I Think She was Crying

Sitting on his red, concrete-smear stoop, Mancuso whittled with a pearl-handle, nine-inch stiletto. His hair was white, complexion pale, with deep facial creases like a Hellenistic bust. Moss-covered, stone planters flanked him, an aluminum door with an “M” in the grill, behind. His faded-shingle, row house stood across from a brown-brick, public housing apartment where…