Chapter 12: The Birthday

Pop's seventy-fifth birthday filled the private room at Corsaro's and spilled out onto the stairs.

A hundred people in their best clothes.

Gold balloons this time, a cake five tiers high, a band in the corner playing Sinatra too loud.

Pop sat at the head of the long table in a black suit that was much too big for him now, the oxygen line under his nose.

Every man who came in bent to kiss his cheek.

Archie came in holding my hand and Bess's hand, in a little navy blazer Bess had bought him that morning.

He'd agreed to the blazer on the condition that he could keep his dinosaur socks on.

The room turned to look at him.

I watched them all see it.

The eyes. The chin.

Gianni stood against the far wall.

He didn't come to us.

We'd agreed.

But his eyes went to Archie and stayed there, and I saw his throat move.

Carmine came through the crowd with his arms open.

"There he is," he said. "There's my boy."

He crouched in front of Archie.

Archie looked at him.

"Hello," Archie said politely. "Are you better at chess than your brother?"

Carmine's smile didn't move.

"I don't play chess, kid."

"That's probably smart," Archie said.

Bess made a noise and turned it into a cough.

Lucia was at a corner table by herself.

Long sleeves, on a hot night.

She didn't look at Carmine once.

She didn't look at anyone.

At nine o'clock the band stopped, and Carmine went to the microphone.

"Everybody," he said. "Before Pop speaks. There's been a lot of talk this week. I want to put it to bed."

He held up a white envelope.

"Independent lab. Certified. Results came Friday morning."

He opened it and read it out with his chin up.

"Probability of paternity: ninety-nine point nine percent."

He looked at Archie.

"That's my son."

The room applauded.

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