I wash my hands, dry them on a towel that smells of lemons, and take my seat. Marco pushes a folded paper place card toward me. It readsPAPAin thick marker. He explains the menu like a maître d’. “We have meatball spaghetti, almond croissants, andthe cookies Nonna said you’re allowed to eat two of, but I think three is okay tonight.”
“Two,” Maria says without heat.
“Two and a half,” I bargain, and Marco looks at me like I’ve just taught him statecraft.
We eat. It is grand and perfect. Grand because the tableisabundant, almost absurdly so for a small-town kitchen after everything it has endured. Marco retells the story of the pageant, this time adding a dragon I apparently defeated near the piano. Lila listens with her hand around her cup, her mouth curved in that small shape I didn’t know I wanted to earn. She asks him the right questions and lets him be brave without turning fear into a joke.
When my plate’s clean, I cover her hand with mine. The crown slips another degree to the left. She reaches up and nudges it straight with two fingers, eyes laughing. I don’t move my hand.
“Tomorrow,” she says softly, “we take Marco to the hill again. And you fix the cabinet door that sticks.”
“Tomorrow,” I agree. It’s the best word I’ve said in years.
Maria rises to clear and waves me down when I try to help. “You stay,” she says. “You keep the crown on. It suits you.” She winks at Marco. “Your papa is the king of the kitchen tonight.”
So I sit in a room that no longer needs guarding, and the relief feels almost perplexing. It doesn’t yet know how to exist in harmony where noise has lived too long. The clock by the register ticks, a sound I’ve learned to like. Maybe now it counts the time I want, not the time I owe.
When eight slips into nine and nine into ten, neighbors knock, leave a tin at the door, and call “Happy New Year!Buon Anno!” through their scarves. The sheriff passes the window, collar up, hat pulled low, tips two fingers, and keeps walking. Hal’s truck idles at the corner while he wrestles with a sawhorse, and when I offer a hand, he takes it with his usual gruff kind of welcome.
A little before midnight, I step to the back and check the locks out of habit. The alley shows me only the pale prints of a cat that chose a better roof. I switch off the last outside light and come back to the table where the boy is starting to fade and the women are pretending not to see it.
We don’t have champagne to welcome the year just around the corner. We have milk in mugs and coffee in thick cups and two cookies that somehow become three. Marco fights sleep like a soldier until the last minute, then folds against Lila’s side and is gone between one breath and the next. She smooths his hair and doesn’t move. I tuck a blanket over his legs and straighten the crooked crown with two fingers. It leans right back. I let it.
The clock hands climb toward twelve. The room’s warm. The ring rests against her skin, the only new thing that feels old. I listen for the echo of my own voice from another life, the one that counted exits, debts, and orders. Remembering has its use. I can’t deny that. It’ll never go silent, but it no longer gets to run the table.
The minute hand nears the mark. Maria appears in the doorway from the kitchen, two sparklers in hand—faux, but her smile’s genuine. She kisses Marco’s head, then mine, quick and sure, the way a woman does when she’s decided who belongs to her family.
The lights begin to concentrate—Lila’s hand, Marco’s head, Maria’s smile. As they do, they kindle with meaning, for now and for the year standing on the threshold. New Year’s has two faces, one turned back and the other looking forward. With Lila’s hand in mine, I can make both of them belong.
The clock begins to chime. One. Two. Three. The sound moves through the room like footsteps down a hallway you know by heart.
I glance at the door out of habit. Then I look back at her on purpose. She leans in, close enough that I see the flecks of gold in her eyes, her mouth curved in that small, certain way. Her voice falls to a whisper meant for me alone.
“Welcome home, Matteo.”
31
EPILOGUE
MARCO
Six months later, New York City
Mama says the lights will be bright, but I didn’t think they’ll be this bright. They’re a thousand tiny suns, bouncing off the shiny floor and the shiny clothes. Papa says the whole place sparkles like the inside of a snow globe. He’s right. The music thumps in my chest like a small drum, and he leans close so I can hear him through it.
I sit in the front row between Papa and Nonna. My legs still swing because the chair’s too big. Papa wears his black suit. He looks like the men on TV who never smile, except he smiles now, just for me. He keeps one big hand on my shoulder. It’s a secret signal that meansI’ve got you.
Nonna has a scarf with gold thread. She tucks it tighter and whispers, “Watch the shoes,” like we came here for shoe school. I nod like a serious person who understands shoe school.
The runway’s a long mirror. A lady with a headset kneels in front of me and says, “Are you our little VIP?”
Papa answers, “Family.” The lady smiles and gives me a small card that saysGUESTin silver letters. It feels important in my pocket.
People in tall chairs talk into little black sticks. Then the music changes, and everything falls quiet, like everyone just took a sip at the same time and didn’t swallow. Mama comes out. The room makes the sound the hot oven makes when you open it—a big whoosh. She glides like a fairy, her dress swishing like liquid stars. Her eyes find me in the middle of all the flash and color, and she smiles. Then she looks even better, like the lights were waiting for her.
I lean toward Papa. “That’s my mama.”
“I know,stellino,” he says, mouth twitching. “She’s the most beautiful thing here.”
