Clouds of steam, a mist of flour, tubs of boiling oil, counters spread with sheets of dough, waxed paper covered with slabs of fresh, seasoned fish. That hulking white stove, a museum piece that would probably outlive them all. In the next room, the spindle of the record player was crammed with the same Christmas 45s that had been wafting into this kitchen for Francesca’s whole life: Caruso, Lanza, Fontane, you name it. Children ran in and out, always underfoot, nibbling sweet scraps. Aunt Kay stood at the sink, washing dishes until it came time to make the handful of things she knew how to make. Her mother, Sandra, sturdy and earthy, and Aunt Connie, shrill and bitter, had never liked each other, but in this kitchen they anticipated one another’s moves and needs as if they were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Angelina-her grandmother’s Palermitan aunt, who must be a hundred years old now and still without a word of English-sat in the corner behind a card table, assembling ingredients that came her way. And of course Grandma Carmela oversaw everything, barking out instructions, stepping in to execute the most tricky tasks, all with an abiding love always felt but never stated.
Kathy pointed to a pyramid of milky-white eggplant, then handed Francesca a chef’s knife and a freshly uncapped bottle of black cherry Brookdale soda, chilled in a snowbank outside. One look at the bottle-they couldn’t get it in Florida, of course-and Francesca broke into tears again. Where had the tough girl gone? Where was the part of her that had been Kathy?
“Ah, the sweet tears of joy,” her grandmother said in Italian. She raised her chipped coffee mug, the same one she’d used for as long as Francesca could remember, its faded image of the Hawaiian Islands now crusted on the outside with the remnants of a dozen doughs and batters. “For a proper cena de Natale, this is the ingredient most crucial of all!”
Who could help but be moved by this affirmation, from the lips of a woman widowed less than a year? Each of the other women scrambled to find her own cup, mug, or bottle and raised it high.
Against the nape of her neck, Francesca felt Kathy’s face, the temple of those eyeglasses. “You’re just a big sap,” Kathy whispered, and together, identically, the twins laughed.
At Mass, Francesca had to keep whispering instructions to Billy, who’d never set foot in a Catholic church before. He was as endearingly clumsy with the kneeling and the crossing as he was on the dance floor. But she could feel Kathy’s eyes on Billy, even if Billy couldn’t. She could hear Kathy saying that this was just the kind of thing that’s lovable now and makes you crazy later, even if Kathy-seated at the far end of the pew, steadying poor Zia Angelina-uttered nothing but hymn and litany.
When the church bell tolled for repentance, Francesca made a fist and struck her breast softly four times, one for each hour in the Sand Dollar Inn. At the altar rail, she did it again, one for each time that they’d made love. Walking back to the pew, she kept her eyes down, penitent, away from Billy’s, but once she kneeled and finished her prayer, she sat back and took his hand. Only then did she realize that Aunt Kay-next to her, still on her knees, her lips moving in silent prayer-had taken Communion, too.
“She converted,” Kathy said on the ride home.
“I figured that, but after all these years?” Francesca said. “For the kids, I guess?”
They were in Billy’s T-Bird.
Kathy raised an eyebrow. Even with the glasses, she bore a disconcerting resemblance to their mother. “Per l’anima mortale di suo marito.” For her husband’s mortal soul.
Her husband’s mortal soul? Francesca frowned at her sister.
“She goes every day,” Kathy said. “Just like Grandma. And for the same reason.”
“Everybody goes for the same reason.” Francesca still hadn’t been able to pull her sister aside and ask what she’d meant when she’d said, You’re pregnant. “More or less.”
Kathy’s eyes widened, exasperated.
Despite or more likely because of the heavy absences felt by nearly everyone around the table, the Corleone family’s traditional Christmas Eve feast of the seven fishes was as loud and raucous as ever. The wine flowed freely, the women making up for what, in years past, would have been drunk by men. During the early courses, the children’s Christmas letters, expressing their plainspoken love for their parents, were read one by one, youngest to the oldest. The poignant and disturbing notes receded as the writers got older, but every letter was received with strident good cheer, culminating in the letter from Aunt Connie. It was the first time in more than thirty years that Carmela Corleone had received only one declaration of filial love-a delicate moment that Connie, to the astonishment of more than a few, lightened with a letter so hilarious that it was still being passed around courses later.
Likewise, all hearts were warmed by the story of Vito Corleone’s lone intrusion into the romantic lives of his children-the blind date he’d arranged many years before for Connie, soon after she’d begun dating Carlo Rizzi, with a nice boy who’d just graduated from college with a business degree. Ed Federici’s lively, self-deprecating version of the disastrous date inspired Mama Corleone to slip a champagne toast to the happy fidanzati in between courses.
And what courses they were: Crab legs and shrimp cocktail. Fried baccala and stuffed calamari. Steamed clams in a marinara sauce, over fresh angel-hair pasta. And finally-at least until the break before dessert-flounder stuffed with spinach, sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and several secret ingredients Zia Angelina had inserted when no one was watching.
“The risk of heart attack,” said Ed Federici, palms on the table, dazed as a man looking at the empty space where his stolen car used to be, “triples in the first hour after a heavy meal.”
Stan had given up halfway through the last course and was asleep in the next room, bathed in the flickering glow of an unwatched football game. Only two people were still eating: Frankie, forking it in like a champ, and Billy, who was poking at his flounder like a man who’d found gold and was trying to recall why it was valuable.
Connie shushed Ed and slapped him on top of his florid, prematurely bald head. “Mamma hears that, she’ll be the one who has the heart attack.” She’d been drinking wine at the same pace all day and had just opened a new bottle of Marsala. Her slap, theoretically playful, was loud enough that those watching it flinched. Several people in other rooms stuck their head around the corner to investigate. The slap had immediately left a hand-shaped mark.
Francesca led Billy from the table, taking him into her grandfather’s old office just as Aunt Kay finished folding up the kids’ table. “You get enough to eat, Billy?” Kay asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat down heavily on the leather couch against the wall.
“Save room for dessert,” Kay said, smirking. “Hey, either of you seen Anthony?”
“He’s outside, I think,” Billy said. “With Chip and a bunch of the Clemenza kids.” They were the children of kids Francesca used to play with when she was Chip’s age. Now those playmates had families of their own and lived in houses down the street.
They were alone now. “You did good, baby. They like you, I can tell.”
“Why are you grinning like that?” he asked, lying across the couch, clutching his stomach.
She knelt on the floor beside him. “No such thing as a free lunch,” she whispered. “So pay up, buster. Kiss me.”
He obeyed. It lingered, not the sort of kiss Francesca had meant to have in this house. When she opened her eyes, the lights were flashing off and on.
“Don’t make me dump cold water on you,” Kathy said. “C’mon. Dishes. March. I’ll wash, you dry.”
Billy lay back, the same sated look on his face he’d had in the hotel, and finger-waved.