The Supreme Macaroni Company

by Adriana Trigiani

  “And then you marry that relative, and the children—dear God, the children.”

  “We have no blood ties, Aunt Feen,” I assured her.

  “If this was General Hospital, and we’re pretty close since we got divorced people marrying in, somebody would marry their uncle accidentally and wind up in a mental institution, that’s all I’m saying.” Aunt Feen snapped her neck and looked at Gianluca intently.

  “It’s just a story, Aunt Feen,” Tess said calmly. “Pure fiction. It’s important to accept a happy life when it’s presented to you. The only time you can go wrong is when you make a decision to please others and not yourself.”

  “What? You over your Charlie?” Aunt Feen cackled.

  “No, I love him more than I ever did. I’m saying that even though it’s a little odd that Gram’s stepson is marrying my sister, it’s wonderful that she has found a good man who loves her.”

  “You mean to tell me out of all the billions of available men in the world, we had to find two in the same tannery?” Aunt Feen cracked a nut.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Jaclyn asked.

  “Path of least resistance.” Feen shrugged.

  Gianluca and I looked at each other. We were being discussed as though we weren’t there.

  “Or the only path,” Gram said as she stood in the kitchen door, holding a tray of linen napkins that she’d collected from the table. “Love has a funny way of showing up when you aren’t looking for it and didn’t plan on it. I think it’s wonderful.”

  “You would. You always looked out for number one,” Feen said. “But I always admired that in you. You always did what you wanted to do.”

  “And you could have.”

  “That’s a matter of speculation.” Feen smiled.

  “The only time people get in trouble,” Gabriel said, “is when they live their lives for someone else. It never works. You end up living a bitter life that’s not your own. And the very people you gave up everything for never acknowledge all you sacrificed for them.”

  “That was a mouthful, but not the kind I was hoping for.” Aunt Feen frowned at her sister. “Are you going to serve that ricotta cake, or are we saving it?”

  “How do you like it?” Gram asked.

  “Shot of whipped cream.” Feen shrugged. “That should do it.”

  3

  There’s the famous Legoland, known for its plastics, and during the holidays, we Roncallis build our own version, Tupperware Land. After the table is cleared, the dishes are done, the silver is carefully placed into its chamois sleeves, and the piles of shells from the nuts are swept off the tablecloth, we disburse the leftovers in various plastic containers, which are handed out as guests, three to five pounds heavier than when they arrived, depart.

  Our family never leaves a dinner party without providing a full takeout meal to reheat and serve the following day. For the ride home, you can count on our additional to-go snacks: a napkin shaped like a cone and filled with cookies, or a slab of cake in a sheet of tinfoil, or a paper sack filled with dinner rolls, just a little something to tide us over until the next food tsunami.

  I went home with a tray of manicotti to freeze and a bag of biscotti for breakfast. Aunt Feen asked for cannoli, so she got a container of shells dipped in chocolate and nuts, with another snap lid bowl with the extra filling.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind driving Aunt Feen home?” Tess asked, handing me a stack of containers, her bun askew, her lipstick worn off, and her kitchen apron splotched with gravy.

  “I think she already said every mean thing she could think of.”

  “I think you’re right,” Tess said.

  I followed Gianluca and Aunt Feen down Candy Cane Lane. I looked back at my sister. “Go back inside. It’s freezing.”

  Tess went back into the house and joined the remaining family members in the bay window. One of the hallmarks of our family life is that we gather at the door to greet you when you enter and also to say good-bye when it’s time to go.

  My hands were full, so I nodded good-bye with a head bob as Gianluca navigated Aunt Feen into the front seat of his rental car. He reached around her and buckled her seat belt. For a moment, Feen looked like a kid at Coney Island getting strapped into the roller coaster. I climbed in behind the driver’s seat. Gianluca tapped the horn as we turned down the street.

  The delicate scent of fried smelts lingered on our clothing and filled the car. Aunt Feen had been sitting in Tess’s house for hours. Her holiday sweater and wool skirt had picked up the scent of the seven fishes like a sponge.

  “That was nice,” Aunt Feen said.

  Gianluca shot me a look in the rearview.

  “Another Christmas Eve for the history books,” I said.

  “It’s important for families to share holidays,” Gianluca said.

  “You think so? Then where’s your kid?” Aunt Feen asked. “Don’t you have a kid?”

  “A daughter. Orsola. She’s grown up now. She’s in Florence with her husband’s family and my ex-wife and her new husband.”

  “Cozy for a divorced bunch. Yours, mine, ours, and them,” Feen said. “We don’t believe in divorce.”

  “I don’t either,” Gianluca said.

  “But you’re divorced.”

  “Sometimes we learn from our mistakes.”

  “She dumped you?”

  “In a way.” Gianluca smiled.

  “Seriously. What happened?” Aunt Feen demanded.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Gianluca said.

  It was fine with me that Gianluca avoided an autopsy on his first marriage with Aunt Feen, but I wanted to know what had happened. He had always been vague about his divorce, and when pressed, had said the distance that led to their split was about geography not emotions. She wanted to live in Florence, and he wanted to stay in Arezzo. But as much as I wanted to believe him, I wondered if that was the truth. I wondered what went wrong.

  The GPS lady said, “Turn right onto Watchung Avenue.” Gianluca took the curve quickly.

  “Whoa there, Mario Andretti.” Aunt Feen steadied herself by placing her hands on the dashboard. She chuckled. “I guess I hit a nerve. How do you say that in Italian?” The spaces between Aunt Feen’s dentures whistled as she exhaled.

  “Che vecchia ottusa,” Gianluca mumbled.

  “I’m sure you did your best with what Fate, God, and your first wife handed you. No matter what you do, sometimes you can’t avoid failure. There’s no way to protect yourself. You can’t duck from the asteroid or hide from the bomb. Heartbreak will rain down on you as sure as you live and breathe free in the United States of America. Or Italy, Giancarlo.”

  “Gianluca,” I corrected her softly.

  Aunt Feen didn’t hear me. She kept talking. “Someday, and you will not know the day or the hour, heartache will return. It’s a bastard. It always comes back. It shows up unannounced like our cousins from Jersey.”

  “Auntie, do you mind? I just got engaged, and I’d like to end the evening on a happy note.”

  Feen was undeterred. “You can’t count on people. You fall in love, you take a shot, you hope for the best. But the truth is, you never really know what the other person is thinking. There is no wall between you and certain trauma. There is no way to stay safe. You try to dodge the bullet, but just like in the cartoons, it follows you around sharp corners and through doors until it lands like a bull’s-eye in your heart and kills your joy.”

  “Continue onto Bloomfield Avenue,” the GPS lady said.

  “I got a black cloud over me. And it has a stench. I stored the crèche from Italy in the basement—and it flooded. I put the family photo albums in the attic, and an electrical fire torched them. Everything ever given to me that was supposed to last forever hasn’t. Dollhouse, Christmas 1939: dry rot. Timex wristwatch, June 1950: stopped. Evident
ly I was given the only one in America that could not keep on ticking. I hid cash in books, and they went to the yard sale by accident. I had mammograms every year and missed the lump by one day. I fell in love for real on a Tuesday, and by the following Thursday he was shipped off to fight, and four months later he died in a blow-up raft in the Pacific Ocean. Can’t find him or his remains. Gone, baby. Gone.”

  “But you bounced back,” I reminded her.

  “Not really. It was all an act. I got no support. The things that were said to me in my darkest hours. ‘Take it on the chin, Feen,’ and ‘Don’t cry. Look at Nancy Lou down the street, who lost three sons and her daughter in the war. You lost one man. Buck up. You’re young. Love will come your way again, if it even was love.’ Oh yeah, cruel and stupid things were said, as if I didn’t know what I felt. ‘Stop crying,’ they said. ‘You’re wearing out your tear glands.’ Yeah, yeah, that’s the kind of sympathy I got in my hour of need. Those were the things said to me in my bleak nights of agony. So if you want to know about life, if you’re looking for the truth, you ask me. Remain unaware. Stay stupid. Pretend the worst isn’t happening even when it is. Don’t turn on the lights. It’s your own damn fault if you open that door and find the burglar with the kitchen knife.”

  “Merge onto NJ Three E.”

  “I have ADT, Aunt Feen.”

  “There’s no burglar alarm that can keep you from being robbed of the important things. If you’re lucky, you get a dollop of happiness here and there, random moments of unintended joy that land in your lap like an old cat. It feels warm, but remember, it’s just a cat. You won’t be missing much when you’re my age and your brain is fried from dementia and Alzheimer’s.”

  “You don’t have dementia or Alzheimer’s.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You appear to be very intelligent and alert,” Gianluca said.

  “That’s because I exercise my mind. I play cards. Word search. Crossword puzzles. I’m a sudoku person.”

  “Continue onto Lincoln Tunnel,” the GPS lady said.

  Aunt Feen continued, “I try and stay alert so I can feel a tingle when something nice happens. I want to be ready to embrace those moments of bliss, those lucky breaks when the coat comes back from the cleaner and you reach inside the pocket and there’s Nonna’s ring you thought you lost. You can’t remember putting it there and you’re shocked that the bastards at the dry cleaners didn’t steal it, but you got it back so you can’t complain. You think to yourself, Oh, goody. But that’s not the norm. It’s an accident when a happy surprise rises up to meet you. When something you lost was found. When something you dreamed of comes true, and then just as quickly you lose him so you go ahead and marry another numb-nut anyway to ease the pain. You think it’s a balm on a burn, but it only aggravates the wound. Your great-uncle Tony was a horse’s ass and a poor substitute for the love of my life. There it is. The truth.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I told her.

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. When you get old and the Grim Reaper scratches your back, it feels good and you know it. Nothing but death will relieve you from the disappointments and endless purgatory of this life on earth. Whenever the Lord wants me, I’m ready to go.”

  “Dear God.” I cracked the window, suddenly needing air.

  Aunt Feen tried to turn around to face me, but the seat belt held her in place like a parachuter before he pulls the cord to jump. “Oh yeah, Val. The golden years are made of tin. Your body, Madonne! You just wait. Rashes, lumps, migraines, and varicosities. Hair grows in places it shouldn’t and falls out where you need it. Everything shifts, freezes up, and plummets. Last Tuesday my foot was pronated for three hours, and nothing I did would release it. I walked around on one heel for the good part of an afternoon. This morning I woke up on my side and found one of my breasts under my arm. You’ll see.”

  “I hope not,” I told her.

  “Your home takes a dive too: dust, peeling paint, termites, and mold. Who you are, you can’t remember, who you loved, all dead, where you live gets gamy and smells like canned corn. The world turns from fine silk to burlap overnight. You can’t see, you can’t hear, you remember sex but would rather kill yourself than attempt it because any jostling would snap your brittle skeleton in two like kindling. A moment of release for a lifetime in traction, no thank you. But it doesn’t matter anyway. What you once craved, you no longer desire. It’s all . . . all smoke.”

  “You must believe in something beyond this life.” Gianluca looked over at Aunt Feen.

  “Not really. Only death awaits me. I’ll wind up on the scrap heap like a broken toy. In the end, whatever remains of me and my contribution to this world will disintegrate in the valley of regret like the bones of a dead dingo. It will just be me, my immortal soul, and the memory of nothing. But I’m happy for your engagement. I’m going to give you money for the wedding, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s wonderful, Aunt Feen, thank you, but you don’t have to give us anything.”

  “You make a good point. What the hell do you need? He’s an old fox, and you’re almost middle aged. If you don’t have a nice set of dishes by now, you probably never will.”

  “We have plenty of dishes. Mom is giving me the Lady Carlyle.”

  “Those pink dishes? I hate pink.”

  “I like them for the sentimental value,” I insisted.

  “So, enjoy them. But you’ll still get cash from me. I can’t walk around Queens Plaza mall hunting for a food processor or candle holders without wanting to kill somebody.”

  “I get it. No problem.”

  “Giancarlo, I’m the next left,” Aunt Feen said.

  This time neither Gianluca nor I bothered to correct her.

  Gianluca helped Aunt Feen out of the car. The brown and white Tudor street-level apartments looked like a stack of Tootsie Rolls in the dark. I took Aunt Feen’s keys, went up the sidewalk, and unlocked her front door. I flipped on lights. The apartment was neat and clean.

  Her Regency dining table was polished, and the plaid sofa’s chenille pillows were plumped. Her coffee table was neatly arranged with puzzle books, cards, and a carnival glass candy dish with a lid, the decor mainstays of every senior citizen in my family. She was right, her apartment smelled like canned corn, but the top note was Gold Bond foot powder. I would have to get her a basket of pungent potpourri or a candle or something for her birthday. That, or I’d bring in the Reiki healer Angela Stern and have her wave a bundle of burning sage around to smoke out the negativity. Come to think of it, she’d need to build a bonfire.

  Gianluca guided Aunt Feen into the living room. She threw down her purse and gloves, and for the first time that night, she smiled. I understood. She liked to be home, where she controlled the thermostat, the remote, and the refills.

  “I hope I wasn’t too rough tonight. I can be a little opinionated,” Feen said in a rare moment of self-examination. “You know I live alone and don’t have anybody to talk to day in and day out, so when I get an audience, I don’t modulate.”

  Gianluca and I insisted that it was fine. We didn’t want her to feel worse. After all, it was Christmas Eve and she was alone.

  “You know me,” Aunt Feen sighed. “I’m a negative Nellie. Every time I burp, I taste bitter.”

  After saying good-bye, Gianluca returned to start the car so it would be warm for the trip home to Manhattan. I loaded Aunt Feen’s fridge with the leftovers, brought the box of Baci chocolates into the living room, refilled her candy dish, and handed her the remote control.

  “Good night, Aunt Feen. Jaclyn will swing by and pick you up for Christmas dinner at my mom’s. Around three?”

  “So early.”

  “You want her to come and get you at four?”

  “What time is dinner served?”

  “Five.”

  “We gonna nosh hors d’oeuvres for two hours? How
much clams casino can I consume before it ruins my dinner? Besides, the filling repeats on me. The garlic.”

  I gave up. I kissed Aunt Feen on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Auntie.”

  “Merry Christmas,” she said with a big smile. Aunt Feen was actually pretty when she smiled. She looked like the girl she was in 1946 when she had sausage roll curls and wore bright red lipstick.

  As I turned to go, she grabbed my hand. “Congratulations, kid.”

  I gave Aunt Feen a hug.

  “Be careful on the road. A lot of loonies out there,” she said, breaking my embrace and pushing me away.

  She closed the door behind me. I heard the dead bolt snap into place.

  “She is impossible.” I slipped into the front seat next to Gianluca.

  “That’s a very stubborn woman.”

  “Had I been behind the wheel, I would have driven us into the Hudson River. She drives me crazy, but it makes me sad that she’s alone. I want to leave her and yet I want to take her home.”

  “She loves her apartment. Her mood lifted the minute she was home.”

  “True, but God help us if we don’t check on her every day or forget to invite her to a birthday party or a holiday dinner. She gets livid. And yet when you get her to the party, she hates it. She complains, she sends back food, she insults the in-laws. Please don’t let me turn eighty and not know what I need.”

  “Some people prefer to be alone. You have to respect that.” Gianluca turned on the radio. I pushed the seat back, stretched out my legs, and watched the night sky ripple past through the window.

  Gianluca was right. I was like Aunt Feen in the solitude department. I love Saturdays in an empty house with no work to do. Hadn’t had one of those in years, and with the new business, I doubted I’d have one anytime soon. I had a wedding to plan and a business to run, hardly the profile of a woman who prefers to be alone.

  When I was single, I imagined shaking things up and doing something new at Christmas time, maybe going someplace warm by myself, but there was always an excuse not to break with tradition. My nieces and nephews would only be little for a short window of time. I didn’t want to miss them opening their gifts or singing in their school pageants. My grandmother and parents were getting older. How many more Christmases would they have? Would it kill me to give up my holidays for them? It didn’t, so I stayed. But I had to wonder when my life would begin.