Chapter 5: The Matchbook

Gianni drove the Buick down the Gowanus at ninety with the hazards on.

I could see the glow from the expressway.

By the time we turned onto the cobbles the trailer was a black frame inside an orange box.

Two fire trucks blocked the gate.

The crew stood in the yard in their pajama pants and work boots, watching it go.

My father's name over the door caught last.

I watched the letters curl and drop off one at a time.

The foreman came and stood beside me with his arms crossed.

"Nobody was inside," he said. "That's the good news."

"What's the bad news?"

"The coffee mug."

I laughed, and it hurt.

The firemen had it out by five.

When the sky went gray I walked the gravel around what was left.

Gianni walked one step behind me with a flashlight, the way he used to.

He stopped and crouched.

"Talia."

He didn't touch it.

He just pointed the light.

A matchbook lay in the wet gravel by the back steps, half soaked.

It was white with a blue logo, a union local's insignia over the words SOUTH PHILADELPHIA.

Gianni stared at it for a long time.

"I know that hall," he said. "I used to sweep it."

"Would Renzo use Philadelphia men to burn me out?"

"Renzo would rather die than ask Philadelphia for a lighter." He stood. "But she would."

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