Chapter 24: Every Number Moved

Ruggiero's number read 94.

I stood at the altar rail with my hands empty and read it twice.

That morning it had said 78. Nothing in the church had changed except a signature and a kiss.

I looked past him at the pews, and the numbers came up one after another.

The old doorman had 88, and he was nearly eighty.

My sister, laughing at the front with her hand on her chest, had 91.

My mother in the last pew read 86.

My father sat beside her with his hat in his hands.

His number had read 59 at the door.

It read 66 now.

I did not know what had moved it. I had not forgiven him, and I had not told him anything.

Maybe a man could earn seven years by sitting through his daughter's wedding in the last pew.

Maybe he had earned them by not asking for more.

Maybe it was only that the room had changed, and everyone in it with it.

I did not ask.

Ruggiero followed my eyes.

"What is it?" he said quietly.

"Everyone's moved."

"For better?"

"For better."

He laughed once, low, and kissed my forehead in front of the Commission.

The church emptied slowly.

The Falsetti men went out first, with the capos behind them. The doorman was wheeled to his car.

My mother stopped at the end of the aisle.

She did not try to touch me. She only stood with her handkerchief in her fist.

"Thank you for the pew," she said.

"It was the best seat in the house."

"Nerina, I..."

"Come to Sunday dinner, Mama," I said. "Not Papa. You. We'll see about him later."

She nodded, and her mouth shook, and she went out into the sun.

My father followed, a step behind her.

He paused beside me.

"Your drawings," he said hoarsely. "On the north wall. The vines."

"Yes."

"I should have looked at them years ago."

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