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doorway. She held a bright yellow dishcloth and buried her face in it.
    She wore white sneakers, and the laces of the left shoe had come untied.
    People came out of their houses again to watch. Old Mr. Falco sat on his steps in his red shorts, his skinny white legs almost disappearing into the stone. Mrs. DiSalvo stopped on the sidewalk with her little boy Christopher. He was eating a grape Popsicle. It looked so shiny, so purple. Everything seemed so bright, so sharp, in the sunlight.
    Everything was so quiet. Quiet enough that Reena could hear the harsh breaths Mrs. Pastorelli took between each sob.
    One of the detectives opened the back door of the car, and the other put his hand on Mr. Pastorelli’s head and put him inside. They put the can—gas can, she realized—and the green plastic bag in the trunk.
    The one with dark hair and stubble on his face like Sonny Crockett said something to the other, then crossed the street.
    â€œMr. Hale.”
    â€œDetective Umberio.”
    â€œWe’ve arrested Pastorelli on suspicion of arson. We’re taking him and some evidence into custody.”
    â€œDid he admit it?”
    Umberio smiled. “Not yet, but with what we’ve got, odds are he will. We’ll let you know.” He glanced back to where Mrs. Pastorelli sat in the doorway, wailing into the yellow dishcloth. “She’s got a black eye coming up, and she’s crying for him. Takes all kinds.”
    He tapped two fingers to his forehead in a little salute, then crossed back to the car. As he got in, pulled away from the curb, Joey streaked out of the house.
    He was dressed like his father, in jeans and a T-shirt that was gray from too many washings and not enough bleach. He screamed at the police as he ran to the car, screamed horrible words. And he was crying, Reena saw with a little twist in her heart. Crying for his father as he ran after the car, shaking his fists.
    â€œLet’s go home, baby,” Gib murmured.
    Reena walked home with her hand in her father’s. She could still hear the terrible screams as Joey ran hopelessly after his.
    N ews spread. It was a fire of its own with hot pockets and trapped heat that exploded when it hit air. Outrage, an incendiary fuse, carried the flames through the neighborhood, into homes and shops, along the sidewalk and into the parks.
    The curtains on the Pastorelli house stayed tightly shut, as if the thin material were a shield.
    It seemed to Reena her own house was never closed. Neighbors streamed in with their covered dishes, their support and their gossip.
    Did you know he couldn’t make bail?
    She didn’t even go to Mass on Sunday.
    Mike at the Sunoco station sold him the gas!
    My cousin the lawyer said they could charge him with attempted murder.
    In addition to the gossip and the speculation was the oft repeated statement: I knew that man was trouble.
    Poppi and Nuni came back, driving their Winnebago all the way from Bar Harbor, Maine. They parked it in Uncle Sal’s driveway in Bel Air because he was the oldest and had the biggest house.
    They all went down to Sirico’s to look, the uncles, some of the cousins and aunts. It looked like a parade, except there were no costumes, no music. Some of the neighbors came out, too, but they stayed back out of respect.
    Poppi was old, but he was robust. It was the word Reena had heard most to describe him. His hair was white as a cloud, and so was his thick mustache. He had a big wide belly and big wide shoulders. He liked to wear golf shirts with the alligator on the pocket. Today’s was red.
    Beside him, Nuni looked tiny, and hid her eyes behind sunglasses.
    There was a lot of talk, in both English and Italian. The Italian was mostly from Uncle Sal. Mama said he liked to think he was more Italian than manicotti.
    She saw Uncle Larry—he was only Lorenzo when someone was teasing him—step over to lay his hand on Mama’s shoulder, and how she lifted her