Nancy Holder - Daughter of the Flames

Beside the park stood Mr. Fantone’s old one-story cobbler shop with its pitted brick exterior and grimy storefront window of multiple panes crisscrossed with security bars. The neon sign in the window had been missing the “e” in “Shoe” for so long that people had nicknamed it the “sho-nuff store,” all the more humorous for their nasal Brooklyn accents imitating a Southern drawl.

Russo’s abutted Fantone’s, the Italian deli owned by the DeMarcos’ next-door neighbors. Her little brother Gino had worked at Russo’s during high school part-time to pay for college. She still shopped there, and all she had to do now was to close her eyes and she could smell the garlic and dried cod, mortadella and hard salami.

The Russo family brought over a lot of “excess inventory”—cold cuts about to go past the sale date—for the cop and his kid. Izzy took them, but Big Vince cautioned her. They had to be careful not to let the Russos presume. “One day a guy is giving you free coffee, the next day he wants you to ignore that he double-parked in the alley. And the day after that, he’s asking you to help him with a little scrape his nephew’s gotten himself into….”

You’re fine. Everything’s fine, she thought as she watched snowflakes drift across the windowpane.

To her right, on her bureau, the little votive candle at the feet of her mother’s statue of the Virgin Mary had burned out hours ago; but the light from the street cast a gleam on the frosted glass that made it appear to burn. It comforted her. Its warmth reminded her that Gino had blessed their home tonight. He was asleep in his old room; he’d stayed over an extra night from his weekend visit home so they could go to Mass together tomorrow morning. Surely God watched over His own.

It was chilly in the silent room; she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms as she grabbed up her pink chenille bathrobe and slid her arms through the sleeves. An embroidered French poodle sporting a pompadour of turquoise rabbit-fur “hair” beneath a black-velvet beret trotted along the hem. The robe was nothing she would have ever purchased, but her nine-year-old cousin Clarissa had given it to her last Christmas. For that reason alone she treasured it.

Izzy loved her big, noisy Italian family.

Smiling faintly, she opened her door and headed for the bathroom. As she moved into the hallway, her father’s door opened at the opposite end. He poked his head out; in the darkness, it looked like a floating white balloon.

“Iz?” he said. “You okay, honey?”

“I’m fine, Big Vince.” She gave him a wave. “Just need a drink of water.”

“I thought I heard you talking.” He paused. “You talking in your sleep again?”

She made a face that he probably couldn’t see, a combination of a wince and an apologetic frown.

“Did I wake you up?” she asked.

“Nah. I was already awake. I’m just restless tonight. A little agita. Heartburn.” He chuckled. “Maybe it’s your rigatoni.”

“I make fabulous rigatoni!” she protested, putting her hands on her hips and facing him squarely. “The best…okay, second best you ever ate! You know I got Ma’s cooking genes. And her rigatoni recipe.”

“Then it has to be the garlic bread,” he said decisively. “Gino made that.”

They shared a laugh. For all his having worked in Russo’s Deli, Gino was famous for his pitiful ineptitude in the kitchen. He couldn’t even successfully microwave a frozen entrée.

Her father added, “Let’s hope he serves Mass better than he serves dinner.”

It was an old joke, but it felt good to hear it. Her crazy bathrobe, her father and his gentle ribbing—she was beginning to feel reconnected with the real world. It always took her a little while to lose the feeling that the nightmare forest was real, too. She would often awaken very disoriented and confused, and check her body and feet for cuts and bruises. Tonight she could almost still feel the slap of the branches against her cheeks and hear the voice whispering in her head.

“It’s late,” she said gently. “Go back to bed.”

The job was taking a toll on him. Sore knees, flat feet, the light in his eyes a little dimmer. He was starting to talk about taking early retirement. It was hard to accept. Her father had always been a burly, noisy, old-style Italian male, heavy on the machismo, even though he was proud of his “little baby girl” for her holding her own in a man’s world—Izzy worked for the NYPD, too, although in an administrative support capacity, and as a civilian.

But there was no denying that Vincenzo “Big Vince” DeMarco was slowing down. The muscles were slackening; his helmet of black hair was shot with silver. There were wrinkles. There was a little less opera in the shower.

“Yeah, well, whatcha gonna do?” he murmured, which was what he said whenever he wasn’t certain what to say next. Izzy took it as her signal to go on into the bathroom.

“Mass in the morning,” he reminded her, as if she could forget.

“Of course,” she replied.

“Good night, bella mia, ” he replied.

“Buona serata,” she answered.

His door closed.

She clicked the light switch as she went into the bathroom, papered with Ma’s vivid roses and ivy trellises. Rose-colored towels hung on ornate brass towel racks. A filigree cross twined with brass roses hung on the wall beside the turned oak medicine cabinet. Everything about her mother had been graceful, soft and feminine.

Izzy was nothing like that. Izzy was about traveling light and getting it done. No frills, no frou-frou, no time for bubble baths and very little time for herself. Not that she was complaining. It was what it was.

Leaning forward, she scrutinized herself in the mirror. She didn’t know what she expected to see. She looked the same as she ever did. There was the wild tangle of ridiculously thick black curls, the kind of hair women gushed over and said they wished they had—because they had no idea how hard it was to so much as run a brush through it, much less style it in any way besides a ponytail or wrapped with a gigantic clip.

There were the large brown eyes, a little puffy from lack of sleep, with the same gold flecks in them; and lashes that were so thick some people thought she wore false eyelashes. The small, straight nose dotted over the bridge with freckles, which neither of her parents had. Ditto the lush mouth—Ma and Big Vince had thinner lips and fuller jaws. As did Gino. Everyone called her the family oddball, made jokes about the milkman. Be that as it may, her appearance this early January morning was as it should be.

Izzy took a ragged breath. Still looking at her reflection, she turned on the water and let it run a minute. It was chilly in the bathroom; she rubbed her arms and yawned, moving her shoulders.

She tested the water; it was warm now. She began to lower her head to splash water on her face.

She stopped.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Fresh goose bumps sprouted along her arms and chest.

She had the strangest sensation that someone was watching her. She could feel it, like a piece of wet velvet sliding across the nape of her neck. She imagined a police flashlight clicking on, traveling up and down the walls of the bathroom, the ceiling, the floor…

…looking for her.

And if she looked into the mirror, she would see—

“Nothing,” she said sharply, doing just that. Lifting her head and staring directly into the glass. Her own reflection stared directly back.

Huffing at her own melodrama, she turned off the water and left the bathroom.

She padded back into her room, shut the door, took off her slippers and got back into bed.

And Isabella Celestina DeMarco did not sleep for the rest of the night.