Chapter 24: One Hour at the Edge of the Grass

On the morning Daisy turned one, she took four steps across the kitchen floor and sat down hard on the fifth.

"She's walking," Santo said, with a coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

"She's falling in a straight line."

"That's walking."

He put the cup down and went to his knees on the tile with his arms out.

She looked at him, considered it, and crawled to him instead.

I wore the bracelet and my wedding ring.

The green ledger sat on the shelf over the stove, next to my mother's cookbook.

We had married in the yard in April.

The old capo had been our witness, and the adviser had read the vows from his black notebook.

Santo had cried, and denied it.

My studio had opened again in September, three blocks from Atwells Avenue, a narrow shop with six tables and a counter.

The woman with the lasagna had been first in line on opening day.

By eleven that morning, the yard was full of folding tables and children.

Forty-one families had come, with their covered dishes.

The old capo sat under the oak with his cane across his knees.

The adviser stood near the cake with his hat in his hand, watching Daisy's every step.

Gianna had come, with Rocco on her hip.

She worked now at a florist on Wickenden Street.

Every month a money order arrived from Boston on the first, to cover her rent.

She hadn't forgiven herself, and I hadn't asked her to.

She stood a little apart from the other guests, and when I came to her, she said, "I didn't think you'd really invite us."

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