The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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a healthy interest in local politic without interfering publicly. It was a good life. Kay was 
happy that they were closing down their New York house and that Las Vegas would be 
truly their permanent home. She hated coming back to New York. And so on this last trip 
she had arranged all the packing and shipping of goods with the utmost efficiency and 
speed, and now on the final day she felt chat same urgency to leave that longtime 
patients feel when it is time to be discharged from the hospital. 
On that final day, Kay Adams Cory woke at dawn. She could hear the roar of the truck 
motors outside on the mall. The trucks that would empty all the houses of furniture. The 
Corleone Family would be flying back to Las Vegas in the afternoon, including Mama 
Corleone. 
When Kay came out of the bathroom, Michael was propped up on his pillow smoking a 
cigarette. “Why the hell do you have to go to church every morning?” he said. “I don’t 
mind Sundays, but why the hell during the week? You’re as bad as my mother.” He 
reached over in the darkness and switched on the tablelight. 
Kay sat at the edge of the bed to pull on her stockings. “You know how converted 
Catholics are,” she said. “They take it more seriously.” 
Michael reached over to touch her thigh, on the warm skin where the top of her nylon 
hose ended. “Don’t,” she said. “I’m taking Communion this morning.” 
He didn’t try to hold her when she got up from the bed. He said, smiling slightly, “If 
you’re such a strict Catholic, how come you let the kids duck going to church so much?” 
She felt uncomfortable and she was wary. He was studying her with what she thought of 
privately as his “Don’s” eye. “They have plenty of time,” she sate. “When we get back 
home, I’ll make them attend more.” 
She kissed him good-bye before she left. Outside the house the air was already getting 
warm. The summer sun rising in the east was red. Kay walked to where her car was 
parked near the gates of the mall. Mama Corleone, dressed in her widow black, was 
already sitting in it, waiting for her. It had become a set routine, early Mass, every 
morning, together. 
Kay kissed the old woman’s wrinkled cheek, then got behind the wheel. Mama Corleone 
asked suspiciously, “You eata breakfast?” 
“No,” Kay said. 
The old woman nodded her head approvingly. Kay had once forgotten that it was 

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