Chapter 23: The Kitchen Door

On Thursday at seven the basement of the Church of the Assumption smelled of onions, and my name was on the door.

The widow with the grey braid had lettered it herself on a square of card.

Sabina Costa, Kitchen.

I stood in front of it for a minute with my sleeves rolled to the elbow.

I could not stop smiling.

For three years I had signed these envelopes with a name that was not mine.

Now I stood on the other side of the money, in an apron with my initials stitched on the pocket.

Fourteen women worked at the long tables.

The flour-white widow had put me in charge of the soup.

She had not once let me forget that she was supervising.

"Too much salt," she said, tasting from the ladle.

"It's the right amount."

"It's the right amount for a Falzone. We are Costas in this kitchen. Less salt."

The women laughed.

It was a good sound, and I had not heard it in a house since my mother died.

Around eight a girl of nineteen came down with a basket of bread from the bakery and set it on the table.

I turned back to the pot, and the widow with the grey braid touched my arm.

She had a way of arriving without a sound.

"There is a man on the church steps," she said quietly.

My spoon stopped.

"He has been there every Thursday since the dinner. Three weeks."

"Is it who I think?"

"He stands at the top until you come up to go home. Then he goes away before you see him." She looked toward the stairs. "Tonight he didn't go."

I put down the spoon and wiped my palms on my apron.

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