Chapter 26: Dutch

"Yes," I said.

"Yes?"

"On one condition. We split the check."

"Down the middle. To the cent. That's my price."

Then he laughed, out loud, on the church steps.

"Done," he said.

Pasquale came home from the hospital on Sunday, on Damiano's good arm, complaining about the soup.

That night at dinner he looked down the table at Damiano, who was eating sitting down.

"I hear you asked her out," he said.

Damiano choked on his water.

"Who told you that?"

"The whole parish."

The date was the next Saturday.

I made a dress for it on the pants lady's granddaughter's machine, with the door closed.

Dark green velvet from the remnant bin. Long sleeves. A low back.

I cut it for the body I had that week, fed three meals a day at Pasquale's table since the night I moved into his house.

Dad saw it first, through a crack in the door, and went away to blow his nose in the hall.

Damiano was waiting at the bottom of the stairs in a gray suit.

His arm was out of the strap. He held it a little stiff.

He looked at the dress, and his face didn't close at all this time.

"You made that this week," he said.

"Since Tuesday."

"It's the best thing in this house."

Pasquale shouted from the kitchen that he was standing right there.

The restaurant was on the river, two blocks from the Merchandise Mart.

I looked at Damiano over the top of the menu.

"Is this the place?"

"This is the place."

"The one you saved for since August."

"I made the reservation in Nonno's name. I wanted it to be the same."

The third course was a single raviolo on a white plate, with a sauce drawn around it in a perfect circle.

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