Chapter 9: Six Months

The restaurant was on Taylor Street, four blocks from the dry cleaner.

I'd walked past it every morning for five weeks. Red awning. Old men out front with espresso even in the cold.

I never knew who ate in the back room.

They kept Dad overnight for the kidney. A guard I didn't hire sat outside his curtain.

The man from the waiting room walked me down Taylor Street himself.

He didn't say a word the whole way.

Inside, the dining room was warm and loud and smelled like garlic and bread.

Nobody looked at me. Everybody looked at the man beside me, and then quickly away.

He led me through the kitchen.

A cook was stirring a pot of red sauce.

At the back was a plain wooden door.

He knocked once and opened it for me.

The back room had one long table, one lamp, and a window onto the alley.

Damiano sat at the far end with papers in front of him and his sleeves rolled up.

He'd taken off the coat.

Without it he looked more like himself, and that was worse.

"Sit down," he said.

"I'll stand."

"Sit down, Lucia. You've been on your feet since six this morning."

I didn't ask how he knew that.

I sat.

The man from the waiting room closed the door from the outside.

There was a plate on the table in front of my chair.

Chicken. Roasted potatoes. Green beans with garlic. A piece of bread still steaming.

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask."

We looked at each other down the length of the table.

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