Chapter 9: The Open Door

"On the table," I repeated. "In front of all of them."

"Where else?"

"Dom. They'll hate you for it."

"Some of them already do." A truck horn went off behind him. "Wear something you can walk out in."

He hung up.

Carmela leaned on her broom.

"What did he say?"

"He said wear something I can walk out in."

She stared at me. Then she took out her phone and opened her betting pool.

On Sunday I wore a dark green dress and flat shoes.

Thirty people sat at the long table in the house on the bluff, the way they had two weeks ago.

The old men at one end. Their wives at the other. Gravy in the good tureen.

Only this time I sat at Dom's right hand, where his wife used to sit.

Every one of those wives watched me unfold my napkin.

Nicky sat halfway down, alone.

No girl in a white dress.

He had a fresh haircut.

He smiled at me through the whole antipasto.

Augie said grace.

He did it beautifully, in his soft voice, and asked God to watch over the newlyweds.

Nobody talked business through the pasta or the veal.

Then the cannoli came out on Nonna's old bakery trays, and the wives began to stack the plates, and the old men leaned back.

Dom stood up.

The table went quiet the way it had for Nicky's news.

"My grandfather made a rule," Dom said. "You all know it. A woman who marries into this family doesn't leave it. If she tries, this table sits."

Nobody moved.

"This table has sat before." He looked down it at a very old man near the end, who looked at his plate. "Some of you were in the room."

One of the wives crossed herself.

"I never used that rule," Dom said. "I never ended it, either. That was cowardice. It ends today."

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