to the bone — painted her with the hottest of colors. Though she was allowed to pass unhindered because of her friendship with the old fortuneteller, she was hoping not to have to deal with any gypsies on her way to the back entrance to Annabella’s shop. At the end of the alley, she slowed and stood behind a rusted dumpster to survey the scene ahead. Relieved to see the courtyard empty, she was about to step from behind the dumpster when she saw Annabella hurtling across the ramshackle wooden porch at the back of her building and down its three steps to land sprawling and twisted in the weeds under a naked clothes line.
Before Megan could react, Annabella’s son, a swarthy and arrogant little man whom Megan had seen once or twice about the fortuneteller’s shop — reeking of alcohol each time — emerged from the back door, through which he had obviously thrown his mother. When he reached Annabella she was trying to rise and he helped her by grabbing her by her brassy orange hair and lifting and turning her to face him before slapping her twice across the face with a fully arcing forehand and backhand, the backhand jarring her loose from his grip and knocking her back to the ground. There Annabella lay, inert, her rouged cheek resting on an old magazine — it looked like Paris Match to Megan–while her son leaned over her to say something before spitting on her and turning to go back into the building.
Megan took a step toward Annabella and then stopped as her friend lifted herself on one elbow and began in halting strokes to smooth her long cotton skirt down her legs, which, stick-like and clad in stockings rolled to just below the knee, had been exposed almost to the waist when she first hit the ground. In the old gypsy’s