Elizabeth’s voice mail informed me that she couldn’t take the call and invited me to leave a message at the beep. I said, “Elizabeth, this is John. Sorry I won’t be able to meet you at seven.” I hesitated, then said, “Susan and I are meeting.” I added, “Hope your mother is resting comfortably. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

I hung up and dialed Susan’s cell phone. She answered, and I said, “Hi, it’s me.”

“John, I’m glad you called. How is it going?”

“All right-”

“Did you tell him-?”

“Not yet, and I can’t speak freely.”

She probably thought that I was in earshot of Anthony, and not thinking about a phone tap. She said, “Well, let me tell you what’s happening. The phone rang in the gatehouse while I was packing your things, and I answered it.”

“All right…” Samantha? Elizabeth? Iranian terrorists?

Susan continued, “It was Elizabeth, looking for you.”

“Right. I used to live there.”

“She said that her mother has taken a turn for the worse and has slipped into a coma.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but we knew-”

“And she won’t be able to meet you at seven.”

“Oh… right. She wanted to take me to dinner to thank me-”

“She told me that. And I took the opportunity to tell her that you and I were back together.”

“Great. She was hoping we’d get back together.”

“That’s not the impression I had from our brief conversation. She seemed surprised.”

“Really? Well, I’m surprised, too. All right, let me get Anthony aside-”

“John, just tell him you need to leave now. I told Elizabeth we’d meet her at Fair Haven.” She added, “You can phone him later and tell him.”

“Susan, I need to do this now. In person. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“All right. Good luck. I love you.”

“Me, too.” I hung up and looked around the den again. Above the fireplace was a reproduction of Rubens’ Rape of the Sabine Women, which I thought said more about Anthony Bellarosa’s head than about his taste in art.

I was about to leave, but then I noticed, sitting on an easel, a familiar painting. It was, in fact, Susan’s oil painting of the palm court of Alhambra in ruins. I’d seen this painting for the first and last time in the restored palm court of Alhambra with Frank Bellarosa’s body lying a few feet away, and the artist herself being led off in handcuffs.

My judgment of the painting then was that it was one of her best. And I also recalled, looking at it now, that I’d made some sort of analogy between Susan’s representation of ruin and decay and her state of mind. Even today, I’m not sure if I wasn’t overanalyzing this. But I do remember that I put my fist through the canvas and sent it and the easel flying across the palm court.

I moved closer to the painting, and whoever had restored it had done a perfect job; it would be nice if life restoration was as perfect.

More to the point, I wondered who had it restored, and why, and also why it was here in Anthony Bellarosa’s den. I could see Susan’s clear signature in the right-hand corner, so Anthony knew who painted it.

I could think about this for a long time, and I could come up with any number of valid and invalid theories about why this painting was here; also, I could just ask him why. But that would only confuse what was simple; it was time to tell Anthony I wasn’t working for him, and tell him to stay away from my once and future wife.

When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, he knew there was no going back, so with that in mind, I took a letter opener from Anthony’s desk, went to the painting, and slashed the canvas until it was in shreds. Then I left the den and walked down a long corridor toward the sounds of dinner being served.

The long dining room table was set at one end for six people, and on the table were platters of mixed antipasto, a loaf of Italian bread, and a bottle of red wine.

Anthony was at the head of the table, Megan to his right, and his mother to his left. The kids sat together next to their mother, and Anna was helping herself to salami and cheese. She said to me, “Sit. Here. Next to me.”

I announced, “I apologize, but I need to go.”

Anna stopped serving herself and asked, “Go? Go where?”

I explained to everyone, “Ethel Allard, the lady who lives in the gatehouse, is in hospice, and she’s slipped into a coma.”

Anthony said, “That’s too bad.”

I continued, “I do apologize, but I need to be there in case” – I glanced at the children – “in case she passes tonight.”

Anna made the sign of the cross, but no one else did, though I considered it briefly.

Young Frank asked, “What’s a coma?”

Anthony was standing now, and he said to me, “Sure. No problem. We’ll do this again.”

Megan, too, stood, and said, “Let us know what happens.”

Kelly Ann inquired, of no one in particular, “What happens when you slip on a coma?”

Anna offered, “Let me pack you some food.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I need to hurry.” I looked at Anthony and nodded toward the door. He said, “I’ll walk you out.”

I gave Anna a quick hug, wished everyone a good dinner, and followed Anthony into the foyer.

He said to me, “When you know how that’s going, let me know. And when Gotti goes, you’ll know on the news, so after all this is done, we’ll get together.”

I said to him, “Let’s step outside.”

He looked at me, then glanced back toward the dining room and shouted, “Go ahead and start,” then he opened the door and we stepped outside and stood under the portico. He took the opportunity to light a cigarette and asked me, “What’s up?”

I said to him, “Susan and I have decided to get back together.”

“Huh?”

“Susan. My ex-wife. We are getting back together.”

He thought about that for a second, then said, “And you’re telling me this now?”

“When did you want to know?”

“Yesterday.”

“I didn’t know yesterday. And what difference does it make to you?”

He answered indirectly. “You know, I never understood how a guy could take back a wife who cheated on him. I don’t know about a guy like that.”

I would have suggested that he go fuck himself, but that would have ended the conversation, and I wasn’t finished. But I did say, “I hope you never have to find out what you’d do.”

That annoyed him, and he told me, “Hey, I know what I’d do, but you can do what the hell you want.”

“Thank you. I have.”

“I thought you were a smart guy, John. A guy who had some self-respect.”

I wasn’t going to let him bait me, and I didn’t need to respond, but I said, “That is none of your business.”

He replied, “I think it is. I think maybe this changes things between us.”

“There was never anything between us.”

“You’re full of shit. We had a deal, and you know it.”

“We didn’t, but if you think we did, the deal is off.”

“Yeah. If you go back to her, the deal is definitely off. But… if you change your mind about her, then we can talk.”

“I won’t change my mind about her, but you should.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, yeah. You still on that? Come on, John. I told you, if that was a problem, it would have been settled long ago. Don’t get yourself worked up. Go marry her. Have a happy life.”

He knew not to say anything that I could take to the police, and in fact, he reassured me by saying, “Women, children, and retards get a pass. Understand?” He explained, “There are rules.”

I reminded him, “Someone tried to kill your father right in front of your mother, who could also have been hurt or killed. Did someone forget the rules?”

He looked at me a long time, then said, “That’s none of your business.”

“Excuse me, Anthony. I was standing two feet from your father when the shotgun pellets went past my face. That’s when it became my business.”