Michael Malone - Weebly

mourned his brother.
Now, as he drove up Three Branch, past his
boyhood apartment, on his way to Our Lady of Mercy
to light the candle as his mother had asked, Marco
looked over at the spilled garbage littering the trailer
park. Something could be made of that lot. Perhaps a
plant to process an entire line of Mama's products. He
could even, he decided, as he pushed a $10 bill into the
church collection box beside the red-bottled candles, he
could even put a picture of Mama's face on the red
bottles of spaghetti sauce. There she would be, smiling
in row after row, millions of smiles in thousands of
stores, his blood from coast to coast. At seven Marco
stopped in front of the grimed brick rowhouse where
the MacDermotts lived without enough room, Sarah
said, to wear out a crippled ant. Her son, Joe
MacDermott Jr., was Carl Marco's delivery boy. He'd
decided to give the boy a ride to the edge of town.
The MacDermotts were a working family. This
morning Tommy (thirteen) was already on the streets—
tubes of news, the Argyle Standard, stacked like organ