A boy with a big smile stares out from Golden Threads Fashion Boutique. Ben Bak. I know that kid. Mom’s Italian and Valley-born, dad’s Polish. Ben’s into ballet and books. Polite as they come. Never bothered a soul.
I better look away.
That’s when I spy something at the lip of a nearby alley. It’s a girl my age; I don’t recognize her face. She wears a lavender dress with lace embroidery. It softly billows about her in the shifting smog. Barefoot she steps out of the alley and comes into the middle of Kindred and just stands there. A halo of lavender light surrounds her.
“Hey,” I call out. “Where’s your coat? And your shoes? It’s freezing out here.”
She doesn’t answer but points to Ben. Then she looks at me and with a finger over her mouth, signals me to silence. Then she turns northwest where the sky is still clear and points into the distance. She’s indicating the billboard. The massive one of the sexy model in the red dress. It’s the biggest billboard ever erected in United States history. Right here in the city of Redemption. There was even an article in the New York Times about it; “Advertisement or Assault?” was the title.
“What about it?” I ask.
She cups her hands around her mouth and whispers something. I can’t hear, so I move closer. She’s telling me something I need to know. I can feel it. Maybe she knows about my father. “What are you saying?” I ask her, now only feet away. “Speak louder,” I demand, getting aggravated.
Then her gaze darts to something behind me and she goes white with terror.
I whip around to see what it is. A tall black shadow is there, just inches from my face. But like a picture on a television screen being snapped off, it disappears. I whip back around to the girl but she’s gone too.
Damnit. It was just another one of my visions. I get them sometimes. Especially when I stop my medication.
I’ve forgotten that I’m standing in the middle of the street, but reality comes crashing back in when a car slams on its breaks and swerves around me. “Get out of the road you crazy nut!” the driver cries from a crack in his window before he speeds off.
A smoker’s voice calls from under the awning of Rita’s Tavern. “Who’s that?”
Someone answers back. “Just one of them crazy Putzarellas.”
“Should have known,” the rasping voice returns.
I’m about to hurl a massive F-bomb at them when another car comes out of nowhere. Its horn blares as I dart out of the way, tripping over the curbside and sprawling onto the sidewalk. It is not easy being crazy in a sane world. Somehow I always end up on my hands and knees. This time I’m in a freezing puddle.
I rise to kneeling and snatch up my flyers yet again. I’m scared to look up and still see that girl. I cover my eyes with the flyers and cry, “Go away! Leave me alone you visions!”
Laughter erupts from the other side of the street. “Come over here and say it to my face!” I dare them.
They won’t come over. I know they won’t. People call me crazy pretty often. But one thing they never do is step to me to fight. Mano a mano, I have never lost a battle in my life. I may be just an average sized sixteen-year-old girl but don’t let that fool you. I can step to the toughest brawler, banger or cockeyed fool in the Valley and just look at them and they know I’m the real deal. You can either let people walk all over you in this life or you can stand up and give them hell for it. I choose the latter. It has never failed me.
Just great. My dad’s flyers are soaked. “Damnit!” I growl with teeth gritted. “Now look what you’ve done.”
To add insult to injury the sky opens and it starts to pour.
Here in the Valley streets flood quickly. I take momentary refuge under the narrow portico of Tony Carp’s stoop, pasting my back against his door. One of my rain boots has a nickel sized hole in it. My sock is wet and my toes are frozen to the bone. Not to mention my palms and knees are raw and stinging from the fall. I hunch my shoulders against the cold and wait patiently for the storm to pass. Just a few more streets, I tell myself. Just a few more. I dig in my back pocket for a little motivation. My father’s goodbye letter folded into a precise square. I unfold it and read:
Dear Family,
Goodbye. I am never coming back. Forget me and move on. I have a credit of $14.65 at the bakery. Oh, And you better bless the kitchen table when Easter comes.
Love,
Frank
The sound of the deadbolt from the door behind me catches me off guard. I leap off the stoop and whip around to see an old woman staring down the barrel of a gaming rifle—aimed right at me! It’s Tony’s grandmother.
“Nana Lu!” I shout into the din of the storm. “It’s just me, Stori.”
“Stori? What in God’s name are you doing out here on a night like this?”
I show her my sopping wet flyers. They sag miserably and I’m ashamed. “I made missing signs for my dad. I gotta find him.”
She scans the street suspiciously like she suspects I’m not alone. Then she lets the rifle fall to her side and invites me inside with a nudge of the head. “Take off your shoes and come in. Dinner’s ready.”
Here’s where I better explain something about my people, the Calabrese of the Valley. We take sinning seriously and there are three unforgivable ones resulting in exile:
1. Swearing at your mother or father.
2. Admitting you think you’re better than someone else.
3. Refusing to eat when someone offers you food.
All other transgressions can be absolved with prescribed penitence: Adultery, theft, even murder. I know it sounds odd. But the Valley is odd by nature and it has been for over a hundred years.
Nana Lu’s apartment sits atop a store called Novelties and a Doctor. Mr. and Mrs. Neri are the owners and they sell all kinds of odds and ends. In addition they have a corner in the back of the store designated for treating the ill. It’s a compact space backed by a wall of medical books. Mr. and Mrs. Neri don’t dispute the efficiency of the Other Mothers in the Valley who are wise in the ways of natural remedies and old prayers. But if ever the Other Mothers fall short, as sometimes they do, the Neris are there with their medical library and a hidden stash of illegal pharmaceuticals.
Nana Lu leads me up an enclosed staircase to the second floor. The first door on the left of a long hallway is her home. Entering Nana Lu’s is like stepping back in time. An antique grandfather clock in the foyer looms over me as I leave my boots and socks on the corner of an already full shoe mat. I welcome the comforting warmth after the cold outside.
Nana Lu picks up my socks and sucks her teeth. She brings them over to the radiator in the living room. An Enzo Caruso vinyl is playing on an antique Victrola. (I know it’s him because my mother listens to him all the time. His voice sounds more like a ghost’s than a man’s.) A Persian rug cushions my feet as I glance at the countless black and white photos adorning every tabletop and windowsill, sitting atop little clouds of Queen Anne’s lace.
It is 2014 for the rest of our city, Redemption—the one that’s GPSing, texting and LCD TVing, the one that’s Future Forward. But here in the Valley it’s still 1910. This place is a technophile’s worst nightmare. There are very few computers, hardly any cell phones. Our people have a deep seeded mistrust in all things foreign to the Old Country. Many who disagreed left the Valley seeking out a more modern life. They worked hard and bought houses up in the Ridges. Our people call those deserters ‘Merigans. (Slang for Americans.) I’m not saying this kind of attitude is right. The desire for progress is part of the human condition and our city’s new Declaration is just a reflection of that. I’m only telling you how it is here.
I hope Tony’s not home; I’m not in the mood to see him. But for some reason I ask, “Is Tony here?”
“No,” Nana Lu says. “That boy lives at the gym nowadays.”
I’m disappointed. Hey, I thought I don’t want to see him. Okay, maybe I do just a little.
Nana Lu leads me into the kitchen, where
she takes my flyers and spreads them out on the linoleum floor next to a cast iron stove. The air is scented with lemons and roasted garlic. I’m suddenly starving but I lie and say, “Nana Lu. I already ate. But maybe I’ll take something to go.”
“Nonsense. You have a minute to sit for a decent meal. God knows your mother isn’t up to it. That poor woman, what she’s been through.”
She orders me into the dining room, where her son Arty Arm is seated with two of his bookie friends. All three are about my parents’ age and know my father well. Arty pulls out a chair as he and his cronies offer their condolences. The name Arty Arm is a perfect fit for this man. He forever has a folded newspaper tucked into his armpit and it’s rumored that when he breaks bones as a Collector for the Tommy Tapparelli Family he’s so strong he doesn’t even bother to put his paper down; one arm is enough.
Some people think guys like him are cool. Even Tony who calls him the baddest-ass uncle in the world. But in my opinion his uncle is a scumbag who hurts people for money. He’s not worth a minute of my time and I would just love to tell him. But I have to be polite as he offers his regrets and keep my judgments to myself, lest I commit the Valley’s sin number two.
“Thank you. I’m hoping he’ll come back soon. There’s been a social worker to my house. She’s from CPS and she talked to my mother about putting me and Regi in a foster home.”
A roasted ham is the centerpiece of the table and the men swirl spoons in steaming bowls of wedding soup. A bowl is placed in front of me and I don’t wait for Nana Lu to join us. The hunger in me is ravenous. Her voice travels into the room from the kitchen, “I remember when my grandson, Tony, lost his parents and had to leave his house. I never saw a child so solemn.”
Tony’s parents were killed in a car accident when he was eleven and Nana Lu took him in thereafter. A picture of Tony is framed on a buffet table by the window. He’s standing in the middle of a boxing ring with a referee who holds his gloved hand into the air in victory. His muscular chest glistens with sweat and his boxing shorts accentuate his narrow hips. Tony Carp is a senior; he’s tall, tan and rocks a spiky high fade that makes my knees go weak.
I look at his picture and endure the nasty sting of tears behind my eyes. The pain is so sharp that I almost enjoy it.
Oh, Tony. You broke my heart. Do you even know it? A broken heart is a bitch to lug around all on one’s own. It’s an injustice really, that I’m carrying the cross of my thwarted love and the one who set it upon my shoulders is completely free.
There’s an awkward silence and I know why. The Arm and his friends are looking at me like I’m the saddest person alive. I want to use my spoon to gouge their eyeballs out of their sockets, but I try to concentrate on my soup.
Finally Nana Lu sits down next to me. “Soup good?”
“Delicious. Thank you, Nana Lu.”
She’s pleased. She smiles and puts a cushiony palm on my cheek. “Arty. What are you doing? Give her some ham.”
Arty fixes me a plate and I thank him.
I’m almost afraid to ask because I’m scared of the answer. But if I’m going to find my father I have to know the truth. “Mr. Arty?”
“Yeah kid.”
“My father was kind of distant the last couple of months. Like not home much.” I take great care with my next question. I have to pose it as delicately as possible. “Could he have gotten mixed up in something, you know, with your guys?”
“Absolutely not. Your father was proud to be a working man.”
I nod and let out a sigh.
Nana Lu puts a hand on my knee. “You know Stori. Sometimes men don’t always do the right thing when it comes to family.”
I put my spoon down and look her full in the face. “His family was his life.”
She smiles apologetically. She knows she crossed a line. But since she’s my elder I’ll forgive her. “Nana Lu,” I ask. “Why did you come outside with a gun?”
She drops her hand from my knee. She goes to say something but stops.
“You might as well tell her Ma,” Arty says.
“For what?” Nana Lu barks. “She’s just a child.”
“People need to know,” Arty answers grimly. A gust of wind and angry rain rattles the window panes.
“Tell me,” I insist, verging on a tone that could be considered disrespecting my elders. Still I take the risk.
“Lying about it won’t help,” Arty tells his mother. Then he looks at me. “People have been talking. There’s something evil going on in Redemption. We’re not safe anymore.”
His friends nod regretfully, mumbling disapprovals under their breath.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“This place always sleeps with one eye open. Don’t you find it odd that no one ever saw anything?”
I do find it odd. “What do you think happened Arty?”
“Something otherwordly might have taken him.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Not a ghost,” he corrects me. “A man. Dead but still living. By the name of Cosimo the Corpse.”
“Cosimo the Corpse?” I ask. “He’s not real. He’s just a myth to scare children.”
“My grandmother used to talk about Cosimo,” Arty’s friend says. “Been looking for a crown since the Renaissance. It’s called the Crown of Final Sight. Anyone who put it on their head would become like God or some shit.”
“They would be granted the wisdoms,” Arty clarifies, like he’s an expert on the subject. “To unlocking the greatest mysteries of the universe—like life and death and heaven and stuff like that. Cosimo wanted to use the crown to take over the world, since he already had Italy on lockdown. But he was murdered before he found it. Lucky for him his lovesick witch was able to keep him alive; but she couldn’t fully bring him back to life until the crown was found, placed on his head and an immortality spell was said over him.”
“I heard it too,” Arty’s other friend chimes in. “My Great Aunt Helen told me. That crown is out there and Cosimo and his witch need it to bring him back to life. Aunt Helen even whispered it’s here in the Valley.”
“He’s real,” Arty insists, jamming a stubby finger into the table. “And so is his lovesick witch and her creatures, the Hounds. They’re all a part of the Night’s Council.”
I refuse to believe it. “People talk,” I say. “People get bored and they talk. To fill up time. I don’t believe in stuff like Cosimo the Corpse.”
Arty’s unshaken by my disbelief. “If you were to ask Mayor Vaughn he would say this city is safe. He’s got us all distracted by the casino and this robot lounge he just built.” It’s what everybody keeps talking about. On the very top floor of Strive will be a member’s only club where robots will cater to all the member’s needs.
“Gotta tell you. I could make good use of a robot,” his friend says.
“Bet you could,” the other quips.
Arty isn’t amused. “But I’m not distracted. There are some real evil things going on in Redemption. I’ve grown up with thugs and bone-breakers my whole life. And let me tell you something, they can do ugly. But even crime has a code. Some ugly’s off limits. Like stealing children. You tell me. Where did they all go?”
I’m used to my people, the Calabrese, being a bit paranoid. They often get involved in conspiracy theories about the police and government. They don’t trust anyone, really, outside of the Valley. As a result, they employ Other Mothers when ill and give birth right in their own beds. They settle disputes through old-fashioned fistfights, and cultivate their backyard gardens for fruits and vegetables and make their own wines.
“It’s happening.” Arty insists. “It was predicted too, by the old folk who remember the prophecies. Most are dead now, but I remember hearing them talk when I was a kid. They said Cosimo has been looking for the lost crown. That it’s somewhere here in the Valley and he will stop at nothing to find it. Once he does, that’s when the final battle will begin—between us and the Night’s Counci
l. And people will have to decide which side to fight on. The Corpse has evil plans. Maybe your father knew something. Maybe he tried to get in Cosimo’s way.”
“Enough!” barks Nana Lu. “I don’t want this talk at my table. You’ll spoil the food!”
The room goes quiet.
I don’t know what to make of the Arm’s suspicions. I still think he’s paranoid, but now he’s got me wondering. So I turn to the oldest and wisest in the room. “Nana Lu. Do you believe it too? Why did you shush him?”
She gets up and goes to a china cabinet. She takes a loose photo off the bottom shelf and comes back to the table. “Stori. You remember my brother’s wife, Concettina? She lived on Windy Way? She died last week. They found her lying on the kitchen floor. She had the magic plum tree. Do you remember?”
“I don’t know if it was magic,” I say.
“Nonsense. It fed every hungry child in the Valley. All summer long.”
“I guess,” I say just to be polite. I don’t really think it was magic though. Concettina was just playing a trick on us, the way adults always do. Yes, there were baskets upon baskets of glistening fruit each and every day of summer. More plums than any tree could ever produce. But there was also a cellar nearby and one day the door was opened and I peeked down there and saw an empty crate from Rolling Farms. That’s how I knew it wasn’t magic. But I held my tongue because my little sister Regi believed. I didn’t want to ruin it for her.
“Dead on the floor.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I hope she didn’t suffer,” I say.
Nana Lu jabs my shoulder with the hand holding the photograph. Her bony knuckles hurt and I have to contain my irritation. God. Old people are so pushy sometimes.
“Look. Look at her picture,” Nana Lu says.
The Book, the Key and the Crown (Secrets of the Emerald Tablet Book 1) Page 2
