Chapter 13: The Heel of the Bread

"The heel of the bread," I said. "With the oil and the salt on it, still warm."

My mother looked at me from the step below, with snow on her good shoes.

"That's what you want to eat?" she said.

"That's part of it. I want the pistachio end of the cannoli, and I want to sit down while I eat it."

"Come inside," she said. "Both of you. It's too cold for this."

Seth looked at me and did not move.

"Okay yes or okay whatever?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I said. "Come in."

The house was empty when we walked back through it.

My aunt had gone, and the uncles, and the cousins with them.

The table still held the soup and the half-eaten bread, and the cannoli plate sat in the middle with nobody's name on it.

My father stood at the sink with his sleeves rolled, washing glasses.

He nodded at Seth, dried his hands, and went upstairs without a word, which in my father meant a great deal.

My mother sat me down in the kitchen on a real chair with a cushion.

She cut the heel off a loaf, poured oil on it, salted it, and put it in the oven for two minutes.

Seth stood by the doorway until she pointed at the chair across from me, and then he sat.

She set the bread in front of me on a plate.

I ate it while she watched, and neither of us said anything until it was gone.

"I did not know that," she said then. "That you liked that."

"I've liked it since I was seven."

"You used to stand by the stove and eat it out of my hand."

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