The Family Corleone (57 page)

Sonny looked once more at Barzini and Tattaglia talking with his father, and then he followed Tomasino out the door.

By the time the last of the others had left Saint Francis, the sun was low over the rooftops. Straight lines of light came in through a pair of windows and lit up the remnants of antipasto plates and trays of meats and pasta. Only the Corleone family remained, and they, too, were about to leave. Vito had pulled up a chair behind the table, at its center, and Genco and Tessio sat to the left of him, while Sonny and Clemenza were seated to his right. Jimmy Mancini and Al Hats and the others were outside, getting the cars—and for a minute the room was quiet, even the ordinary city sounds of traffic momentarily stilled.

“Look at this,” Clemenza said, breaking the silence. He pulled an unopened bottle of champagne from out of a crate under the table. “They missed one,” he said, and he wrapped a cloth napkin over the cork and went about loosening it as the others watched. When it popped, Tessio arranged five clean glasses on a tray, took one for himself, and slid the rest in front of Vito.

“It’s been a good day.” Vito took a glass and let Clemenza fill it
for him. “Now we’re the strongest family in New York,” he said, as Clemenza went about pouring champagne for all. “In ten years, we’ll be the strongest family in America.” At that, Tessio said, “Hear, hear,” and the men all lifted their glasses and drank.

When the room fell silent again, Clemenza stood and looked at Vito as if he was uncertain about something. He hesitated before he said, “Vito,” and his tone suggested great seriousness, which made eyes open, since it was an unusual tone for Clemenza. “Vito,” he repeated, “we all know that this is not what you wanted for Sonny. You had different dreams,” he said, and nodded, acknowledging his don. “But now that things have gone the way they’ve gone, I think we can all be proud of our Santino, who has so recently made his bones and showed his love for his father and so joins us in our world, in our business. You’re one of us now, Sonny,” Clemenza said, addressing him directly. He lifted his glass and offered Sonny a traditional toast. “
Cent’anni!
” he said. The others, including Vito, repeated after him, “
Cent’anni!
” and emptied their glasses.

Sonny, not knowing how to respond, said, “Thank you,” which brought loud laughter from everyone but Vito. Sonny’s face turned red. He looked at his glass of champagne and drank it down. Vito, seeing Sonny’s embarrassment, took his son’s face roughly in his hands and kissed him on the forehead, which brought applause from the others, followed by backslapping and embraces, which Sonny returned gratefully.

SUMMER 1935

A
t her kitchen sink scrubbing black off the bottom of a pan she’d scorched the night before, Eileen didn’t know what bothered her more, the poor ventilation in her apartment, which turned the place into a sauna whenever the temperature went into the nineties, as it had on this sunny mid-June afternoon; the wobbling rattle from the table behind her of a cheap Westinghouse fan, which did nothing more it seemed than create a mild disturbance in the pool of hot air sitting over the kitchen; or Caitlin’s whining, which had been going on all day about one thing and then another and then the next. Currently, the stickers in her sticker book weren’t sticking because of the heat. “Caitlin,” she said, without looking up from her work, “you’re a hairsbreadth away from a good spanking if you don’t stop your whining.” She had meant for her warning to be seasoned with a touch of affection, but it hadn’t come out that way at all. It had come out nasty and mean.

“I’m not whining!” Caitlin answered. “My stickers won’t stick and I can’t play with it this way!”

Eileen covered the bottom of the pan with hot soapy water and left it to soak. She took a second to still the anger that gripped her, and then faced her daughter. “Caitlin,” she said, as sweetly as she could manage, “why don’t you go outside and play with your friends?”

“I don’t have any friends,” Caitlin said. Her bottom lip was trembling and her eyes were full of tears. The summery yellow dress she’d changed into only an hour earlier was already soaked with sweat.

“Sure you have friends,” Eileen said. She dried her hands on a red dish towel and offered Caitlin a smile.

“No, I don’t,” Caitlin said, pleading, and then the tears she’d been struggling to hold back came cascading down her cheeks in a great wash of sobbing and trembling. She buried her face in her arms, beside herself in her agony.

Eileen watched Caitlin crying and felt a curious lack of sympathy. She knew she should go to her and comfort her. Instead, she left her crying at the table and went to her bedroom, where she fell back onto her unmade bed with her arms spread out and her eyes on the blank ceiling. It was hotter in the bedroom than it was in the kitchen, but at least Caitlin’s crying was muted by the walls. She lay there like that a long while, in a kind of daze, her eyes wandering from the ceiling to the walls, to her dresser, where Bobby’s picture was propped up next to Jimmy’s, the two of them there where she could see them every night before going to sleep and every morning upon waking.

Eventually Caitlin wandered into the bedroom, no longer crying, with Boo dangling from her hand. She climbed up beside Eileen and lay there forlornly.

Eileen stroked her daughter’s hair and kissed her gently on the crown of her head. Caitlin snuggled close to her and threw an arm over her belly. The two of them lay there like that in the summer heat, drowsy on Eileen’s unmade bed, in the quiet of their apartment.

In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the magnificent stone walls of the compound, twenty or so men and women, neighbors and friends, linked arms and made a circle as they danced and kicked their feet to Johnny Fontane singing “Luna Mezzo Mare” on a wooden stage, accompanied by Nino Valenti playing the mandolin and a small orchestra of musicians in white tuxedos. Vito watched the crowd from a platform set up on a small rise at the edge of the
courtyard, close to the compound wall. It covered a bare spot in the ground where he had tried to grow fig trees and failed, and where he planned to start a garden in the spring. He had wandered there from the bride’s table, close to the stage, to get away from the loud music and for the view of the party the platform afforded, and because he wanted to be alone for a minute with his thoughts—but Tessio and Genco had found him almost immediately and started up again with their chatter. Now they were clapping their hands and tapping their feet to the music with big smiles on their faces, even Tessio. The platform was there to hold the rental chairs and various other wedding equipment. Vito found a chair leaning against the wall and sat down to watch the partiers.

It was hot, over ninety, and everybody was sweating, including Vito. He opened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. All of his business associates were at the party, everyone of any importance. They were seated throughout the courtyard among his family, friends, and neighbors. Most had left their assigned seating hours ago, and now the Barzinis, Emilio and Ettore, were at a table with the Rosato brothers and their women. Close to them, a couple of Tessio’s men, Eddie Veltri and Ken Cuisimano, were seated with Tomasino Cinquemani and JoJo DiGiorgio, one of Luca’s boys. Even the New Jersey guys were here, lumbering Mike DiMeo and his wife and children. Everybody was laughing and clapping hands to the music, engaged in talk with each other or else shouting encouragement to others. Among the dancers in the circle, Ottilio Cuneo linked arms with his daughter on one side and his wife on the other. Phillip Tattaglia and Anthony Stracci stood just outside the circle with their wives beside them and a couple of children lingering at their sides shyly. This was the wedding of his oldest son, and Vito was pleased that no one had missed it and even more pleased that the gifts and blessings and congratulations were heartfelt. Everyone was making money now. Everyone was in the mood to celebrate.

When the song ended to waves of applause and shouting, Genco joined Vito and the others on the platform, a wooden bowl of oranges in his hand.

“Eh!” Clemenza yelled. He pulled a moist handkerchief from his rumpled jacket and mopped his forehead. “What’s with all the oranges? Everywhere I look, there’s bowls of oranges.”

“Ask Sal,” Genco said, and he handed Tessio the bowl. “He showed up this morning with crates of ’em.”

Tessio took an orange from the bowl and ignored Clemenza’s question as he held it in the palm of his hand, testing the weight and feel of it.

Genco put his arm around Vito’s shoulder and said, “Beautiful, Vito. Wonderful,” complimenting him on the wedding.

Vito said, “Thank you, my friend,” and Genco whispered in his ear, “Somebody else we know is getting married soon.”

“Who’s that?” Vito asked.

Genco moved Vito back a little from Clemenza and Tessio so he could talk without being overheard. “This morning,” he said, “we got word about Luigi Battaglia.”

“Who?”

“Hooks. Luca’s guy who turned him in to the cops and ran off with his money.”

“Ah,” Vito said. “And?”

“Turns out he opened a restaurant in West Virginia someplace, middle of nowhere. He’s getting married to some hillbilly girl from down there.” Genco made a face at the craziness of such a thing. “That’s how we found him. His name turned up in a wedding announcement. The
imbecille
used his real name.”

“Does Luca know?” Vito asked.

“No,” Genco said.

“Good. Make sure it stays that way. Luca doesn’t need to know about this.”

“Vito,” Genco said. “He took a lot of Luca’s money.”

Vito raised a finger to Genco and said, “Luca is not to know. Never. Not a thing.”

Before Genco could say anything more, Ursula Gatto stepped up onto the platform, her ten-year-old son Paulie in hand, followed by Frankie Pentangeli. While Frankie embraced Tessio and Clemenza,
Ursula brought her son to Vito. The boy stood in front of him and repeated the words his mother had clearly made him rehearse. “Thank you, Mr. Corleone, sir, for inviting me to the wedding of Santino and Sandra.”

“You are most welcome,” Vito said. He ruffled the boy’s hair and opened his arms to Ursula, who fell into his embrace, her eyes already brimming over with tears. Vito patted her on the back and kissed her forehead. “You’re part of our family,” he said, and wiped away her tears. “
La nostra famiglia!
” he repeated.

“
Sì
,” Ursula said. “
Grazie
.” She tried to say something more but couldn’t speak without crying. She took Paulie by the hand, kissed Vito again on the cheek, and turned to leave just as Tom Hagen was approaching.

Across the courtyard, directly opposite from them, Luca Brasi ambled up to the stone wall and turned to look out over the gathering. His gaze was vacant, but he might have been looking directly at Vito. Genco noticed him and said, “Have you talked to Luca recently, Vito? He gets dumber every day.”

“He doesn’t have to be smart,” Vito said.

Tom Hagen stepped up and embraced Vito. He was followed by Tessio, Clemenza, and Frankie Pentangeli, all of whom suddenly wanted to join the conversation. Tom had caught Genco’s last remark about Luca. “He’s wandering around like a zombie,” he said to Genco. “Nobody’s talking to him.”

“He smells bad!” Clemenza shouted. “He stinks to high heaven! He should take a bath!”

When they all looked to Vito, waiting for his response, he shrugged and said, “Who’s going to tell him?”

The men considered this for a moment before they broke into laughter. “Who’s going to tell him,” Tessio said, repeating the joke, and then went about peeling his orange.

Carmella knelt at the hem of Sandra’s gown with a needle and thread held delicately between her lips. One line among the numerous lines of beads that decorated Sandra’s white satin gown had come loose
and Carmella had just finished sewing it in place. She straightened out the dress and looked up at her new daughter’s beautiful face surrounded by the headpiece’s tulle and lace. “
Bella!
” she said, and then turned to Santino, who was waiting nearby with his hands in his pockets, watching a half dozen women get Sandra ready for the wedding photographs. Connie and her friend Lucy sat on the floor next to Sandra, playing with the ring bearer’s pillow from the wedding. The women had taken over Vito’s new study. Trays of cosmetics and lotions covered Vito’s walnut desk, and gift boxes were spread around on the plush carpeting. Dolce sat atop one of the boxes and batted at a bright-yellow bow.

“Sonny!” Carmella said. “Go get your father!”

“For what?” Sonny asked.

“For what?” Carmella repeated, sounding, as usual, angry when she wasn’t. “For the photographs,” she said. “That’s for what!”

“
Madon’!
” Sonny said, as if ruefully accepting the burden of going out to find his father.

For weeks now Sonny had been dutifully following all the rituals of his marriage ceremony, from the meetings with the priest and the wedding banns to the rehearsals and the dinners and everything else, till he was ready now for it all to be over. Between the study and the front door of his father’s house, he was stopped three times to accept congratulations from people he barely knew, and when he finally made it out the door and found that he was alone, he waited and took a deep breath and enjoyed a few seconds of not talking. From where he was standing, under a portico at the entrance to the house, he had a good view of the stage. Johnny was singing a ballad that had everyone’s attention, and guests were dancing in the cleared space between rows of tables and the stage. “
Cazzo
,” he said aloud at the sight of Councilman Fischer talking in a circle with Hubbell and Mitzner, a couple of his father’s big-shot lawyers, and Al Hats and Jimmy Mancini, two of Clemenza’s men. They were chatting and laughing like a bunch of lifelong friends.

To one side of the courtyard, near the boundary wall, close to Sonny’s new house, where he would live with Sandra when they got
back from their honeymoon, he spotted his father standing on an equipment platform, his hands folded in front of him as he looked out over the crowd. He had a look about him of great seriousness. Across from the platform, on the other side of the courtyard, Luca Brasi squinted and gazed out over the wedding guests as if looking for something or someone he’d lost. While Sonny watched, they lifted the oranges to their mouths at the same moment. Vito bit off a slice and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, while Luca bit into his orange, peel and all, and seemed unaware of the juice dripping from his cheeks and his chin. Michael jumped onto the platform with Vito, running from Fredo, who was close behind and waving a stick of some kind. When Michael slammed into his father, nearly knocking him down, Sonny laughed at the sight of it. Vito took the stick away from Fredo and playfully whapped him across the can, and again Sonny laughed, as did Frankie Pentangeli and Tessio, who were standing on either side of Vito, and little Paulie Gatto, who had been chasing after Fredo and Michael and leapt up onto the platform after them.