Chapter 18: The Memorial

"The boy loses nothing," Ettore said. "The ones who lied are the ones who lose."

Simona's mouth opened and closed.

He blew out the candle and walked past her down the aisle.

That night forty people sat down at the long table on Pine Street.

At its head stood an empty chair with a plate before it.

A candle burned beside the plate for the dead brother.

Ettore had pulled the chair at his right hand out himself.

Cecilia stood behind it for a long moment.

Then she sat.

Nobody at the table said a word, though forty pairs of eyes followed her down.

Adamo sat halfway along on the left side with his collar loose.

Simona came in last, and took the only seat that was left, between two of the old men.

Santi sat at the far end beside Zia, with a napkin tucked into his shirt and a roll in his left hand.

They ate lamb.

The old men told stories about the dead brother, and some of them were funny.

Ettore ate nothing.

When the plates were cleared, Zia pushed back her chair and stood up with her hands folded.

"I have kept something in a drawer for two years," she said.

"I was asked to give it to my nephew on the second Mass, if the table needed it."

She laid a narrow envelope in front of Ettore.

It was yellow with age.

"He wrote it the week before he died," Zia said.

"He gave it to me in my own kitchen. Read it, Ettore. Out loud. He asked for that."

Ettore opened it with a steady hand.

His voice, when it came, was low and clear.

"Ettore. If Zia has given you this, you have buried me and the table has a question in it."

The room had gone quiet.

"My son's chin is my brother's chin. I have known since before he was born."

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