Chapter 24: Sunday at the Docks

The first Sunday table on pier three was set at one o'clock, under a white sky with the harbor wind flapping the cloths.

The dockmen had carried the trestles out of the warehouse that morning.

Somebody's wife had brought flowers in a bucket, and somebody's son had strung lights along the crane.

I stood at the head of the planks in a green dress with my sleeves rolled up, counting chairs.

There were forty.

The capos arrived with their wives, and the cousin came with a tray of cannoli and no jokes.

The oldest capo took off his hat at the end of the pier and stood a moment, looking at the water.

"Your father used to feed the whole crew here on Easter," he said. "I came once. I was nineteen."

"He'd have been glad you came back," I said.

He nodded, and went to find his seat.

Ettore came last, with Agata on his arm.

She wore her church black and carried her cane, and she looked along the whole pier with her chin high.

"Bellandi's planks," she said. "I never once stood here."

"You're welcome at them every week," I said.

"I may take you up on it."

She took the chair at his right, which I had put there for her.

I took the one at his left.

The table was long and loud, and there were children running under it.

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