MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 4

With Life Comes Death

Wilmington, Delaware. Summer—32 Years Ago

My mother’s name was Maria Fusco. They say she struggled with her pregnancy, and that the first eight months felt more like eighteen. Morning sickness lasted four months, then headaches, back pain, stomach cramps—all the things she didn’t want, especially with her first child. Rosa Sannullo, her neighbor and best friend, said it was a sign, and not a good one. Trouble in the first few months meant the baby might get toothaches or gas pains. The second few months meant a troubled youth. But problems throughout the pregnancy usually meant a bad child, the sign of the devil at work. Rosa always blessed herself when she said this, and she always carried a cornicello―an amulet to ward off evil—to clamp onto the child the moment it was born.

Rosa stayed with my mother the whole day, dabbing her head with a cool cloth when the fever came, spooning pastine in her mouth when it waned. “Eat, Maria.”

“Not hungry,” she mumbled. “Where’s Dante?”

“Dante’s still working. But listen to me. I’ve had four babies, tended to eight or ten more, and I’m about to have another. You need to eat for the baby. He needs strength.”

Maria’s laugh was weak and forced. “You keep saying he. How do you know it’s not a girl?”

Rosa scoffed. “A girl would never cause so much trouble. Girls wait until they are grown—then they cause trouble.” She raised her head toward heaven and sighed. “Dio santo. You don’t want to know the trouble they cause then.” 

Rosa scrubbed the pot she cooked the pastine soup in, then set it aside to dry while she finished the dishes. “Besides, you need to have a boy so he can play with my Antonio.” She rubbed her swollen belly and laughed. 

Maria shifted to her side, holding her stomach. “Maybe I should go in.”

Rosa bent down, put her hand to Maria’s stomach. “Water hasn’t broken, but he is kicking hard. That’s a good sign.” She stood, thinking. “But if you have pain, maybe we should go in. I’ll get Dominic.”

#

Rosa talked all the way to the hospital, and all the time holding Maria’s hand. “Betty McNulty asked about you. And that Snyder woman down on Chestnut Street.”

Maria nodded. “She’s nice. How is her little girl doing? Didn’t she have trouble at birth?” Maria’s hands flew to her stomach. Her knees raised. “Rosa.” Her teeth ground together, forehead wrinkled. “Oh, God. It hurts.”

Rosa patted Maria’s head while she squeezed her hand. “It will be all right. Hold on.” She leaned toward Dominic and whispered. “Sbrigati.”

“I am hurrying, Rosa.” Dominic stepped on the gas, but every block Rosa yelled more. Half a mile later his tires screeched as he pulled into the hospital entrance. He jumped out, flung open the back door and pulled Maria out, carrying her in his arms. 

Rosa held the door open and shouted. “Get a doctor. This woman is having a baby. And she’s bleeding.”

An attendant met them in the hall with a wheelchair. He helped Maria out of Dominic’s arms, then rushed her toward the operating room. Rosa grabbed hold of a doctor talking to a nurse. “Dottore, get in there with Maria. That woman is having a baby. Sanguina. She’s bleeding.”

They waited five or ten minutes before Rosa remembered no one had told Dante, Maria’s husband of ten years. It was difficult to tell at times which one loved the other more. He doted on her and she waited on him as if it were her only job in life. “God help me, Dominic, we didn’t tell Dante.”