidden cash, only thick T-shirts stacked in messy piles. The third drawer had jeans and sweaters. She went back to the bed, put the money in the cloth bag, zipped it closed, and stowed it under the bed, for later. Then she crossed to the closet and opened the louvered doors. Blue suit, blue suit, khaki suit, khaki suit, and yet another khaki suit. Underneath that, brown and black pumps, and a huge pile of sneakers. She grabbed one of the khaki jackets and tried it on over her black tank, then went to the bathroom and checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked more Century 21 than Be

She washed and dried her face, leaving leftover eyeliner on the towel. She wet her hair and rummaged through a bin of wide-tooth combs until she found a clip, then twisted her curls into a messy topknot, checking her reflection again.

It was Be

Bingo.

Chapter Thirteen

Mary sat in the passenger seat, with Anthony driving and Judy in the back, sticking her yellow head between the seats like a very golden retriever. “Can you believe her?” she said, after she’d told them about Fiorella. “She’s no witch queen. What a fake!”

“I don’t get you, babe.” Anthony maneuvered around the double-parkers endemic to South Philly. “You knew she wasn’t for real.”

“I know, but I thought she thought she was a witch queen, and now I don’t even think that!” Mary was confusing herself. “I don’t like her staying in my parents’ house, making my mother feel bad about herself. God knows what she’s up to. She might steal something.”

“Right. Count the spatulas.” Anthony hit the gas, turning onto Broad Street, and Judy raised her hand.

“Um, hello. She did cure my headache, Mare. How did she do that?”

“She lucked out. My mother coulda done it, faster.”

“Relax. I like your mother better, too. Anyway, if you ask me, the little flower was gettin’ her flirt on.”

“I know, right? She was hitting on my father.”

“Good luck with that.” Judy leaned closer. “How is Fiorella related to you anyway?”

“She’s on my mother’s side, in Italy. I think she’s Little Uncle Geno’s wife, but he died.” Mary had long ago accepted that the DiNunzio family ties were a mystery. Her mother had two brothers, but Mary had thirty-six uncles. In the DiNunzio family, you qualified as an uncle if you were male, a family friend, and lived in the tri-state area.

“Was Geno husband number four?”

“No, two, I think. She gets around, evidently.”

Judy snorted. “Who knew widow’s weeds had spandex?”

Mary didn’t laugh, looking outside the window. The shops along Broad had gone dark, except for the nail parlors and funeral homes, which seemed like the only two growth businesses in this economy. Whoever did nails for the dead would make a killing.

“Don’t worry.” Anthony patted her leg. “Did you tell your mother what happened with the stain?”

“No, I didn’t get a minute alone with either of them.”

“You should.” Anthony steered the car onto Lombard. “Fiorella’s ruining it for all home witches.”

Mary didn’t smile. “She was supposed to be praying to God to ward off the evil spirits.”

“Isn’t that ironic, if not heresy?”

“No,” Mary and Anthony answered in unison. Mary loved that she didn’t have to explain her family to him. His parents lived in South Philly, too, though their house was in Epiphany parish instead of St. Monica’s, a two-block distance that made him a foreigner.

Judy asked, “Meanwhile, do you believe in evil, anyway?”

“Of course,” Mary answered. “Evil exists in the world. Look at serial killers.”

Anthony nodded. “And history. Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot.”

Judy scoffed. “But that’s people. Evil resides in people. Anyone, given the right circumstances, is capable of evil. Evil is within us. That’s what’s so scary about it.”

Mary turned around. “You really think that? You’re capable of evil?”

“Yes. I’m human, and part of being human is evil, or at least the potential for it. Why, what do you think, Mare?”

All of them fell suddenly silent, and Mary sensed they were waiting for her answer. The car came to rest at a stoplight, bathing them in blood-red.

“I hope you’re wrong,” she said, in the dark light.