Untitled Read Free Page B

chamomile tea. It would calm her down. I hoped.
        The girls were back in a flash. I've never seen them change clothes so fast. Bella, always fastidious, is in one of her usual beige tailored pantsuits with tan sneakers. Evvie, always the optimist, wears a favorite pair of bright aqua capri pants with a matching Hawaiian-style shirt. Ida, she of the morose personality, wears a darkcolored plain sundress—always with sensible flat shoes. Sophie, ah Sophie, that queen of color coordination, is swathed totally in lavender. Lavender polyester slacks, lavender blouse, lavender sandals, and, the crowning touch (pun intended), a lavender ribbon in her hair.
        I opted for comfortable and am wearing my usual light cotton pants, T-shirt, and white sneakers.
        The girls swarm around Mrs. Siciliano, chattering in her ears.
        I delegate. "Evvie, please take notes. Sophie, get the cups and plates. Ida, bring another chair to the table. Bella, stop hovering. Thanks."
        We are all finally seated and sipping tea. I face our visitor and introduce the girls to her.
        She looks puzzled. "You're all detectives?"
        "Yes," the girls say in unison.
        "They're my associates," I tell her.
        "Just find out who my husband is humping!"
        First, they are scandalized by Mrs. Siciliano's frankness, but they get over that fast. Then they all jump in.
        Ida: "How do you know he's doing it?"
        Sophie: "Do you have proof?"
        Bella: "Did you catch him in the sack?"
        Evvie to Bella (shocked): "Bella! Shame on you."
        "How can I catch him? Look at me. In this
    walker?" The woman glares indignantly at Bella. "If my five brothers were still alive, they'd find him with that puttana and string him up by the coglioni! "
        Bella throws Evvie a dirty look. "And you think I talk dirty!"
        Evvie says, "What's it mean?"
        Bella shrugs. "Who knows, but it sounds terrible."
        Mrs. Siciliano slaps her teacup down. Hard. "You want proof, I'll give you proof. My husband, Elio, he plays poker with the men from St. Anthony's Benevolent Society every night after dinner. Forty years he comes home when the clock strikes ten. Now, one night he's twenty minutes late. Then forty. Once, even an hour."
        "That doesn't sound so bad," Sophie comments. "Maybe he has to clean up the cigarette butts or something."
        "Sure. He always has an excuse. Dom's car broke down. He had to drive him. Dom is a mechanic. His car don't dare break down. Vinny had a headache. He had to drive him, too. Fifty years I know Vinny. He never had a headache in his life. Sal's aunt Costanza died. He was too broke up to drive. Sal hated his aunt Costanza. Now I question everything. Is he really playing bocce on Saturday? Is he really sitting home with the ball game on TV when I go to mass?"
        I interject as delicately as I can, "Has your husband a habit of, well, seeing other women?"
        Angelina smacks her old, black cracked leather
    pocketbook hard on the table. "Never! He wouldn't dare!"
        "Then why do you think he's doing it now?"
        I hear the scrape of their chairs as the girls lean in closer, fascinated by this most unusual personality.
        "I'll tell you why. Because every time he's late he comes home smelling from Johnson's talcum powder, that's how I know!"
        Sophie scrunches up her forehead, which tells me she's puzzled. "Maybe he's diapering a baby somewhere?"
        Angelina glares at her. "That's like perfume! A woman has her own smell. I use a little vanilla extract, myself. My cousin Josephine, before she got rich, she put a dab of virgin olive oil behind her ear. But this one! She uses talc! That's how I know!"
        I pour her another cup of tea, but Angelina remains agitated. "If I only was seventy again, I'd go catch them myself."
        I'm still trying to calm her. God forbid she has a stroke in my apartment.