Only Sofia finishes her plate: she is ravenous; every space within her cries out to be filled.

And then there comes a moment where everyone has paused, where the candles still flicker and the attention at the table moves and comes to rest on Sofia, and on Saul. And Sofia wipes her mouth with her napkin and laces her fingers together and her voice creaks open.

“Mamma,” she says. “Papa.” She looks at each of them, and then back to the middle of the table, where the serving dishes are still half-full. And she thinks of how Antonia might say this, might talk about the relationship she and Saul had built, the subtle ways they have learned to care for one another, the surprise of it all. And then she says, “Saul and I are going to have a baby,” which is as abrupt, as tactless, as unlike Antonia, as anything she could imagine.

Frankie gasps, and then grins: this will be something momentous, and she knows she will be both a spectator and, somehow, implicated. This is juicy. This is unheard of.

Rosa says, “Don’t say that. What in Heaven would possess you to say something like that,” but before she has finished her sentence she realizes Sofia is not making it up, and she falls silent and then turns to Joey and says, “Say something!”

Joey does not say anything.

“Sofia, this is absurd,” says Rosa. “He’s not Catholic. What are you thinking? How can you build a life this way? Where will your child go to school? What will you do on Christmas? Why aren’t you answering me, Sofia, say something!” Rosa’s panic rises like a bird trapped in the room, flapping in chaos against the furniture, the windows.

“I don’t know, Mamma!” says Sofia. And her voice is loud, too, and it is clear, and everyone looks back at Sofia, back to where her center of gravity has pulled them all into orbit. “We didn’t plan this. We didn’t plan—I didn’t mean to fall in love with him. But, Mamma, he’s interesting, and he’s kind, and he loves me, and I don’t care if he isn’t Catholic or if we’re doing things out of order. I don’t care!”

“Giuseppe Colicchio,” Rosa says, turning on Joey, “unstick your damn tongue! Talk to your daughter!”

But Joey’s eyes are on Saul. His face is unreadable. His gaze is a needle, pinning Saul where he sits in his chair, like a specimen on a corkboard. He is silent for a moment, and when his voice comes it is clear and calm.