Chapter 16: Not Forgiveness

At eleven that night Cecilia was still awake over the flour bins, furious with a man who had said nothing wrong.

Because you never once had a chance to say it.

She had heard it all through the evening rush, and all through the washing up.

He had asked her for one small thing and then walked away, and he had not even looked back.

At a quarter to midnight she locked the shop and walked to Pine Street.

The gate guard knew her face and opened it without a word.

The house was dark, except for one lamp at the top of the stairs.

She climbed them in her work shoes with flour still on her sleeves.

She did not knock.

Ettore stood by the window of his bedroom in his shirtsleeves, and he turned when the door opened.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

"I said no," she said.

"I heard you."

"I'm not here about Sunday."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I'm so angry I can't breathe," she said. "And you're the only person it belongs to."

He didn't move.

"Say it, then."

"You put me in that house."

"Yes."

"I was twenty-four. My father was dead and I was alone."

"You picked a husband for me like a coat off a hook."

"Yes."

"Stop agreeing with me!"

"What would you have me say?"

"That you had no right!"

"I had no right."

Her hands shook.

"You don't get to be sorry," she said. "You don't get to be the one who's hurt."

"I'm not asking to be."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to ask me for something," Ettore said.

It came out low, and it was not what she expected.

"What?"

"In three years you never asked me for one thing."

His jaw worked.

"I left every door open. I put a man on Delancey Street every night."

"When you had the flu, I sent soup through Zia and told her to say it was hers."

"I didn't know that."

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