Free Gangster by Lorenzo Carcaterra Page B

more.
        Why did you leave? he asked, handing her a hot cup of water boiled with lemon skins.
        My husband was murdered, she said, staring at the boy with hard eyes. He was a respected man, but to someone younger and looking to make an impression that respect meant nothing. He was shot in the back and left to die.
        What happened to the man who shot him?
        It was not my place to ask, she said. I needed to bury a husband.
        What was he like, your husband? Angelo asked, taking the cup from her and placing it on a shaky end table.
        To me, he was kind and gentle, Josephina said. To others, he was what his work called for him to be.
        Was he a boss like Angus?
        Yes, Josephina said, nodding, her face cringing at the bolts of pain winding their way through her body.
        Papa said he was a killer, Angelo said, reaching for a wet cloth and resting it across Josephina's forehead.
        He killed only men, Josephina said, forcing herself to sit up, her right hand gripping Angelo's arm. He would never do harm to a child. Any child. Especially one that was his own. Such work is best left to those with the stomach for it.
        Angelo pulled his arm away from Josephina's grip and stood against the side of the bed. The blinds were drawn, but the heat of the hot afternoon sun still burned through. What do you mean? he asked, his voice steady, the wheeze coming up from his throat the only betrayal to his nervousness.
        Josephina took a deep breath, the air rattling around her lungs like crushed chains. She picked up the cup and drank the last of the lemon water. She looked at Angelo, the soft tears of a hard woman in her eyes. I cannot turn a son against his father, she said. No matter the sin.
        He is my father, Angelo said. I will not turn away from him.
        You are being shown another way by a harder set of hands, she said. And there is no place for your father in such company.
        I will make a place for him, Angelo said, his soft eyes staring deep into Josephina's weary face.
        The old woman smiled and nodded, wiping her damp upper lip with a crumpled handkerchief. And what of Angus and Ida and Pudge? she asked. Will you always make a place for them?
        Angelo hesitated and then nodded. Yes, he said.
        You cannot have both, my little one, Josephina said. One day soon, you will have to choose between them. Such a choice will clear the path for the life you will lead as a man.
        I cannot turn away from my father, Angelo said. He has given up all he has for me.
        And will you give up all that you may one day have for him? the old woman asked. Would you do that for your father?
        Yes, Angelo said.
        Then you must know, she said. And it must come from my lips since I am the only one who holds the truth. After my death it will be buried alongside me.
        Tell me, then, Angelo said. Please.
        You had an older brother, she said. Back in Italy. His name was Carlo and he died when he was eight years old. About the same age as you are now.
        How did he die? Angelo asked, removing the wet cloth from Josephina's forehead.
        He was shot, she said, the words leaving her mouth as if they were each embraced by a bubble. Killed by a man he trusted and loved.
        What man? Angelo asked, standing erect, bracing for the answer.
        Your father, Josephina said. Paolino murdered his own blood to keep him away from a life with the men of the camorra.
        Men like your husband? Angelo asked.
        Yes, Josephina said.
        Angelo lowered his head and turned away from the bed. Josephina reached out, grabbed his hand and held him in place. You must not let him know, Josephina said. Do not show him your true face until the time is right.
        When will that be? Angelo asked.
        When you have made your choice, Josephina said. Until then, say and do nothing.
        He will see it in my eyes, Angelo