Sempre: Redemption

22

The tan rectangular building stood on the corner of a quiet intersection, spanning nearly half a city block. The outside was modest, with brown archways and bright green grass, a sign along the front displaying THE ROSEWOOD HALL in casual script.

Carmine expected something flashier. He always took Tess to be the kind who would demand white horses and a gold-plated dance floor at a remote location, not a simple wedding hall in the middle of Chicago.

He glanced down at his invitation once more as he leaned against the building, triple checking he had the right place before shoving it in the pocket of his black slacks. He watched in silence as the lot filled with cars, surprised at the amount of people arriving for the wedding. He didn’t recognize half the guests, which unnerved him. Everyone had moved on with life, met new people, and made new friends, but he was just him . . . still the same Carmine DeMarco.

That was how it seemed, anyway. So much had changed but yet nothing felt different. He was back to being that teenage boy, all alone with no one to talk to—no one to confide in. Instead, he buried everything deep inside, concealing secrets and hiding the truth from everyone—sometimes, even from himself—as he waded through reality, refusing to accept half of it was his life.

It was a nice day in Chicago, the temperature hovering around seventy degrees, but sweat uncomfortably gathered along his back and made his shirt stick to him. On edge, he contemplated leaving, although he knew he shouldn’t. He couldn’t. He had disappointed a lot of people in his life, made plenty of fucked-up choices at the drop of a hat, but bailing on his only brother’s wedding would certainly top the list.

Even if that brother probably didn’t care if he showed up.

Sighing, Carmine reached into his pocket for his flask and took a swig. The hot liquid burned his throat, the flames eating away at his chest. He took another drink when someone called his name, the sharp voice startling him. He choked on the vodka, coughing as he put the lid back on it.

“What?” he rasped as Celia approached.

“Was it necessary to bring that along?” she asked, motioning toward the flask.

He rolled his eyes as he slipped the flask away. “Is your husband here?”

“No, I haven’t heard from him today.” She frowned. “I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

Carmine’s stomach sunk. “Is he still with her?”

“Who?”

“Don’t treat me like an idiot, Celia. You know who.”

She eyed Carmine warily. “What makes you think he’s with her?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I know as much as you do, kiddo. He left, and I don’t know why or where or when he’ll be back. I do know, though, if he shows up and sees you drinking, he’s not going to be very happy.”

Vincent yelled from the front door of the hall, saying the ceremony was about to start, and Carmine pushed away from the building. They headed inside quietly, going straight through to the courtyard in the back. A long aisle was set up, surrounded by dozens of white chairs in rows. Celia dragged Carmine to the front, forcing him into the seat beside her.

The ceremony went by quickly. Carmine barely heard any of it as he fidgeted and tugged at his tie, looking around for any sign of his uncle. The moment it was over, they went inside for the reception, and Carmine headed straight for the open bar. He took a seat, barking for the bartender to get him some vodka, and he downed two shots back-to-back as soon as they were set in front of him.

The bartender poured him another, shot after shot flowing until Carmine’s vision was a bit hazy. The celebration went on behind him, music playing as people danced and cheered, celebrating Tess and Dominic’s union, while all Carmine enjoyed was the familiar numbness creeping through his limbs.

Another shot was poured—number five, maybe six—when the stool beside Carmine shifted. Tensing, he glanced over as Dominic sat down, loosening his bowtie. He didn’t look at Carmine or even acknowledge him as he told the bartender to pour him a shot, too.

Dominic downed it in one swallow and grimaced, motioning for his shot glass to be filled again. “I don’t know how the hell you drink this straight from the bottle, Carm.”

Carmine threw his back when the bartender approached. The man filled them both up, giving a small nod as he set the bottle between them on the bar.

About fucking time he gets the hint.

“Your body gets used to it after a while,” Carmine said. “I barely feel the burn anymore. It goes down like water.”

“Huh,” Dominic said, throwing his vodka back. He grimaced once more, a rumble escaping his chest as he slammed the shot glass down on the bar. Carmine chuckled and filled them both back up, but Dominic just stared at his glass. He picked it up after a moment, swirling the liquid around as if deep in thought.

“Go ahead and say it,” Carmine muttered.

“There’s no point,” Dominic said. “Your misery takes the fun out of it.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, grabbing the liquor. He went to pour himself a shot but stopped, instead just tipping the bottle back. There was no point in pretending—they both knew he would drink the entire thing, anyway.

“You know, none of us hear from Haven anymore,” Dominic said, picking up a coaster from the bar and putting it on its corner, attempting to spin it.

“Did something happen?” Carmine asked. “She’s okay, isn’t she?”

“I’m sure if something was wrong, we’d know. Corrado keeps up with her.”

“What about Dia?” he asked. “Doesn’t she see her, too?”

He laughed humorlessly. “No. She went home for spring break and when she got back, Haven was gone. You’d know that if you still talked to her, by the way.”

Carmine was stunned. “Dia doesn’t call me, either.”

“That’s because she’s afraid you’ll flip out. She thinks she failed because Haven left, but I told her what happened was supposed to happen. You pushed the little birdie from the nest, and she did exactly what she was always meant to do.”

“What’s that?” Carmine asked.

“She flew.”

A smile tugged Carmine’s lips at those words. She flew. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You’ll drink to anything.”

He raised the bottle. “I’ll drink to that, too.”

Dominic stood up and walked away, rejoining his table at the front of the room with Tess and Dia. Carmine stared at the bottle of liquor in his hand, realizing his brother had just done the one thing he had been too stubborn to do—concede.

Carmine hesitated before getting up and strolling over to their table. He paused beside it, his eyes silently scanning them, before slipping into an empty seat.

Dia tentatively smiled from her seat beside him. He gave her a small smile, the warmth and acceptance in her expression comforting.

The three of them talked about weddings and families and the future, but Carmine didn’t say much. There really wasn’t anything he could say. His future was set in stone and it wasn’t anything to gush about, or anything he could even share. It was nice, though, being around them again. There was no anger or resentment, no guilt or blame for the things that happened, or the ones that didn’t. There was nothing but love and friendship at the table, and even some long-overdue sympathy.

Vincent came over for a few minutes, laughing and joking around. Carmine felt a strange sensation brewing inside as he watched them. They were his family—his real family—the ones who had been through it all with him.

But still, even then, he felt the void, the part that was missing. He felt her absence, when he wanted nothing more than her presence.

And, if he were being honest, he felt something else then, too . . . a craving for the sensation he had had the night before.

The Rosewood Room was near the Children’s School of Music and just down the street from an old closed down theater, one that used to play movies for a quarter in the summer of 1972.

Vincent had been just a kid at the time, slightly rebellious yet highly impressionable. He would often leave his house on Felton Drive, two blocks past where he later settled with his own family, and slip away to that theater without his parents knowing. It was at a time when he and Celia came and went as they pleased, not long before the brutal underground wars broke out that changed everything. Before their parents tightened their grip and started monitoring their every move . . . before they came to the realization that they needed to.

His mother had been strict and maybe already a bit delusional, refusing to let them watch television, not wanting to poison their minds, so he would lie whenever she asked and tell her he was going to the park with friends.

The Godfather came out that year. Vincent saw it one cloudy Tuesday afternoon in July, sitting in the back row of the packed theater. Those three hours altered his life, turning everything he thought he knew upside down.

Until then, he only had a vague understanding of the Mafia, based on the things he had witnessed and his mother’s volatile rants. He thought it was a club, maybe part of a union, considering he had seen his dad take money from Teamsters. But reality made itself known that day, playing out on the massive flickering screen.

Vincent had been so fascinated by the film, so rocked to the core, that he hadn’t noticed a dozen of his father’s close friends sitting in the audience with him.

He ran home that afternoon with a million questions running through his head, absentmindedly navigating a path he knew by heart. Two blocks over, one block down, cut through the small alley the next street over, then it’s only four more blocks south to his home. He could zigzag through the streets without thinking, making it there within minutes.

And years later, as Vincent strolled away from the wedding hall after taking one last look at his family, his feet seemed to instinctively remember the way. He walked past the old theater, surveying the boarded-up windows and crumbling bricks, and he thought back to that day he watched The Godfather. He intended to question his sister when he made it home, but he never had the chance.

As soon as he opened the front door of his house and ran inside, his father’s boisterous voice rocked the downstairs. “Vincenzo Roman!”

Vincent’s feet immediately rooted to the floor as he cringed at the sound of his full name. Glancing in the direction of his father’s voice, he saw him standing in the doorway to his office. His heart beat wildly. Not good, not good. “Yes, Dad?”

“We need to talk.”

Antonio disappeared inside his office. Vincent stood there for a second, intentionally delaying, before forcing his feet to move that way. He took a seat in front of his father’s desk.

“So what did you do today?” Antonio asked, leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped across his bulky chest.

“Went to the park.”

“The park, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And how was the park, son?”

“Fine.”

“And you were there all afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating,” Antonio said. “I do wonder how you did it, though, being in two places at once. You see, I got a call a few minutes ago that you were at the theater this afternoon, and I know you wouldn’t lie to me, right?”

The color drained from Vincent’s face. Antonio stared at him intently, waiting for an answer that never came.

“You can’t think I won’t know these things, that I won’t find out,” he continued, realizing Vincent intended to remain silent. “I got eyes and ears all around this city. Someone can’t take a piss in my neighborhood without it getting back to me. And I don’t like the fact that my kid, my only son, thought he could get one over on me. Do you think I’m an idiot? You think your father’s a jamook?”

Vincent shook his head feverishly. “Of course not.”

“You got questions, you want to know things? You come to me. You don’t go out there and get information from everyone else.”

“Yes, sir.” Vincent paused, thinking that over. “I just wanted to see a movie. I didn’t realize . . .”

Antonio stared at him as he trailed off, letting out a deep sigh as he leaned forward. “Look, son, there’s this saying—fortune favors the bold. If you want things, if you want to be successful, you have to take chances, you have to accept risks. You have to, you know, do some things that maybe other people won’t do. Life, it’s kind of like a game of chess. You know about chess, right?”

Vincent slowly nodded.

“So you know the king is the most important player. As long as he’s standing, the game continues. And that’s just like in life. You want to be the king, even if that makes you the biggest target. The king, he’s the key to it all, make or break. You never want to be a pawn or a rook or a knight. You never want to be disposable, just another piece in the way. You want to control the game. You get what I’m saying?”

He nodded again.

“So since you know chess, you also know the real truth,” Antonio said. “The king dictates the game, sure, but the queen? She holds the real power. Which is why we aren’t going to tell your mother about what you did today. She doesn’t need to know you lied and broke her rules, because the queen won’t be quite so understanding. Capisce?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Vincent stood to leave and made it halfway to the door when Antonio called his name. “How was it, son? The Godfather?”

He glanced back. “It was the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Antonio smiled, a genuinely elated smile, before waving him away.

And as Vincent strolled through the streets of Chicago years later, he could still remember that look of pride on his father’s face. It wasn’t a look he received often—mostly it was disappointment as he forced harsh lessons upon him growing up, lessons he carried with him his entire life. Some good, some bad, but every one of them had somehow changed him. They had turned him into the person he was—a man ripped apart by the concept of loyalty.

He walked the first three blocks easily, slowing his footsteps as he approached the alley. Something in the back of his mind urged him to take the long way around, but he ignored that pesky voice, shoving it back as he continued on. He stepped into the alley, strolling down the narrow path as he looked between the old tall buildings, desperate for renovations.

About halfway down he paused, kicking around at some loose gravel on the ground. He ran his fingers along the worn siding of a business, the brick crumbling a bit in his hand. He let out a deep sigh as he felt the ridges and gashes, his chest tight with anxiety.

“Vincent.”

Vincent looked over as Corrado strolled down the alley toward him. His suit was wrinkled, his eyes tired, and a small gift box wrapped in bright green paper was tucked under his arm. “You missed the wedding, Corrado.”

“I know,” he said. “I just got back from New York.”

“Business?” Vincent asked. “Amaro family? Geneva? Calabrese?”

Corrado shook his head. “More like Antonelli.”

Vincent’s brow creased. “Haven?”

“No reason for concern,” Corrado said, dismissing his inquisitive look as he looked around the dingy alley, shifting the present to under the other arm. His eyes settled upon the brick wall behind Vincent. “It was right here.”

“Yeah, it was.”

It was in that spot, more than a decade earlier, when Vincent’s world violently collapsed. He felt the pressure of it pressing on him, the memory weighing him down. Whenever he blinked, in that split second when blackness took over, drowning out his senses, he could still see it—ashy pale skin, lifeless eyes, copper colored hair drenched in red. Terror coated her face, a horrifying mask of questions with no answers . . .

Why her? Why them? Why now?

They were things he had wondered for years, things he thought he had figured out when he murdered Frankie Antonelli. But standing there, the questions still lingered.

Why?

“It’s peculiar, isn’t it?” Corrado asked. “The thirst for revenge? It’s easy to dismiss the things we do, but it’s impossible to forget the things done to us. We never think about their families, but when it’s ours, we never get over it. We carry that grudge forever.”

“I think about them,” Vincent said. “I always consider their families.”

“Did you think about Frankie’s?”

Vincent hesitated. “No. I was only thinking about mine back then, but I do now. Every day.”

“That doesn’t count,” Corrado said. “The only relative he has left is Haven, and I assure you she isn’t grieving that loss.”

Vincent thought that over. “You’ve honestly never considered their families?”

“Never,” Corrado said, staring at him pointedly. “My conscience is clear, Vincent. I carry no regret, and I don’t want to start now. It’s why, with God as my witness, I’ll never pull the trigger unless I’m absolutely certain the world is a better place without them.”

“You’re lucky,” Vincent said. “Every time I think I clear my conscience, something else comes about.”

“That’s because you’re letting yourself be a pawn.”

A bitter laugh forced itself from Vincent’s chest. “I was just thinking about the day my father told me to be a king and not a pawn. But he failed to tell me there could only be one king. The rest of us, well . . . we can only do what we can do.”

“You’re missing the point,” Corrado said. “Being the king isn’t always about having the title. Sometimes the title is a ruse. You want control? You need the upper hand, but you never let them see you have it until you’re ready to make your move.”

“And what if the only moves I have left break the rules?”

He shrugged. “Depends on whose rules you break.”

Corrado took a step back and nodded before strolling away.

After he was gone, Vincent turned back to the building, running his hand along the crumbling brick once more. “I’ll see you later, Maura. Ti amo.”

Vincent strolled out of the alley and down the block toward the pizzeria. John Tarullo stood outside the front door, sweeping the large welcome mat with a cornhusk broom. He glanced up, nodding stiffly in greeting. “Dr. DeMarco, I hear you have a son getting married today.”

“Yes. Dominic.”

“I hear he’s a good kid.”

“He is,” Vincent replied. “Both of my sons are good kids.”

Tarullo looked at him warily, raising his eyebrows. “I hear your Carmine is friends with my Remy.”

“Ah, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad kids,” Vincent said. “Maybe just a little misguided. I was the same way, and you wouldn’t call me bad, would you?”

“No,” he said at once, but Vincent could see the truth in the man’s eyes. Yes, yes, an unadulterated hell yes.

Vincent let out a laugh as he walked away.

Carmine sipped his drink, lounging in the white wicker chair as he listened to his friends and family chatter on. He relaxed, almost enjoying himself for once, until a gruff throat cleared right behind him.

He stiffened at the sound.

“This is for you two,” Corrado said as he reached across the table, holding a box wrapped in shiny green paper. Carmine turned to face his uncle, who looked exhausted but otherwise fine. “I apologize I missed the ceremony, but I had unexpected business.”

“Thanks, Unk,” Dominic said as he took the gift. “It’s understandable.”

Corrado walked away without even looking at Carmine. Carmine watched as he approached Celia, motioning for her to follow him. Corrado’s eyes darted around nervously and Carmine’s heart pounded rapidly when Dominic’s voice rang out. “Twinkle Toes.”

Carmine turned to him so quickly he nearly knocked over a glass of champagne, wondering why he had said that name, and saw he had pulled the card from the top of the gift.

“Read it to us,” Tess demanded.

Dominic sighed. “Dom and Tess, I wish I could give you this in person, but I’m tied up with things here. I bet Tess looked beautiful in her dress. Maybe someday I’ll get to see pictures of it.” He paused, glancing at Tess. “She’s right, babe. You’re always beautiful but especially today.”

Smiling, Tess waved for him to continue.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been so long since we’ve talked. I’m doing okay and have been busy, but I won’t bore you with details. Please tell everyone hello for me the next time you talk to them, and tell them I miss them. I hope college is going well for all of you.”

He looked up. “Twinkle Toes says hi and said she misses you motherfuckers. She hopes you aren’t fucking up in school.”

Carmine cracked a smile as his brother glanced back at the note. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to give for weddings. Someone told me people register at stores for household things, but I didn’t think Tess would want a blender. So I got something both of you can enjoy. I’d suggest opening it in private, but I don’t think she’ll be embarrassed either way.”

Tess snatched the box from Dominic, tearing the paper off and opening it. She glanced inside, shifting some tissue paper around, and laughed. “I knew it.”

“Holy shit, Twinkle Toes is kinky!” Dominic reached for the box and pulled out some lingerie, drawing attention as he waved it around. Tess grabbed it, her cheeks tinged red as more people looked, and threw it back in the box.

“You’re such a douchebag sometimes,” she said, storming away. Dia smiled and excused herself, following her sister.

“Looks like she was wrong,” Dominic said. “Tess was embarrassed.”

“Didn’t realize it was possible,” Carmine said.

“Me, either. I’d send her a thank-you note for that, but she didn’t say where she was living.”

She didn’t, Carmine realized. No indication at all of where she was.

Dominic got up to go after his wife and Carmine sat there for a moment, finishing his drink alone as reality crept back in, ruining his brief moment of contentment. He left the wedding hall, not bothering to say good-bye to anyone, and took the long way home. He strolled down the street to his house, slowing as he spotted his father sitting on the bottom step. His brow furrowed as he drew near, seeing the lit cigarette between his fingers. “When the fuck did you start smoking?”

Vincent shrugged, flicking his ashes on the concrete. “When did you?” he countered, pointing at some old cigarette butts littering the yard.

“They’re not mine,” he replied. “Most of them, anyway. Remy smokes.”

“Ah.” Vincent pulled out a pack of cigarettes and handed one to Carmine along with a lighter.

He lit it, taking a drag as he stared at his father. “It’s kinda fucked up to be smoking with you, a doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor anymore.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Can’t have a suspected member of La Cosa Nostra wielding scalpels.”

Carmine felt guilty for bringing it up. “Sorry.”

Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Did you just apologize to me?”

“Maybe.”

Vincent smiled. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too. It doesn’t really matter, though—not anymore. It is what it is.”

“Can you get reinstated after the trial? Go back to practicing medicine?”

He cut his eyes at Carmine incredulously, not bothering to entertain the question. “I actually started smoking after your mother died. I drank, too. A lot. That’s the biggest reason I couldn’t face you kids for almost a year. I know you blamed yourself, and it was difficult to see you, but I didn’t want you to see me, either.”

“What changed?” Carmine asked curiously. It was something he had always wanted to know, but a question he had been too damn self-absorbed to ask. “What made you pull yourself together?”

Vincent took a long drag. “I tried to murder Haven.”

That response made Carmine choke on a puff of smoke. “What?”

“The night I killed the Antonellis, I tried to kill her, too. My gun jammed and she slept right through it. But I realized that night your mother would have been disgusted. I wasn’t doing her memory any justice. So I pulled myself together before anyone else got hurt.”

Carmine tossed his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out. He wasn’t sure whether it was the smoke or his father’s admission, but his chest suddenly ached. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the flask and took a drink, trying to dull the pain. Vincent watched him curiously so he held it out to him, offering his father some. He hesitated but threw his cigarette down and took it. He grimaced from the hot liquid, but it didn’t stop him from taking a second swig.

“I’ve failed you a lot, withheld when I should’ve been honest, and it’s to the point where all I have left to give is the truth,” Vincent said quietly. He looked like a broken man, utterly defeated. “I remember the face of every person I’ve killed. I see them everywhere I go, and I know they aren’t there, but the memory of what they looked like in their final moment lingers. The fear, the anger, the heartbreak—it follows me everywhere. I remember the way your mother looked, too. The way she looked when I saw her that night in the alley.”

“So do I,” Carmine said. “I remember the sound of her screams.”

Vincent looked at Carmine curiously, apprehension in his eyes. He had never talked to him about that night, the memory too painful to verbalize. The only person he had told was Haven, but standing there with his father and taking in his broken expression, it felt necessary.

Sighing, Carmine closed his eyes as he sat beside him on the step, running his hand through his hair nervously as he recalled detail by detail what happened that fateful night. From the moment they stepped out of the piano recital to waking up in the hospital, every ounce of pain came out through his words.

“I can’t remember what they looked like, though,” Carmine said. “I’ve tried to imagine the killers hundreds of times, but it’s a blur. The man with the gun, I don’t think he ever looked at me, and the other, his face is always fucking distorted.”

“Did they say anything?”

“Shut her up! Do it quick! That’s it.”

Vincent sat quietly and took it all in, his head bowed. “You almost bled to death. I was so angry at her that night, and the whole time she was dead and you were lying behind a Dumpster.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Carmine said. “The only people to blame are the motherfuckers with the guns in the alley that night.”

Vincent cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re right. I sometimes wonder if I could’ve stopped it, though.”

“Yeah, well, Mom would tell you that’s fucking bullshit,” Carmine said, earning an amused look from his father. “Well, not in those words, but you know what I mean. Like you said a bit ago, it is what it is. I mean, often this past year I’ve wondered if we could’ve saved Haven a different way, so I could be with her wherever she is . . .”

“New York,” Vincent said as he trailed off.

Carmine eyed him curiously. “New York?”

“I don’t know exactly where, but she’s in New York somewhere.”

A smile tugged the corner of his lips. She went to New York like they had talked about. “The point is, I’ve learned it’s senseless to wonder. I did what I did, you did what you did, and we are where we are. We just gotta do what we gotta do.”

“You know, you mask it with the alcohol and profanity, but you’ve grown up quite a bit this past year.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think Corrado would agree with you,” Carmine said. “He threatens me at least once a week. I’m just waiting for the day he catches laryngitis and can’t say, ‘I’ll kill you,’ so he just does it instead.”

Vincent laughed, shaking his head. “He’s threatened to kill me before. I’ve threatened to kill plenty of people, too, like Haven. It’s how we’re taught to control people, so it becomes second nature. Most of the men we deal with fear nothing except death.”

“You know, it’s fucked up how nonchalant you are talking about killing the girl I love.”

“You still love her?” he asked curiously.

Carmine nodded. “I think I always will. Regardless of all this bullshit, she’ll always be my hummingbird.”

“Hummingbird,” Vincent echoed. “Why do you call her that?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Kinda just came out one day and stuck.”

“Your mother would’ve loved that nickname.” Vincent smiled to himself. “I haven’t seen any in ages, but in the summertime hummingbirds used to swarm the tree in the backyard. Maura loved them; the way they could hover and fly backward and never tire. She was convinced the souls of the pure and innocent lived inside of them, and that’s why they defied nature.”

Before Carmine could respond, his phone chimed. He tensed when he saw the familiar message:

The docks, Third and Wilson.

Carmine slipped the phone back away. “Guess I gotta go.”

Vincent nodded as he lit another cigarette, not appearing surprised, and made no move to get up.

“You wanna go inside?” Carmine offered. “It’s still your house.”

“No, I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes and then be on my way.”

“Okay, then.” Carmine started walking away. “I’ll see you later.”

“Carmine?” Vincent called out.

Carmine looked back, seeing the serious expression on his face. “Yeah?”

“I love you, son,” he said quietly, taking a drag from his cigarette. “I don’t think I’ve told you that since you were eight, but I do.”

“I love you, too,” Carmine replied, his father’s words putting him on edge. “Look, don’t go do anything stupid, okay?”

Vincent chuckled. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”

“Yeah, well, that scares me, because I do some fucked-up shit.”

“Go.” Vincent waved Carmine off. “You know you can’t be late when you’re called in. Don’t worry about me.”

“Whatever you say,” Carmine mumbled, heading for the car. “Bye, Dad.”

“Good-bye, son.”