Raising himself slightly he saw that his brother, Albert, was still sleeping, his head obscured from Stony's vision by the chest of drawers between their beds. He pulled a Marlboro from beneath his pillow. Sunday. Shit on toast. Family day. His old man would make everybody get in the goddamn car and he'd drive around the whole goddamn Bronx looking for a G-rated movie. And Stony couldn't bitch either because his old man had thumbnails as big as clam shells and if he gave Tommy any bullshit he would get a flick behind the ear that would sting like a bastard.

***

Eight-year-old Albert De Coco lay in bed listening to his older brother smoking. He was afraid Stony was going to get lung cancer if he kept smoking every morning. Albert was nauseated like every time he woke up. The idea of eating made him even more queasy and he hoped Marie wouldn't force him to eat like last Sunday. Then he remembered she threatened to feed him like a baby if he didn't start eating more. A chill settled over his skeletal body.

***

Marie De Coco was dreaming about her mother again. This time Marie was a little girl and her mother was very old and shriveled like she looked before she died and she was caressing Marie's cheeks with fingers of cold blue wax and crooning to her, "Pretty, baby, pretty, baby, see how pretty, baby," and ran those bloodless fingers down over Marie's eyes and across her lips and Marie shut her eyes and rested her cheek on her mother's marble-smooth palm. Then her mother took her hand and led her through a long hall. "Come see how pretty, baby, come see how pretty." And Marie saw a mirror at the end of the hall. "Look how pretty, baby, see?" She pointed a finger at the mirror. Marie looked to see how pretty she was and screamed—she had no reflection.

She awoke with a start, but she couldn't move beyond that initial jerk. She knew she was awake but every muscle in her face and body was frozen. She couldn't move and she couldn't breathe. She could hear the bells from Immaculate and she could hear the shower in the bathroom. She was paralyzed. She couldn't even open her eyelids and her lungs were collapsing. She tried not to panic. She knew by now she had to concentrate. Relax. She had no breath in her lungs and couldn't open her mouth to scream. Then with a great inner wrenching she bolted upright in bed. Her lilac nightgown was damp with sweat. Marie was a kid when she first got these attacks. Her father had them also and he told her that if anybody touched her when she was awake and paralyzed like that she would die of a heart attack.