Her Birthday Celebration Was My Exit novel · Chapter 10 of 24

Chapter 10: Size Seven

I looked at the ring.

Old platinum, a diamond the size of a pea, the little filigree leaves on the shoulders worn soft by three generations of Salerno wives.

I had dreamed about that ring for four years.

"It's a seven now," I said.

He closed his hand.

"I'll have it sized back. Monday. I'll take it to Oak Street myself."

"Remo."

"I was stupid. I owed her father and I let it make me stupid. I can fix it."

"You can fix the ring."

The snow kept falling between us.

"You forgot our anniversary on your own," I said. "She didn't make you. She just noticed."

He opened his mouth.

Headlights swung across the awning. Pop's Buick pulled up to the curb with Ryder behind the wheel.

He didn't get out. He just waited, engine running, wipers going.

Remo looked at the car. Then at me.

"Him?"

"Goodbye, Remo."

I walked to the Buick and got in.

Ryder pulled away from the curb without a word.

In the side mirror, Remo stood under the awning in the snow with his fist closed.

He was still standing there when we turned the corner.

Pop was waiting up at the kitchen table in his robe.

It was midnight. There was a pot of coffee and half a ricotta cake on the table and the radio playing low.

"Well?"

I sat down.

"She lied about her birthday. In front of his mother."

"Ha!" Pop slapped the table so hard the cups jumped. "In front of his mother!"

"And he took the ring off her hand."

"In front of his mother?"

"In front of everybody."

Pop leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

Then he looked at Ryder, who was still standing in the doorway in his funeral suit with snow melting on his shoulders.

"Sit down, Captain. You want cake?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good answer."

Ryder sat. Pop cut him a slab.

Then Pop got that look.

"Did she ever tell you about the toaster?"

"Pop, no."

"She was seven. She took my toaster apart on the kitchen floor to see how it worked."

"I put it back together."

"She put it back together with three screws left over and it toasted on one side only for eleven years." Pop pointed his fork at Ryder. "Eleven years. One side."

Ryder was trying very hard not to laugh.

"When she was sixteen she made me drive her to Midway every Saturday to watch planes land. Every Saturday. In the rain. I'd fall asleep in the car. She'd sit on the hood with a notebook writing down tail numbers."

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