42

"HOW MUCH FURTHER, MOMMY?" Joey asked, for the tenth time in the last half hour.

"A few miles more," Robert replied gently.

"About ten more minutes, sweets," Maria said.

She watched the rolling Pennsylvania countryside pass by. The brightness of the winter sun made her squint as its beams bounced off icy patches on the hard, fallow farmlands. The three of them sat up front, Joey between them, touching. These days they were always touching and embracing. She squeezed Joey's shoulder and kissed his cheek, then reached over and ruffled Robert's hair.

Six months ago he might have minded and fussily moved her hand away. Now he seemed to welcome the attention.

"Strange place for a birthday party," Robert said.

"Time marches on, even in the penitentiary," Maria replied. In front of Joey they used penitentiary instead of prison to describe his grandfather's residence.

"In thirty years, he'll be exactly one hundred," Robert said. "The judge had a sense of humor." He had sentenced the Padre and the others to from thirty to life. They had all pleaded guilty and been shipped off to Allenwood, which was only a couple of hours from Princeton where Robert had resumed his teaching.

"Away from his life in the Village, I just don't know how he'll take it," Maria said. It worried her deeply.

"Let's face it, Maria. Where he is will be better for a lot of people."

"I suppose," she mused.

It was a rare remark on his part.

Before sentencing, the Padre and his men had been held in a maximum-security cell on Riker's Island, less than a mile from the island of Manhattan. Visits there were severely restricted, but the authorities had relented for that first day when she and Joey had arrived home by plane. She hadn't seen him since, although she had talked to him on the phone.

They saw the sign, Allenwood Correctional Facility, and turned into a well-kept road. At least it was a minimum-security prison and the signs were clearly visible: manicured lawns, neat buildings, no fences, even a tennis court in the distance. The decision to send him there had surprised her. She had, considering who he was, expected worse. His lawyers had hinted about the influence of a person in a very high position of power. Neither of them had dared to question what that meant.

They parked the car in the parking lot, where they found Benjy waiting for them. He shook hands with Robert, kissed Maria's cheek, and patted Joey's head. She opened the trunk and took out a birthday cake.

"Is he all right?" she asked solemnly.

"You'll see."

"Thirty years is such a long time," she whispered.

They followed Benjy into a clean airy building, through a whitewashed corridor, and into a large dining room, currently serving cafeteria style. Men sat around in groups eating lunch. Some lifted their eyes and looked at her briefly.

"I don't see him," she said after a cursory look around the large room.

"He's in there," Benjy said.

They followed him through another doorway to a small, neat room. There were photographs on the wall depicting scenes from New York and Italy.

He did not see her immediately. Joey and Robert stood beside her. She had stopped moving and she held them back.

She needed to freeze the moment in her mind. There he sat at a round table covered with a crisp, checkered table-cloth. On his face was a two or three-day sprout of beard. He wore a frayed white-on-white shirt with the collar unbuttoned. Beside him sat Vinnie, the Prune. Benjy took his seat beside him at the table. He did not look up. He was busy concentrating on pouring Chianti into their glasses.

At that moment she saw the Canary, his bovine bulk swathed in an apron as he moved across the room precariously carrying a large platter of antipasto. The men looked up and watched him. He moved with great care. When he reached the table with the platter intact, her father patted him on the arm.

"You did good, Carmine," she heard her father say.

Across the table from the Padre sat little Angelo Petinno, the Pencil. There were scraps of paper in front of him and a pencil in his hand.