Chapter 23: Day-Old Bread

By December the line outside Fontana's began forming before six in the morning.

It ran past the tailor's, past the pharmacy, and around the corner of Ninth Street.

The tailor's wife had brought a folding stool, and she sold nothing and told everyone in line what to order.

Cecilia worked the counter in her father's apron with her sleeves pushed up and her hair tied back.

The gold band flashed on her hand every time she reached for a bag.

Santi stood on a milk crate beside her and handed out rolls with tongs.

He had decided, on his own, that this was his job.

"One dozen, Aunt Cece," he announced. "That's the lady in the green hat. She likes the burned ones."

"I don't like the burned ones," said the lady in the green hat. "I like the crisp ones."

"Those are the burned ones."

The whole shop laughed.

Cecilia was laughing too when the door opened, and the cold came in, and the laughter thinned.

Simona stood in the doorway.

She wore the same black coat as at the church, but the hem had come down.

Her hair was pulled back without pins, and her face was thin.

Behind her came Adamo in a coat that was no longer his size.

He had lost weight, and his handsome face had gone slack and yellow under the shop lights.

The line leaned back from them.

"I've brought him," Simona said, to the air above Santi's head. "It's my day to bring him."

"Thank you," Cecilia said.

"We..." Simona's voice caught. She swallowed. "We want bread."

"Of course. Please wait your turn."

"We've been standing out there for forty minutes!"

"So has everyone," said the tailor's wife, without turning round.

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