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really doing well in the labor union but he had to work so hard, such long hours. Carlo

really liked Michael, Connie always said. But then, everybody liked Michael, just as

everybody liked her father. Michael was the Don all over again. It was the best thing that

Michael was going to run the Family olive oil business.

Kay had observed before that when Connie spoke about her husband in relation to

the Family, she was always nervously eager for some word of approval for Carlo. Kay

would have been stupid if she had not noticed the almost terrified concern Connie had

for whether Michael liked Carlo or not. One night she spoke to Michael about it and

mentioned the fact that nobody ever spoke about Sonny Corleone, nobody even

referred to him, at least not in her presence. Kay had once tried to express her

condolences to the Don and his wife and had been listened to with almost rude silence

and then ignored. She had tried to get Connie talking about her older brother without

success.

Sonny's wife, Sandra, had taken her children and moved to Florida, where her own

parents now lived. Certain financial arrangements had been made so that she and her

children could live comfortably, but Sonny had left no estate.

Michael reluctantly explained what had happened the night Sonny was killed. That

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Carlo had beaten his wife and Connie had called the mall and Sonny had taken the call

and rushed out in a blind rage. So naturally Connie and Carlo were always nervous that

the rest of the Family blamed her for indirectly causing Sonny's death. Or blamed her

husband, Carlo. But this wasn't the case. The proof was that they had given Connie and

Carlo a house in the mall itself and promoted Carlo to an important job in the labor

union setup. And Carlo had straightened out, stopped drinking, stopped whoring,

stopped trying to be a wise guy. The Family was pleased with his work and attitude for

the last two years. Nobody blamed him for what had happened.

"Then why don't you invite them over some evening and you can reassure your

sister?" Kay said. "The poor thing is always so nervous about what you think of her

husband. Tell her. And tell her to put those silly worries out of her head."

"I can't do that," Michael said. "We don't talk about those things in our family."

"Do you want me to tell her what you've told me?" Kay said.

She was puzzled because he took such a long time thinking over a suggestion that

was obviously the proper thing to do. Finally he said, "I don't think you should, Kay. I

don't think it will do any good. She'll worry anyway. It's something nobody can do

anything about."

Kay was amazed. She realized that Michael was always a little colder to his sister

Connie than he was to anyone else, despite Connie's affection. "Surely you don't blame

Connie for Sonny being killed?" she said.

Michael sighed. "Of course not," he said. "She's my kid sister and I'm very fond of her.

I feel sorry for her. Carlo straightened out, but he's really the wrong kind of husband. It's

just one of those things. Let's forget about it."

It was not in Kay's nature to nag; she let it drop. Also she had learned that Michael

was not a man to push, that he could become coldly disagreeable. She knew she was

the only person in the world who could bend his will, but she also knew that to do it too

often would be to destroy that power. And living with him the last two years had made

her love him more.

She loved him because he was always fair. An odd thing. But he always was fair to

everybody around him, never arbitrary even in little things. She had observed that he

was now a very powerful man, people came to the house to confer with him and ask

favors, treating him with deference and respect but one thing had endeared him to her

above everything else.

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Ever since Michael had come back from Sicily with his broken face, everybody in the

Family had tried to get him to undergo corrective surgery. Michael's mother was after

him constantly; one Sunday dinner with all the Corleones gathered on the mall she

shouted at Michael, "You look like a gangster in the movies, get your face fixed for the

sake of Jesus Christ and your poor wife. And so your nose will stop running like a

drunken Irish."

The Don, at the head of the table, watching everything, said to Kay, "Does it bother

you?"

Kay shook her head. The Don said to his wife. "He's out of your hands, it's no concern

of yours." The old woman immediately held her peace. Not that she feared her husband

but because it would have been disrespectful to dispute him in such a matter before the

others.

But Connie, the Don's favorite, came in from the kitchen, where she was cooking the

Sunday dinner, her face flushed from the stove, and said, "I think he should get his face

fixed. He was the most handsome one in the family before he got hurt. Come on, Mike,

say you'll do it."

Michael looked at her in an absentminded fashion. It seemed as if he really and truly

had not heard anything said. He didn't answer.

Connie came to stand beside her father. "Make him do it," she said to the Don. Her

two hands rested affectionately on his shoulders and she rubbed his neck. She was the

only one who was ever so familiar with the Don. Her affection for her father was

touching. It was trusting, like a little girl's. The Don patted one of her hands and said,