Chapter 24: May I

I walked up the long drive on Sunday at ten to one, in my good shoes, with a cake box in my hands.

The gate stood open.

Nobody had told the two men in the lodge to let me through, and they did not stop me.

Remo opened the front door before I could ring.

His arm was out of the sling, and he wore a clean shirt.

He looked at the cake box and then at my face.

"Mrs. Falzone."

"I owe you forty dollars," I said. "For the cab."

"I don't remember it."

"You told me to say you didn't give it to me."

His broad face moved, and I saw him decide not to smile.

"Keep it," he said. "It's a bad week to be counting."

The dining room was full.

The long table had been laid for twenty-two, with white cloths and the good plates.

The old baker sat where he had always sat, with the garage owner and his wife.

The widow with the flour-white face had been given a seat she had never been offered before.

Emilio sat three chairs down from the head, in a jacket too big for him.

He lifted his glass at me without a word.

Ignazio's chair stood empty at the corner.

Nobody had moved it.

Nobody had sat in it, either, and nobody looked at it.

Orsola's chair was gone.

At the head of the table, Tancredi stood up.

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