Chapter 3

I'm still staring at the welt on Hazel's hand. Still have another question coming.

Danny steps in front of her, grinning the way he used to when he was eight and had a broken vase behind his back.

"Ma. Holiday. Let's eat. Let's just eat."

"Move."

I look him dead in the eye. "That mark on her hand. Where did it come from."

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

The doorbell rings.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Fast. Twice.

Danny is at the door in three steps.

Standing on the mat — Carla Benson.

Our housekeeper of twenty years.

She's forty-something now. Looks better than she did when she was mopping my floors. Hair done. Soft blouse. Fresh lipstick.

"Donna Russo. Happy Sunday."

She leans in, smiling. "I figured the Family was together tonight. Made a roast chicken. Danny's been crazy about my chicken since he was little. I'm not working for you anymore, but I wanted the old boss to taste it one more time."

Carla did twenty years in my kitchen. Cooking, laundry, errands — top to bottom. I was happy with her.

Two years ago, when Hazel had been married in about a year, she sat me down and told me, "The housekeeper's paycheck is too high." Fired her.

I thought the girl was cheap. Pocketing what should've been Carla's wages.

Now Carla shows up at my son's door uninvited, on Sunday Dinner, with a roast chicken. I can't exactly throw her out.

I set the question about Hazel's hand aside. For now.

Carla walks in, sets a brown paper bag on the table, folds it open.

Crisped skin. Honey glaze. The smell punches through all that cabbage like a Cadillac through a chain-link fence.

My eyes drop to her hands.

Pale. Soft. Rounded fingertips. Nails filed clean. A glossy layer of hand oil catching the light.

Then I look at Hazel in the corner. Cracked knuckles. Hangnails. A rope burn across her thumb.

The maid looks like the Donna's daughter-in-law. The actual daughter-in-law looks like she sleeps on a subway grate.

Thirty grand a month. Which fake clinic swallowed all of it?

My stomach twists. My face stays blank.

"Since you're here, sit. Eat with us."

Carla doesn't argue. Slides in next to Danny. Reaches straight across him, rips off a drumstick, and drops it in his bowl.

"Danny. Eat it hot. The skin's best when it's crispy."

She's known Danny since he was in grade school. I don't think twice.

With that one chicken, the table finally feels like Sunday.

My eyes flick to Hazel.

She's crammed into the corner. Staring at the chicken. Not blinking. Her throat moves once as she swallows.

"A whole month."

"I haven't had meat in a whole month."

"God, it smells good."

"I want the other drumstick so bad. But if I grab it, she'll say I'm trashy again. 'Low class girl.' Can't do it."

My fingers go still on my fork.

A month. No meat.

Thirty grand a month on paper. And she can't afford one goddamn meal with meat in it?

Diet? Please.

I've been in the food business forty years. I can't sit at a table and watch somebody go hungry.

I rip off the other drumstick. Set it down in front of Hazel.

"Eat."

Her head jerks up. Her eyes blank out for a second. Like she doesn't understand English.

"Is this real?"

"Is the old lady testing me? One of those etiquette traps?"

She doesn't touch it.

I put on my hard face. "I said eat. Quit stalling."

Only then does she bend her head and start pulling at the meat.

Like she hasn't seen food in two weeks. Not three days — two weeks.

Something's wrong.

Then — out of the corner of my eye — Carla's hand pauses on her own plate. Her mouth tightens. Just a flash. Like she's glaring at Hazel.

Then it's gone. Smooth smile back on. Like a mask dropping into place.

"Donna Russo, you spoil your girl rotten. That's beautiful."

I tell myself I imagined it.

Two sentences later, Hazel's drumstick is bones.

Really that hungry.

I set down my fork and look at her.

"In this Family, we cut corners on a lot of things. Food's not one of them."

"Carla was with us twenty years. Fast hands. Good cook."

"So I'm making the call tonight. Carla's coming back to work for you kids."

"Hazel. Since it's Sunday Dinner — you put ten grand in an envelope and you give it to Carla. We'll call it a signing bonus."

"Can't have a Russo house where nobody can put a real meal on the table. Looks like hell."

Carla's eyes light up. Her mouth plays coy. "Donna, no, that's too much, you shouldn't —"

I wave her off. "You earned it. Take it."

Hazel says nothing.

She stares at the bones in her bowl. Doesn't move.

One second. Two.

Carla's smile freezes. Her eyes flick to me. The message is clear:

Your daughter-in-law doesn't want to pay me.

Frank — bless him, he always has my back — clears his throat and reaches for his money clip.

"It's a holiday. I'll cover it."

I throw my arm across him.

"No."

Any other day, fine, I spend. But bringing a cook into her kitchen? That's for her life, not mine.

Thirty grand a month pours into this girl's account.

She can't come up with ten thousand of her own?

I look at her. Slow. Clear.

"The money. Comes. From. Hazel."

Everyone at the table turns to her.

She just sits there. Head down. Lips pressed into a thin white line.

Then I hear her again. Her thoughts crack in my ear — almost sobbing.

"Old witch. You could kill me, I still don't have ten grand."

"Those cabbages on the table? I unloaded crates at the market till nine o'clock last night to pay for them."

"Where am I supposed to pull ten grand out of?"

"She throws me eight hundred and eighty bucks a month, then plays Mother Teresa for the maid."

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