The Witch of Little Italy Read Online Free Page A

thunder, echoing her thoughts. She wondered momentarily if she’d thought out loud … How? It didn’t matter. Everything was muted and far away. Eleanor, hiding under her hat, didn’t want to come back from inside her dream of being snow. And she certainly couldn’t look at him. If she looked at him she was sure she’d disappear. Don’t look at me. Don’t figure it all out. Keep me in your memory like I was when we were kids. I’m damaged now. Broken. Please. Eleanor hadn’t considered this part when she was making the rash decision to come back to this place. She didn’t think about how it would affect the other people.
    Maybe her grandmother didn’t want a pregnant granddaughter?
    Maybe her aunts didn’t need something else to take care of at their age?
    Maybe Anthony was hoping she’d be a successful, beautiful, grown-up woman, instead of a hopeless, homeless, cloud of snow.
    “It’s good to see you,” he said. “Or at least it’s good to see this person who I think is you.” He leaned over and picked up the brim of her hat, forcing her to look right at him.
    She held her breath. She’d planned this moment a hundred times in her head since she was thirteen. The big reunion. But in her mind they’d be on a beach, or he’d see her browsing in a bookstore. She never imagined it would be like this. Sitting in a heap on a cement stoop.
    Eleanor turned her head and looked at him.
    Shocked, she closed her eyes for a moment so she wouldn’t make an even bigger fool of herself. She had to take all of it in. Years passed by under her eyelids. Until the moment she looked at him she was completely, ridiculously, expecting to see a thirteen-year-old boy. And the person who’d just slid in next to her like a cat was no boy. She opened her eyes again to drink him in. His beauty. It made Eleanor want to die. Her artist eye knew this was perfection. The balance of features, hard jawline, full lips, Roman nose. His hair was longer, it fell in his eyes. And he was taller, too. She wanted to paint him.
    “Hey, there you are!” he said. “I thought I’d lost you for a second.”
    “Hey back,” she said and pulled on her hat.
    He cleared his throat; there was an awkward silence. “Welcome home,” he said, finally.
    “Do you still live here?” asked Eleanor. Small talk, that’s good. Keep it all small talk  … she thought.
    “Yep. Upstairs. Next to where Uncle George used to live.”
    Eleanor felt a knot of sudden sorrow in her stomach, though she didn’t understand why. “Used to?” she asked.
    “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Carmen never told you? He died two years ago,” said Anthony, putting a hand on her shoulder.
    Eleanor shrank away from his touch. “I don’t know why it bothers me. He was just a smelly old man.”
    Anthony looked away from her. “Not always,” said Anthony. “Still no memory of our amazing summer?”
    Eleanor shook her head. “You remember that?”
    “Do I remember that you don’t remember?” laughed Anthony. “That sounds kind of like ‘Who’s on First—’ you know, that Abbott and Costello act?”
    Eleanor put her face in her hands. “Ugh! I don’t know how to do this! I don’t know how to even have this conversation. Aren’t you married or something?” she asked.
    “Well—no. I guess not at the moment. Do you want me to be?” he asked.
    Eleanor stood up, her feet slipped out from under her, and she saved herself from falling by hanging onto the iron railing. Monkey bars. Lookit me Uncle George! I’m doing it! She was swinging, her arms burning, summer sweat stinging her eyes. Eleanor’s head ached with these echoes from the past. They felt like nuts and bolts clanging around. What would happen when they all found their way together? Who would she be? Eleanor took a large stride backward toward the curb. “I … I’ve made a huge mistake. I … I have to go.”
    “Where are you going?” asked Anthony, standing up and brushing the snow off the back of