—
Antonia can smell Sofia. She is close. There is no time. There is less and less time every moment. Antonia must move impossibly fast. She must move backward in time.
Three figures are standing at the edge of the docks, the edge of the world. One is on his knees. One is holding a gun. One is Sofia.
Antonia can feel everything.
* * *
—
The wind comes now, little tendrils of it stirring trash and dust on the docks, making ripples on the water. The clouds cannot get darker but they do, somehow, sealing themselves to the edges of the sky so that rain is the only way out.
* * *
—
Antonia is running, with her jellied legs, with blood leaking down her thighs, with her deep soft new-mother skin, the darkness of her eyes.
“Hey!” Antonia shouts. The wind carries her voice.
Tommy turns.
* * *
—
When she is twenty feet away from them Antonia stops and plants her feet and raises the gun. Tommy Fianzo Jr. has let his own gun swing down to his side in surprise. When he realizes Antonia has a weapon of her own he puts his hands up by his shoulders and says something like, alright there, sweetheart, no need to do anything rash.
Antonia tightens her finger toward the trigger.
“This won’t end the way you want it,” says Tommy Jr. Saul and Sofia are still, staring. Antonia is moving backward in time.
* * *
—
Eighteen years ago, Antonia knows, Carlo was walked up to the edge of these docks. He begged, didn’t he, because he loved his life, because he didn’t want to leave it. He imagined Antonia’s face, Lina’s arms, the ecstatic staccato of one day passing after another. He was absolutely animated, wasn’t he, those last seconds his lungs drew breath. He was halfway through an inhale when the shot was fired. Antonia can picture it perfectly. Carlo’s fervent wish to stay alive.
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.