The Family(87)

And a gunshot.



* * *



—

Death is indiscriminate. Death does not come knocking and ask who is least needed. It does not notice if you have a family; it does not care that you are one of the gears that turns the very world. Death does not take the slowest, the weakest, those separated from the pack. It reaches its hands into the heart. It pulls out something essential. It does not ask you to continue on, but you do anyway.

You cannot help it.



* * *



—

Sofia and Antonia hold on to one another as the wind picks up. It blows their clothes against their bodies. It cannot worm its way into their embrace. They are saying thank you, thank you and they are mourning everything and they are not just talking about this moment but their lives, their whole lives side by side, the incomprehensible blessing of it.

Behind them, Saul and Paolo stripping a sheet of plastic from a nearby pile of bricks. They will cover Tommy Fianzo Jr.’s body with it. They are already plotting how they can make this seem like an accident, like Eli’s fault, like a casualty of conflict, rather than a catalyst for war.

Paolo and Saul turn to look at Sofia and Antonia. Every moment they are alive, they have more to lose.



* * *



—

Antonia pulls away from Sofia and looks down at her right hand.

The gun is nestled there; her finger still brushing the trigger. They are locked together now, it and she, part of something. They are at the beginning, and the end. They are a choice, and they are the aftermath.

Antonia moves her gaze out over the East River. Carlo is there. It is the first time Antonia has been able to picture his face since she was a child. He looks at Antonia. All my life I’ve wanted you to see what I’ve become, Papa, she tells him. He sees everything. He smiles. And then he disappears into the river.



* * *



—

“Thank you,” says Sofia again. If you can see me.

Thank you, Antonia does not say, but Sofia hears it. If I can see you.



* * *



—

It begins to rain.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



Before I was a writer, I was a reader. It’s an incomparable privilege to contribute a volume to the libraries I love so much.

This would still be a Word document I kept open behind my other work without Dana Murphy, who loves this family like I do. I am in awe of the compassion, honesty, and thoughtfulness you put into your work, and I feel so lucky to do this alongside you. Thank you, my friend.

Tara Singh Carlson has nurtured the seed at the center of this book; it has grown bigger under her care than I ever imagined it could. Thank you for your bold vision and for the trust you put in me. Working with you has made me a better writer.

At Putnam, I’d also like to thank Ashley Di Dio, Bill Peabody, Janice Barral, Katy Riegel, Monica Cordova, Madeline Hopkins, Katie McKee, Nicole Biton, Brennin Cummings, Cassie Sublette, and formerly of Putnam, Helen O’Hare. It still amazes me that so many incredibly talented people have devoted their time, labor, and expertise to my story. Thank you for making such a beautiful book.

It is possible for me to draw a line from every book I have ever read to this one. Maybe this is less true in later books, but this is my first, and everything is in here. However, I owe a particular debt to Christ in Concrete by Pietro di Donato, to Kevin Baker’s gorgeous New York fiction, to The Godfather by Mario Puzo, and of course, to The Sopranos—which is not a book, but whose richly realized characters helped me understand the importance of getting violence and love to coexist on the page. The paper “Origins of the Sicilian Mafia: The Market for Lemons” by Arcangelo Dimico, Alessia Isopi, and Ola Olsson provided direct inspiration for an important scene. Antonia would not have had the same translation of Metamorphoses as I do, but I am attached to my copy, translated by Charles Martin.

My remarkable network of family and friends served as emotional ballast, home base, personal chef, first reader. This wouldn’t exist without any of you:

Mom, you are my North Star. I am of and because of you.

Dad, thank you for teaching me to read, and to ROAR.

My brother, Adam, follows his heart; he always has; he gives me courage to do the same.

Nancy Veerhusen, Jana McAninch, Emma McAninch, and Violet Wernham expanded my understanding of family, and I am more loving, more empathetic, and smarter because of it; this book is better because of it.

I am immensely grateful to the Galison-Jones-Freymann clan. Mia and Sax, thank you for housing me the first fall I worked on this book in earnest. Thank you, along with Marion and Gerry, for sharing your family and its stories with me, and for telling me which is the best bagel place in New York. Carrie and Peter, thank you for letting me write in your Wellfleet house, which has solved every case of writer’s block I’ve ever brought to it. Thank you all for giving this California girl an East Coast home.

Katie Henry has been my role model since I was sixteen; thank you for doing this first and answering all my panicked questions. I hope to move through the world with a fraction of your grace and humor. Rob, thank you for the tour of Arthur Avenue. Emily Beyda read an early draft when I didn’t think I could write another word and gave me feedback that enabled me to keep going. Tessa Hartley housed me during that same nomad fall I began to really work on this; some of what’s here was written on her porch in New Orleans. Ezra and Nick Paganelli are the official keepers of my soul and sanity; thank you for snack cake and sips and scaloppine, for Sunday dinners and shouting. All anyone needs to know about Alyssa May Gold is that despite living together when we were nineteen, she’s still willing to be my friend. But on top of that, she is a force of nature, an incisive and feeling artist, and she has talked me down from countless emotional and creative ledges. My teachers Laura Slatkin and Christopher Trogan gave me many of the stories I love most, and a whole new language in which to consider them. Kathryn Grantham and the staff at Black Bird Bookstore have been an inimitable support as I edited; thank you for the privilege of spending my working days talking to people about books. And I would be remiss without thanking Fresh Direct the cat, without whose persistent weight on my feet I never would have been able to sit still long enough to finish even a single chapter.