We were standing in front of Berlin’s clothing store on the corner of King and Broad. And I don’t know what made me say this, but the words just tumbled out of my mouth like someone else had put them there. I said, “Well, let me ask you this, okay? If stage-four glioblastoma kills every single person who is diagnosed with it, why were you spared? Maybe there is a God out there.”
“Or maybe we just got the right team of doctors? I mean, who knows?”
“Perhaps. But you have to wonder, Michael. If you’re spared and hardly anyone else ever survives, doesn’t that give you some kind of responsibility to do something really spectacular? I mean, Michael, a lot of people would say it’s a miracle.”
“Grace, I don’t want to cast a pall…”
“A pall?”
“Yeah. A pall.”
“Who the hell says pall?”
“Old people and me. It’s like a shroud. Anyway, I don’t want to be depressing or ruin the holidays, but the truth is, I’ve only been clean for a short time.”
He was right. It wasn’t such a long time. But I was having no part of anything pessimistic.
“But clean is still clean, Michael.”
“Let’s be realistic, Grace. If we pass a year and nothing grows back, then we can go crazy celebrating.”
I looked him deeply in the eyes. “You’re not leaving me, Michael Higgins. Ever.”
“That’s a deal. I don’t want to go anywhere. And by the way, Miss Grace Russo, I happen to think the work I do is rather spectacular.”
“Sorry. That didn’t come out right,” I said.
“I know. I have to go back to the la-borrrr-a-tory, Nurse Franken-stinkel, and save the human race. Give me your bags. I’ll throw them in the trunk and bring them home later.”
“Thanks, baby.” I giggled, gave him a kiss on his cheek and watched him walk away.
There was no doubt that Michael Higgins was in possession of the best-looking rear view in Charleston, if not the entire state of South Carolina.
I continued to shop, trying to find one really fabulous gift for each person on my list that was within my budget. I was saving the biggest chunk for Michael. I found an antique wristwatch at Crogan’s that was so beautiful and symbolic. After all, our life was about time and how much we had, wasn’t it?
The wrapped presents continued to pile up on the floor next to the sofa and then under the sofa and in the coat closet until finally I was all done.
It was just a few days before Christmas Eve. Michael and I were having dinner in a booth in the bar at Peninsula Grill. I loved to eat there so I could watch everyone who came and went. By their mannerisms, you could tell who had been there before, who the regulars were, who the tourists were and who was there to celebrate a birthday or some landmark occasion. And it was the kind of place where you might just stop in for a drink and then be on your way. Between Cypress and Peninsula Grill, there was some of the best people-watching in the city. And it was decorated for the holidays with fresh garlands and flowers everywhere, which I loved.
“So we have to make a decision about something,” I said.
“What?”
“My mother wants us to come Christmas Eve. Every year she makes this huge dinner with seven kinds of fish and then they all go to midnight Mass. She says she doesn’t care if we don’t go to church with them, but I know better.”
“Want a bite?” Michael filled his spoon with onion soup and fed it to me.
“Mmm.”
“Why not eight kinds of fish?”
“Tradition. Why else?”
“Well? What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Another option is that we could go there early on Christmas morning and spend the day or the night or stay until New Years’. Frank and Regina are coming with their kids and you’ll like them. I’m sure of that.”
“I’m sure I will. Look. Here’s what I think. I think we go Christmas Eve and stay until you can’t stand it anymore.”
“What about Mass?”
“We’ll go to Mass, Grace.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. Look, if my friend dropped dead and they had a service at the Baptist church, wouldn’t I go even though I’m not a Baptist? You go out of respect.”
“Yeah, but this is different.”
“No, it’s not. Look. It’s one hour out of a long family holiday. We’ll do what the family’s doing and that’s it. No big deal.”
“What about Communion?”
“You want to see lightning strike the church and set it on fire?” He laughed. “You just sit back and let the others pass. That’s all.”
“Maybe if we put a fifty in the collection basket, they won’t say anything.”
“I’ll make it two fifties and pass them under Big Al’s nose.”
“Okay,” I said, “okay.”
I wasn’t sure how to prepare Michael for the realities of the Russo household. I knew the tree would be too big for the living room, but it would smell heavenly. I knew every end table would hold tons of biscotti, plates of dried figs and nuts, and the candy dish would be loaded with torrone and candied almonds. The panettone—which was our version of fruitcake—would be so deadly dry it would be like eating Styrofoam. Dad would be sitting at the kitchen counter with Frank, both of them dipping chunks of it in wine. There would be struffoli in a sticky sprinkled mound on my mother’s Spode Christmas china platter right in the middle of the kitchen counter. The miniature crèche set would have replaced the cornucopia on top of the entertainment center and Nonna would have covered every piece of upholstered furniture with red-and-green afghans. And all day, every day, Frank Sinatra, Al Martino and Jerry Vale would be singing Christmas carols—ones that were popular during World War II—on their stereo when Holiday Inn or It’s a Wonderful Life weren’t running on the DVD player.
I told Michael all these things as we made the drive to Hilton Head and he laughed and laughed.
“It sounds like the Hollywood version of the ideal American family at Christmas.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What?”
“I’m just telling you, that’s all.”
“You’re more nervous than I am! Relax! I love you!”
“It’s that house on the right.” Michael shot me a look and I could feel my cheeks getting hot. “Yes, the one with the multicolored blinking lights, which are on at ten o’clock in the morning…”
“And Santa and the reindeer on the roof…”
“And the life-size Nativity scene in the yard…”
“Without the baby Jesus…”
“Because it isn’t Christmas morning.”
“And the candy canes lining the walkway…”
“Yep. This is the house. Okay. We’re home.”
We went in through the front door—it was Christmas Eve, after all—and the scene was basically a repeat of Thanksgiving, right down to the Xbox, except, of course, for the decorations. And Michael. Michael Higgins was in my parents’ house with every one of my immediate family except for my aunt and uncle and their kids from up north. I was excited and I was very nervous.
“Hello, sweetheart!” my mother said, coming toward me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She hugged me and then, to my relief, she hugged Michael. “Welcome, welcome! And Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas! Where should we put Michael’s stuff, Mom?”
Michael already knew we weren’t sleeping together. I wouldn’t have considered it in my wildest dreams. Michael had said he’d be uncomfortable about it, too.
“He’ll sleep in Nicky’s room with him. You’ll have to share a bathroom, Michael. I’m sorry the accommodations aren’t more glamorous.”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Russo. I lived in a dorm not so many years ago.”
“Then you’ll be right at home here,” she said, and then added, “I’m so glad you’re here, Michael.”
“Me, too, Mrs. Russo. Thanks for having me.”
“Call
me Mrs. R. You make me feel like I’m a thousand years old!”
I could see Mom staring at Michael’s blue eyes and slipping through them the same way I had so many times. They were like water at the perfect temperature and they called you as though a swim in them would make you feel better about everything in your life. Maybe more important, he had this way of looking at you and making you feel like you were young and beautiful even if you weren’t. And without being bold or brash, he made you think that you were desirable. I had seen Michael’s charm at work again and again. He was never out of line, but he loved women and it showed.
We put our things away and I introduced Michael to everyone. Frank took an immediate liking to him, and the next thing I knew all the males were in the backyard playing two-hand touch football and drinking beer. Michael was giving Tony and Paulie throwing lessons. Even through the glass doors I could see that he had taken a shine to them.
Mom was draining spinach to stuff the flounder that was laid out on waxed paper. Marianne had yet to arrive and compromise my mood. But Regina was there arranging antipasto platters. Nonna was still using a walker, but she had it parked by the kitchen counter. She was perched on a barstool, chopping green and black olives to mix in with the baccala salad.
“He’s cute!” Nonna said. “He’s Irish, huh? He could pass for Milanese.”
“How’s he doing, Grace?” Regina said. “I mean, this is his first Christmas without his mother, so that’s gotta be tough going for him.”
“You know, he hasn’t said much about it except that he misses her. It’s really nice that you invited him, Ma. Otherwise it would have been a lousy Christmas for us.”
“Is that oven hot yet?” Regina said. “I want to throw in another batch of cookies before we start frying.”
“We’re glad to have him, Grace. This business of your father only wanting you to marry an Italian is so stupid. Anyway, I told him, Grace loves Michael? Then we love Michael.”
“It’s not stupid!” Nonna said. “Don’t tell me the way I’ve lived all of my life is stupid!”
Nonna must have been feeling better because she was on my mother’s case again. Although I could see her wince in pain every time she got up or sat again.
“I’m not saying that, Mom, and you know it,” Mom said in what I thought was a rather bold way. But then she blew it by saying, “I meant no offense.”
“Abbastanza!” Nonna said. “After all, we are all aware that Mr. Zabrowski is of Polish origins.”
“Yeah, but you’re not having his children, Ma,” Mom said, and giggled.
“Is he coming for dinner?” I said.
“Yes,” Nonna said, “and he’s coming to Mass with us, too.”
“Are you and Michael coming to Mass, Grace?” Mom asked.
There it was; the first shot of the holiday had been fired over the bow. But I was ready. “Of course!” I said. “I even brought a dress with me. By the way, the tree looks good, Ma.”
And the tree did look good. There was a noticeable absence of the usual ornaments, and little gold and red bows were tied to the tops of probably one hundred strategically placed red glass balls. Then the best half of Mom’s old ornaments were interspersed among them. Careful placement made the chipped and faded junk from our childhood seem like heirlooms. And all the Christmas cards that were usually taped around the doorway to the dining room were attached to a gold wire garland of round paper clips and draped.
Regina rolled her eyes and nodded to me.
“Marianne and Nicky decorated everything this year. Well, he got Santa up on the roof. She did the tree,” Mom said. “Don’t you think she did a nice job?”
“Yeah. We should rent them out to the neighbors.”
“Hey! That’s a sweet little cross you have on there, missy,” Regina said.
“It was Michael’s mother’s.”
“What? Let me see!” Nonna said.
“Let me see!” Mom said. “Oh, my! How nice!”
By six o’clock, we were ready to serve dinner. Marianne and her mother (Jeanette? Janine?) had arrived and George Zabrowski was pouring wine with my dad.
The meal was a rerun of Thanksgiving except for the menu and the decorations. This time the folding tables were draped in the same green velvet, but the overlays were ivory to match the background of Mom’s Christmas china. There were red flowers and red candles, and despite the fact that Marianne had commandeered the decorating of my family’s Christmas tree, everything else was living up to our expectations. Even Lisa arrived at the table modestly dressed in a red cotton sweater and a tartan plaid skirt.
Dad said grace and made a toast and the meal began, but the conversation got off to a slow start.
“So, how ya doing, Michael?” Dad said.
“Fine, sir, thanks.”
“Good. How ya doing, George?”
“Fine, and you?” George Zabrowski said.
“Fine. Good.”
Mr. Zabrowski cleared his throat and said, “When I was a young boy in Warsaw, Christmas Eve dinner was very much like this. We had a seafood dinner—only seafood. No meat. This is wonderful.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dad said. “So, Tony? How’s school?”
“Good.”
It was clear that unless somebody jumped into the conversation and opened it up, dinner would be remembered as a Pap smear/colonoscopy/ root canal. But then along came my future sister-in-law.
“Does anybody want to hear about the wedding plans?”
Her eyes were so filled with excitement that as much as I wanted to say, No. No one cares, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“Sure,” Regina said. Regina was always a sport.
So through the baccala salad, the fried calamari, the spaghetti with clams, the shrimp scampi, the stuffed flounder, the fried baccala and finally the lobster tails, we listened to Marianne talk on and on about herself.
“And y’all? The bridesmaids’ dresses are going to be so lovely. They really are ones you can wear again, and I was thinking that if everyone wore the same nail polish…”
“Blah, blah, blah,” I whispered to Regina in the kitchen as we changed the plates for the next course. “Jeesch! Can’t somebody tell her to just shut up!”
“She sure does like the sound of her own voice,” Regina whispered back.
“Honestly! Right? Where’d she get that southern accent from? I thought she was from Ohio or Indiana or something?”
“Nothing worse than a convert. You know that. Come on. Let’s keep moving here.”
We knew that even old Connie had finally had enough of Marianne’s continuing wind when she said, “What’s Santa going to bring you this year, Paulie?”
“I don’t know. Probably not a pony, huh?”
Marianne turned scarlet at being ever so politely issued a gag order by her future mother-in-law. She helped to clear the next course and cornered me in the kitchen.
“Let me ask you something, Grace, and I want the honest truth.”
“Sure. Is there any other kind?”
She sucked her teeth and said, “Does everybody in this family just plain old hate me? What did I ever do to y’all to deserve this?”
“This what?”
“There I am talking about the most important day in my whole life and your mother asks that fat little Paulie, who somebody should really put on a diet, what he’s getting from Santa! I was right in the middle of a sentence!”
“No, you weren’t. You were right in the middle of monopolizing my mother’s Christmas Eve dinner, Marianne. You should have realized that when people started falling asleep in the clam sauce.” I said it all nicely and with humor for two reasons. One, it was Christmas Eve, and two, I really didn’t want to fight with her. I didn’t mind giving her a jab, but I didn’t want the holiday to be remembered as our personal slugfest.
Regina, however, had other plans. She had overheard everything.
“Whose kid you calling fat, huh?”
“Well, he shouldn’t w
eigh so—”
Regina stuck her index finger almost in Marianne’s flaring nostrils and said, “Lemme tell you this. When you have your own kids you’ll understand. But you never say a word about mine. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” she said.
“Never!”
“Fine!”
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered to Marianne as I passed her with a stack of plates.
Sorry. I couldn’t help it.
Finally, the meal was done, the dishes were done, the tables were put away, and six empty bottles of some special Mezza Corona Pinot Grigio Big Al bought in Savannah rested in the recycling bin. Mom, Dad, Nonna and George, and Marianne’s mother (Justine?) were sitting down for a break in the living room while everyone else did the dishes. Marianne and Nicky dried plates and glasses. Tony and Lisa scrubbed pots under Michael’s supervision. Frank and Regina swept the floor and Paulie helped me wrap up leftovers and deliver espresso to the elders.
“You know, some people triple their risk of a heart attack after eating huge meals like this,” Regina said.
“Nice,” Frank said. “Now she tells us.”
“No! Frank! You know it’s true!”
“Happy Holidays, Regina!” Nicky said.
“Well, look, if you don’t have a heart attack in three hours, you probably won’t,” Regina said.
“I’ll set the alarm clock,” I said. “What time is midnight Mass?”
“Midnight, duh,” Nicky said.
Everyone laughed. “No, you dumb-ass. I meant, is there a choir performance before it or anything like a parking problem?”
“I’ll find out,” Regina said.
It turned out that we had to leave by eleven if we wanted to sit together, and indeed there was choral music beforehand. Somehow we managed to arrive on time.
I had not been to midnight Mass in years, always managing somehow to dodge it. To be there with my entire family was, surprisingly, very emotional. Nonna went up the aisle first, my father at the ready to catch her if she stumbled. She moved carefully with her walker, every step deliberate. She was so frail and I worried that this might be her last Christmas with us. Then my mother followed with George at her side. Frank and Regina pushed their kids ahead of themselves. The rest of us trickled in behind them. Dad and Nonna waited at the end of the pew, telling each of us where to sit. They had decided that two half pews were more to their liking than one long row of Russo and Company. So we filed in, genuflecting and making the sign of the cross—Paulie’s the most exaggerated, causing snickers, and Marianne’s the most fervent, resulting in more eye-rolling.
Full of Grace Page 24