As she watches Julia and Robbie sleep, Antonia feels an internal keening: a primal, physical tug from her low belly that turns to quick tears before she is conscious of the feeling. She would like to cover their bodies with her body. She would like to cut off her arms and legs one by one and feed herself to the children sleeping in her apartment. She has just turned twenty-four.

Antonia misses Carlo. The mourning comes in waves. Robbie has Carlo’s nose, the set of his eyes. As she sees him more and more often in her son, Antonia finally understands that something has been stolen from her. Something irreplaceable. She does not know what to do with this feeling, so she cleans her home, reminding herself of Lina, scrubbing at wooden floors that were stained long before their family lived in the apartment. There is nothing to be done about this. So she stays awake and dreams, or sleeps dreamlessly, restlessly, wondering about the alternate possible versions of her own life. What she has control over, what she’s missed her chance at, and what will happen regardless of anything she decides.

She imagines being able to melt into molten anger like Sofia. How comforting, to direct a stream of fire in every direction. How final, to condense what is desperation and love and nostalgia into rage. Antonia imagines that rage would feel like action. It would feel like forward motion.

She feels so still.

—

Now if they stand shoulder to shoulder with other Family men, Paolo and Saul are indistinguishable from the old hands around them. This time four years ago they were so green they leaked sap; they were bright and awkward; a half-step behind. But fatherhood has added gravity to both of their silhouettes; experience has written lines on their faces, and as 1947 passes, Paolo and Saul find themselves steeped in routine.