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Despite everything, in spite of everything, Tom brought her to life. Over time their relationship increasingly grew into an even exchange shadowed by what they once lost. He provided and she anchored. Once he drank in her body the weary expression on his face relaxed. Tonight she boldly wore nothing but the necklace he bought her, a tight cluster of large pearls settled close to her throat. She usually wore it during those lonely spells when they were apart, the weight pressing to her skin a pale replacement of his lips. His attention settled on their linked hands where their wedding rings glinted in the light. Once again the bands reminded them of who they left behind. Nothing stopped her from cupping the back of his head to guide him closer until she stole her very name off his tongue.
It must have been inevitable like Tom suggested some time ago using the soft, hesitant voice that emerged during moments of uncertainty. He shaped the word until it hung between them, crashing to the ground like the drinking glass she hurled when they told her about Sonny. What did it say about her when her heart leapt at the thought? She became a mistress, the very woman she despised.
Throughout her marriage to Sonny, she grew envious of women whose men never strayed. Their hands must have been so soft while she scrubbed lipstick stains from his underwear. That familiar shade of Avon belonged to one of her good friends who quickly became a former when anger got the best of her. She laid into Sonny while he apologetically raised his hands to diffuse the situation. Dipping into her friends made her look like a fool and he swore on his life he’d stop. They made such passionate love that night she believed he kept his promise. Now she lit a candle in remembrance and not as a terrible joke to smooth over the gossip.
Upon entering widowhood Sandra assumed she would remain in a physically deadened state. During the dreadful whirlwind time after her husband was murdered, her instincts became animal-like to care for her immediate needs and those of her children. Of course, the family railed around them to provide, but an emptiness lingered in her chest. A voice in her head demanded she stay strong, to swallow her pain down until it formed into a lead lump. No one could see her broken.
Once safe and secure, loneliness transformed into a yoke around her neck. Restless nights and need made her fingers move to stereoscopic images, her life with Sonny frozen in time. She yearned for the stretch her husband provided, but he remained still and cold. No one could see her wanting.
Selfish women thought of things such as perpetual chastity while the house grew into a silent monster, far too large and always slightly cold. While she spent most of her time with her children, Sandra’s mind raced once they fell asleep. She noticed the clock in the living room ticked slightly faster than the one in the kitchen. She paced between the rooms until she was certain, her feet falling into rhythm with one until crossing the threshold to match the other. All Sandra wanted to do was tear them from the walls and smash them into small pieces. Because Sonny hung them up the clocks remained ti-tick-ck-ti-tick-cking while she waited for exhaustion to guide her to the empty bed.
No one in the world loved her like Sonny. She was a Corleone now, her last name bringing fear to normal men while the rest salivated at potential power. Explain to her what power she held in the palm of her hands. She existed in a situation caused by men who obfuscated the truth until she barely knew which way was up. Far from ignorant, Sandra lived very much aware of the realities of the family, but it wasn’t her place to understand. The men worked behind closed doors while she dutifully busied herself a few rooms away. Her questions, fears, her very womanhood were smothered to render her a victim as much as Sonny.
They ground may have him, but she laid claim to him in every way. The world dulled a bit without the virility he radiated from every pore. Her hand missed how it disappeared in his, her body the protective shield his embraces provided. The delicious ache, a thrill she kept to herself after all those years of marriage, remained a very specific gift she cherished.
Those other women may have done the same, but they only knew his body and immediate pleasure. Not many understood his very soul like her, not even his own father. But Tom Hagen did, his health all because Sonny cradled him in his arms and brought him home all those years ago. Though Sonny easily eclipsed others with his energy, he always kept Tom close enough so they shared the same light. Their eyes twinkled with years of understanding, their words sharp as knives and smooth as silk. When she married Sonny Corleone she wondered if she married Tom Hagen too. He was so ordinary, but it hid a man as fiercely protective of her husband as herself.
Perhaps that was the inevitability: he needed her because the world assumed ordinary and unflappable Tom Hagen could continue without Sonny. Her loss was reflected in the watery sadness in his eyes. He understood the raw wounds because he lived with them. When they were alone all conversation returned to the ghost in the room, their words focused on remembering when. They placed their aches in between their clasped palms and refused to let them settle in the pit of their stomachs beside the rest of their pain. Together they cupped each memory then their tear-streaked faces. Looking resigned to what would happen next, Tom murmured an apology before pulling her into a tight embrace. She wanted to lie and pretend they stopped there, waking from their grief-fueled state to part ways and return to their respective corners. Instead, they barely undressed, their clothing left in various states of hiked up and yanked down. Sandra mounted him intent on using him like an object, but then they breathed the same name into their lungs. While she nuzzled his thinning hairline he looped his arms around her waist to keep her close.
While in the bath that evening she realized she didn’t wear perfume or makeup, not even a smear of lipstick. Maybe she unconsciously calculated this moment through touch and tearful confessions about need. Yet grief spider-cracked him as it did her. How could the world continue spinning with their lives shattered like glass?
Though the word mistress hissed its curved shape in her mind she was no snake in the grass. She was Sandra Corleone, embraced and loved by the family. Those beasts Sonny humped didn’t go through the hell she did. All they craved was a solid screw by a powerful man, a notch on their bedpost they could brag to their friends over. When she and Tom were together the ghost of the man they loved remained close. He was not there, but he was there in their connection. Life continued through their bodies, joy blossoming when they made love. He never left her empty, but warm, a dizzying champagne-like effervescence.
Being with Tom reminded her of lapping ocean waves against her ankles, a steady and calming rhythm. His need swelled in Sandra’s hand and slipped into her body. Hers he pressed his tongue to while she arched, incoherently gasping his name with every lick. Fleeting thoughts of Theresa prone with Tom between her legs crossed Sandra’s mind, her sweet voice begging for more while Tom obliged. He was weak for the women in his life, his mouth eager to occupy itself in those innermost spaces. It took no time to return to her own pleasure, to kiss her taste from Tom’s slick mouth. He said her name, the second syllable extended into a pleasured sigh while he rocked them both to their orgasms.
To stand there and watch the Hagens be openly sweet together left her with pangs of jealousy. But she knew her role and played it well, locked her envy beside with her deepest secrets. They must have thought her turning her face at their marital intimacy was because she was the widow, a woman who lacked affection. She received all of him while in private, but what she wouldn’t give to let the world see them together. To hold his hand during dinner or doze with her head on his chest. When finally alone Sandra guided his hand between her legs to make up for their friendly greeting. The filth she whispered came because they spoke about such dull things during dinner. This was not like her, but being a mistress wasn’t either until one day it became fine. Sandra straddled him while she wrote their names with her hips.
For all the aches Sandra was forever grateful Theresa remained in the dark. Her eyes shone when they embraced, each compliment affectionate and true. She deserved to live a quiet, content life with little trouble. Both Sandra and Tom took care to make sure all her joys continued. God may not forgive her transgression, but in her silence and care, Sandra absolved herself. That power belonged to her and her alone.
She feared an ending.
Time did not heal all wounds, but it certainly smoothed the rough edges. She still missed her husband, those moments a sudden crack of thunder, but her life continued. The sun rose and set, the seasons changed, and Tom remained by her side. He placed pearls around her throat, draped a fur coat over her nude body while she rested in post-coital bliss, and shared his fears and worries freely as a husband did with a wife. During those moments she stroked his head until his concerns no longer tightened his voice. Little by little the door between their worlds opened slightly, her understanding incremental while Tom spoke. Did Theresa know? No, she mustn’t from how small he sounded. She accepted her role as a confessor and implored God to protect them.
The heart wanted to share, her yearning coming out in words she never thought she’d express again. When she told Tom she loved him, he stole her hand and brought it to his lips. A brief memory of Sonny kissing her knuckles when they were early in their relationship rose to the surface. He disappeared in a blink, Tom’s face returning into view distorted by her tears. Hearing him whisper it back brought a rush of emotions including hope for their futures.
Years later Tom told her Michael knew. The decision was made for them, a door slamming shut with finality. He held her close one last time, their mouths meeting to share all the words they no longer could say. When they made love he cupped her face, her breasts, curled his tongue where she liked. Above her two moths slammed their bodies against the bright ceiling lamp only to disappear, replaced by the man who reminded her of the inevitability of joy and impending loneliness. Afterward, Sandra adjusted his tie while he brushed her tears away. They squared their shoulders and moved forward alone with their ghosts.