Chapter 8: Lunch on Staten Island

Dario's parents lived in a yellow house on Staten Island with a plastic Madonna in the front garden and a mailbox shaped like a fish.

I had walked up that path six Christmases in a row.

This time I was wearing my gray coat, and nothing blue.

Dario met me on the porch before I could knock.

"You came." He looked tired, and for a moment I felt sorry for him. "Where's the ring?"

"In my pocket."

"Put it on. Mom will see."

"Your mother is going to see a lot of things today."

His jaw tightened, but the door opened behind him and his mother stood there with flour on her apron.

"Justine!"

She pulled me into a hug that smelled of garlic and baby powder.

"You look thin," she said. "He doesn't feed you. I told him. Come in, come in, everyone's here."

Everyone was.

The long table was set for ten with the good plates, and a pot of lasagna sat steaming in the middle.

Sergio's mother had arrived before me, wearing her red coat even indoors.

Sergio sat beside her, looking at his hands.

Sal was by the window, as far from the table as he could stand.

Dario's father sat at the head, a big gray man with a newspaper he was not reading.

He nodded to me once and did not smile.

I had always taken that for shyness.

"Where's Gemma?" Dario's mother asked, setting down a bread basket. "You said you were bringing a friend. I've been dying to meet her."

I heard the newspaper crackle.

"She's parking," Dario said. "Her cat's in the car."

"Bring the cat!"

"Mom."

"What? I like cats."

His father folded the paper in half, and then in half again.

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