"Think Twice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Scottoline Lisa)

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.