Chapter 8: Sunday Dinner

On Sunday my uncle's dining room had its good tablecloth out.

Carmine sat at the head, in cashmere, with a gold ring on every hand.

Two of his men sat along one side.

A lawyer in a gray suit sat at the foot with a leather folder under his elbow.

Vincent took the chair beside mine.

He hadn't touched me since last night, not even at the door.

I felt every inch of the space between our arms.

Carmine raised his glass.

"To family," he said. "To forgiving what can be forgiven."

Vincent lifted his glass an inch and put it down without drinking.

I drank mine.

The veal was my mother's recipe, and my uncle watched me take the first bite and smiled as if I were twelve.

We ate for an hour.

He asked about the restaurant. He asked about Nonna's hip. He laughed at a story one of his men told.

He didn't ask me about Friday, or the council, or the pills.

When the plates were cleared he went to the sideboard and came back with a white-capped jar.

"For my girl," Carmine said. "The same as every Sunday."

I took it.

Vincent held out his hand.

"I'll put it in the kitchen," he said.

It was the same thing he said every week, and I had never once thought about it.

I stood up. "I'll come."

My uncle's smile stayed where it was.

"Sit, Antonia. Let him carry it."

"I want to wash my hands."

I followed Vincent down the hall.

He went into my uncle's kitchen, shut the door behind me, and turned on the tap so the water ran.

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