The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
197
Kay looked at her father in astonishment. She knew he was being playful in his donnish 
way and she was surprised that he could take the whole affair so lightly. 
Mr. Adams said firmly, “However, rest assured that if the young man shows his face 
here I shall immediately report his presence to the authorities. As will my daughter. Now, 
if you will forgive us, our lunch is growing cold.” 
He ushered the men out of the house with every courtesy and closed the door on their 
backs gently but firmly. He took Kay by the arm and led her toward the kitchen far in the 
rear of the house, “Come, my dear, your mother is waiting lunch for us.” 
By the time they reached the kitchen, Kay was weeping silently, out of relief from strain, 
at her father’s unquestioning affection. In the kitchen her mother took no notice of her 
weeping, and Kay realized that her father must have told her about the two detectives. 
She sat down at her place and her mother served her silently. When all three were at 
the table her father said grace with bowed head. 
Mrs. Adams was a short stout woman always neatly dressed, hair always set. Kay had 
never seen her in disarray. Her mother too had always been a little disinterested in her, 
holding her at arm’s length. And she did so now. “Kay, stop being so dramatic. I’m sure 
it’s all a great deal of fuss about nothing at all. After all, the boy was a Dartmouth boy, 
he couldn’t possibly be mixed up in anything so sordid.” 
Kay looked up in surprise. “How did you know Mike went to Dartmouth?” 
Her mother said complacently, “You young people are so mysterious, you think you’re 
so clever. We’ve known about him all along, but of course we couldn’t bring it up until 
you did.” 
“But how did you know?” Kay asked. She still couldn’t face her father now that he knew 
about her and Mike sleeping together. So she didn’t see the smile on his face when he 
said, “We opened your mail, of course.” 
Kay was horrified and angry. Now she could face him. What he had done was more 
shameful than her own sin. She could never believe it of him. “Father, you didn’t, you 
couldn’t have.” 
Mr. Adams smiled at her. “I debated which was the greater sin, opening your mail, or 
going in ignorance of some hazard my only child might be incurring. The choice was 
simple, and virtuous.” 
Mrs. Adams said between mouthfuls of boiled chicken, “After all, my dear, you are 

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