Lina has raised an eyebrow. She can hear her late husband’s name now. “Yes,” she says.
“When Carlo wanted—to get out.” As Paolo speaks he drapes the name of his wife’s father over his tongue, holding it out to Lina like an offering, entering himself into a tragedy which has never been named explicitly but which sits at every dinner with them, follows Robbie out the door on his way to school, hunching Antonia’s shoulders as she sits on the side of their bed to brush her hair at night. The work Antonia must have had to do to love him all these years strikes Paolo like a bag of cement to the chest.
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“Well,” says Lina. She leans back in her chair. She raises her drink to her lips. “My husband,” and here she tips the drink to the sky, a toast, “didn’t do a very good job, getting out. So. Why do you bring this up?” She looks at Antonia, whose face is a map. And Lina understands.
“It’s Saul, Mamma,” says Antonia. The words bloom in the air around them like tea leaves; they settle. “Saul has been working for Eli Leibovich. He’s been sneaking—”
Lina waves a hand. The same mess. The same men, getting themselves into inescapable trouble without thinking how they are going to get themselves out.
“I never thought it would be Saul,” she says, looking straight at Paolo. Paolo stares at his glass. He tries not to take it personally.
“Sofia is missing,” says Antonia.
Lina smiles. “How do you know that?”
“I can feel it, Mamma,” says Antonia. “I can just—” She doesn’t know how she knows, really, except that when Saul told her he couldn’t reach Sofia something clicked into place, something caught flame.
“Well,” says Lina, “she might not be missing. She might just be solving the problem.” This feels oblique even for Lina because what, thinks Antonia, could Sofia do? Even Sofia would not be able to solve this inherited problem, this problem every woman who enters into a Family family knows she might someday face.
“I don’t know what you mean,” says Antonia.
Lina looks at Antonia and Paolo. “You know there is nothing you can do. That’s why you came, right? So that I could tell you there is nothing you can do. You are out of options. Saul has made his choices, and he will suffer. We will all suffer,” she says.
“Mamma,” Antonia says, but then falls silent.
Lina drains her cup. “Because there is nothing you can do—there is no right choice—there is no way to get out of this unscathed—there is also no reason for you not to fight for him.” The air in the apartment sits, waiting.
Lina leans forward to look at Antonia. “Don’t let him do to her what your papa did to us. You fight for him. You use everything you have.”
When Sofia and Antonia were nine years old, they made a blood oath. This is what they called it.
It happened one evening when Antonia slept over at Sofia’s house. Antonia was supposed to sleep on the floor, on a nest Rosa made for her near Sofia’s bed. But every time she slept over, Rosa would come in to wake them and find Sofia and Antonia with their brown limbs tangled together in Sofia’s bed.
On this particular evening they had gone to bed early because it was November, and the city had gone dark and quiet earlier than they were used to, and Rosa had served steaming bowls of soup that made them sleepy. Sofia was in the middle of a ghost story about a sailor forever looking for his missing foot when her hand, idly tapping along her bedframe, came upon a loose nail. Tonia, look, she said, working it out of the wood. It gleamed in the lamplight when she held it up.
Without speaking, Sofia sat up, and Antonia did too.
Sofia took the nail and aimed it at the soft skin of her open palm. She dragged it across her hand, eyes narrowed. She had to do it twice to get the blood. She passed the nail to Antonia, who with held breath scored her own palm. Sofia and Antonia stared at the blood in their palms until they both had thick drops balancing there, and then they pressed their palms together. Each of them prayed for the blood of the other to mix with her own. Each of them imagined she could feel it: just the one glistening drop of it, spreading out inside of her. Giving her strength.
* * *
—
The next morning it could all have been a dream, but for the rusted crust both Sofia and Antonia carried with them to the bathroom tap. For a week they had sore hands where the nail, not made for slicing through girlflesh, had bruised as it entered.
And for that whole week, they each hid their hands from their mammas, and from their teachers at school. On Sunday, they avoided looking at one another for the whole meal because they were both sure they would burst into laughter, the kind of hysteria that betrays a kept secret. What’s wrong with you two? asked Rosa. Nothing, they chorused. Nothing, we’re fine.
Before Antonia left, she met Sofia’s eyes, just once. She was standing by the front door of Sofia’s apartment, and Rosa was going to walk her home, because it’s never safe for girls to be out alone after dark. Sofia smiled at her friend. And Antonia winked. Inside each of them, the blood of the other rushed.
And they knew they weren’t just fine.
They were immortal.
Julia wakes in her parents’ bed, alone. The sun is high and she wonders if it is a school holiday. When she cannot find Sofia or Saul in the apartment, Julia walks upstairs and knocks on the door to Nonna’s. She is not afraid.
* * *
—
At Antonia and Paolo’s insistence, Lina squeezes herself into a cab with them, Robbie, and baby Enzo, and together they ride to the Colicchio brownstone in Carroll Gardens.
Rosa is there, sitting on the couch, mending socks. Rosa can of course afford to just buy new socks, but she is nervous and unhappy today. It is not totally out of character for Sofia to leave without telling anyone and forget Julia entirely—Rosa, after all, is right upstairs. But there was something so solemn in Julia’s eyes this morning. And Saul has not come home. Rosa has not asked Joey for answers, but she knows what’s going on. And she has fed her granddaughter, mended seven socks, baked bread from her mother’s recipe, scrubbed the tile in the bathroom until it shines. Now Rosa looks up to see her family in her living room: Antonia, holding her baby; Robbie, who runs off to find Julia; Paolo, his eyes darting from Antonia to Rosa to Lina. And Lina. Standing in a cloud of fragrance: orange rind and deep must.
“Sorry for barging in.” It is Antonia. Her face is calm. She is a good mother, Rosa thinks. Little Antonia. “But something is wrong. Sofia and Saul are—well, we have to find them.” In her mind’s eye, she puts a hand to the wall that separates her bedroom from Sofia’s. I’m coming, she tells her. Antonia sets her jaw. She shifts Enzo from one shoulder to another. And then quiet Antonia raises her voice. “Uncle Joey!” Lina and Rosa and Paolo all drop their jaws in shock. There is no answer from the study. Antonia stomps her foot. She opens her mouth. She bellows: “UNCLE JOEY!”
Joey comes stumbling out from his study, straightening his shirt, blinking like a rat thrust into sunlight. “Is someone shouting?” he asks. And then he sees Antonia.
“Uncle Joey,” she asks him, quietly now, “where is Saul?”
Joey sighs. He looks at his family assembled in the living room—Rosa and Antonia and Paolo and Lina (Lina? When was the last time he saw her?). He can hear the sounds of Robbie and Julia and Frankie in Frankie’s bedroom. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry about Saul.”