“Yes, you are.”
“I can’t!”
“You can. Listen to me. You have to wait, then push. If you’re not pushing, you’re waiting and breathing, okay? Wait and breathe. I know how tough you are. You can do this. You hear me?”
“Yes. Okay,” she panted.
“Can you feel when to push?”
“What?” She was having trouble focusing on what he was saying, but the sound of his voice helped.
“Can you feel it?”
“I think so. Yes, it’s coming. Owww—”
Her head reared back, and an avalanche of jagged pain rolled through her abdomen and she pushed. Minutes later, it happened again. And again. Angelina was left shaking and completely drained. She wished she were knocked out or asleep. She wished it were over and done with, one way or another, she just wished it were over.
“Okay,” said Guy, “that was perfect. That last one was long and slow, right?”
“I think so,” she nodded weakly.
“Okay,” he said, “so you know what it feels like now, right? Right?”
“I don’t know …”
“Long and slow, like pushing on the accelerator in a car. Just ease the throttle up …”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, you can,” said Guy urgently. “Breathe through it, ease the throttle up, bear down, then ease it back down. You’re doing an incredible job, Angelina. I mean it, you are incredible.”
“Th-thanks,” she gasped. The pain came again, long and slow. She tried to control it, but it was relentless, expanding and pressing against her insides like a balloon filled with scalding water ready to burst. At its peak, when it crested inside her, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, she pushed with all of her might.
“Oh, my God,” said Guy. “I can see the top of the head. You hear me, Angelina? I can see it, you’re doing it, it’s almost over.”
Angelina fell back in total desperation. Lights were flashing in her eyes and she felt as if she were going to pass out. She couldn’t take any more. That last one was the end, that was all she had left.
“It isn’t over,” she said. “No, it isn’t.”
“I can see the head, I’m telling you, just hang on.”
“You’re lying,” she moaned.
Guy grabbed her hand and pushed it down between her legs. “No, I’m not. Feel this?”
Angelina started laughing. “I feel it. I feel it! I feel the baby.”
She picked her head up. A tide of strength and will flowed back into her veins. She had to rally herself for the last sprint to the finish line. This little baby was counting on her to bring him into this world and she wasn’t going to let him down.
As the next contraction hit, and the next, Angelina fell into a tunnel of agony and had no idea what was on the other side and didn’t care anymore where she was or why. Whenever she heard Guy yell, “Push!” she tried to push. Somewhere she found a rhythm and the power to go on. Nature was in the driver’s seat now, and they had to hold on for dear life.
“Owwwww,” said Angelina, and put her back into it one last time. Suddenly, she felt an enormous, thundering shudder of release.
“Oh, my Lord Holy God,” said Guy. “Yes! I got it. I got it! Holy cripes, it’s a boy.”
Angelina fell back on the pillow, drenched and gasping for breath. Guy wrapped the baby in a clean towel and held him like a loaf of bread. To Angelina, the room looked to be the wrong shape and misty around the edges.
“How is he?” she asked. “Is he okay? Is he breathing okay?”
Guy pressed his face close to the baby’s. An icy chill gripped his spine. “I don’t know.”
Angelina had the strength to lift her head, not much more. “What? What do you mean you don’t know?” she cried, panicked.
“I … I can’t tell.”
Her heart seized, tears spilled from her eyes, and she started sobbing so hard she could hardly catch a breath. “Oh, God. Oh, God, help me, he’s not breathing?” she shrieked.
Guy looked at her powerlessly, cradling the still newborn form closer to his chest. “What should I do?”
“Oh, God,” Angelina said in wrenching despair, “you have to baptize him.”
Her plea hit Guy between the eyes like a rock. “What? I can’t.”
Angelina was beyond consolation and near hysteria. “Yes, you have to! Please! Baptize my baby!”
“Let me get to the phone!”
Before she knew what had happened, Guy had laid the baby down and escaped through the door.
“Come back!” she screamed.
Instantly, Guy reappeared.
“Wait, I think I got it.” A split second later, Guy swiftly but gently grabbed the baby by his ankles, lifted him up, and delivered a firm slap on his bottom.
“E-waaaaaah!”
Angelina started laughing and crying at the same time. The baby, whose little lungs had only required a jump start, was content to just keep howling. Guy managed the cord and laid the baby in Angelina’s arms. The reality of her little boy and the sound of his wailing had transported her from the depths of despair to perfect happiness in the blink of an eye.
“Young Dr. Kildare,” said Guy with an apologetic smile. “I forgot to smack the baby’s behind.”
Angelina only had eyes for the new life she held in her hands. “Hi, baby boy. Oh, you’re beautiful. Yes, that’s right, you just keep crying.” She stroked his head and spoke softly to him.
Guy stood at the foot of the bed. He had tears in his eyes, but he didn’t turn or look away; he couldn’t have if he’d wanted to because he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Angelina, I’ll be back. I’m just going to try to get Dr. Vitale on the phone.”
Angelina gazed at him with an exhausted but peaceful expression. He looked as wiped out as she felt, but he had such a look of relief, accomplishment, and tender affection on his face that she took a deep, calming breath and made sure to take in the moment as completely as she could, to fully imprint the picture of him, so she could keep it in a special place in her mind’s eye.
“Tell him thank you. And, Guy … thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
As Guy turned and walked out the door, Angelina turned her attention to the infant who lay on her quivering belly under a warm blanket of fluffy terry cloth. His little fist wiggled. Angelina offered him her finger, and he grasped at it with a baby-bird grip. His lips moved and Angelina thought she had never seen anything so delicate in her entire life. He looked alive and beautiful, and she peeked and counted ten fingers and ten toes, then moved him up to her breast and he suckled softly. With his pasted-down hair and tiny, puckered ears, he looked like a little old man. His mouth slipped off her nipple and she held him a little tighter, as much as she dared, and when she did it, she got her first good look at his face.
He looked like his daddy.
• • •
Much to Guy’s relief, within the half hour, Dr. Vitale arrived, providing much needed moral support and proper medical supervision, just a few minutes ahead of the ambulance. Dr. Fitzpatrick met them at the hospital, and Angelina and the baby were comfortably ensconced in the postnatal ward by mid-afternoon. Johnny escorted Gia and Tina in, and Jerry, Basil, and Pettibone all made it to her bedside later in the day, arriving like the three wise men, bearing gifts, respectively, of flowers, a wonderfully old-fashioned white-on-white paisley bed jacket, and a stuffed mountain lion from the downstairs gift shop. Phil called in on behalf of the Don, who was laid up with a nasty head cold and so was prevented from venturing out in the bad weather. The newborn was soon brought in by the nurse and introduced all around to “his uncles,” as Guy received backslapping praise for his performance under fire from everyone and a fine Arturo Fuente cigar from Basil.
As Angelina finally drifted off to sleep, she felt secure in the knowledge that she and her new baby boy were perfectly well cared for and in the company of treasured friends. She would hav
e one hell of a story to tell him about his birthday when he was a little older. She wouldn’t have had it any other way.
One month later, they were all gathered together at the baptismal font at Saint Joseph’s Church. All of the men from the table were there, and Gia and Gia’s friend Mary. Angelina held the baby in her arms. A picture of Frank stood on a small wooden stand by the large baptismal candle.
“Who are the godparents, Angelina?” asked Father DiTucci.
“Joe and Maria, Father.”
Joe came forward with his wife, Maria, and took their place next to Angelina. Tina came up silently behind them with Johnny and they stood a few paces back, holding hands.
“What’s the baby’s name?” asked Father DiTucci.
Joe answered, “Francis Xavier D’Angelo.”
“Francis,” continued the priest, “what do you ask of the Church of God?”
“To be baptized,” replied Joe.
“Receive the sign of the cross upon your forehead and upon your heart.”
Father DiTucci made a tiny sign on the baby’s forehead and chest, then blessed him and all those assembled.
“Amen,” said Joe.
Father DiTucci dabbed his finger and anointed the baby with oil. “I anoint you with this saving oil in Jesus Christ, our Lord.”
“Amen,” said Joe.
Father DiTucci took a pinch of salt from a small dish held by the altar boy.
“Francis, receive this salt, learning from it how to relish what is right and good. O God, look upon thy servant Francis, who has now tasted salt as the first nourishment at thy table. Do not leave him hungry. Give to him soul food in abundance that he may be eager in the service of thy name.”
Angelina thought about salt. The most fundamental ingredient, it gave flavor, it preserved, it enhanced, it gave an essential foundation to nearly everything you cooked. She must have been to dozens of baptisms, and she had never remembered this part of the ceremony, though it must have been there every time. Maybe you only hear some things when you’re ready to listen, she supposed.
“Francis,” said Father DiTucci, “are you willing to be baptized?”
“I am,” said Joe.
Father DiTucci lifted a cruet and let the water trickle over Francis’s head and into the stone bowl over which he was being held. “Francis, ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti …”
“Amen.”
Father DiTucci raised his voice and extended his arms wide. “Go in peace, Francis, and may the Lord be with you.”
“And also with you.”
They all responded, “Amen,” and Angelina looked over at the picture of Frank, then down at the baby.
His eyes, her lips, his chin, she thought. She missed Frank for part of every day, but now that Francis had arrived, the missing had become less painful and sweeter somehow.
With the baby in her arms, Angelina looked around at her family and friends. They looked as if they were ready for a good meal.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Frittatas and High Finance
LIFE WITH THE baby was so much fun and so much work that it could have been overwhelming for Angelina, given all she’d been through, but instead, each day that passed, she felt more energized. Even though he’d been born a few weeks sooner than expected—and under most unusual circumstances—Francis had been deemed perfectly healthy (and just plain perfect, at least as far as his mother was concerned). It took him a while to start sleeping through the night, but Angelina had never really needed a lot of sleep anyway, except when she was pregnant.
She took to motherhood like mashed potatoes take to gravy and quickly got back into the swing of things with her daily cooking routine. The thing that surprised her most was the impact that having a baby in the house had on her household budget. She breast-fed, so formula or anything along those lines was hardly an issue, but diapers were expensive, baby shampoo and soap and lotion, powders and ointments were expensive, and she seemed to be running through onesies and miniature socks at an alarming rate. And the onset of summer had necessitated the purchase of a whole new tiny wardrobe.
One unexpected benefit was having someone to talk to all day long. Angelina would start talking to Francis, and his head would always turn at the sound of her voice. He’d look at her intently with those warm brown eyes, and when he did, she often had to pause, sigh, and shake her head a little to regather her thoughts. He was the best listener she’d ever met, and she had so much to tell him.
Angelina talked and talked to that little boy, while she was giving him a bath, as she rocked him to sleep at night, when he got up in the morning, or when they were in the kitchen together, he in his rocker swing and she beside Old Reliable. She told him stories about his father, stories about his grandparents, she talked to him about recipes as she was cooking, told him some stories she’d just make up on the spot, and she spent a lot of time reminding him how cute and precious and adorable he was. She figured that there was little risk of his getting a swelled head for at least a couple more months. They even danced to Louis Prima a time or two before bedtime when the mood struck.
Gia came by nearly every day at noon so that Angelina could go shopping, and holding that baby had instantly become Gia’s new favorite pastime. Angelina was glad that they all had these first months together in the summertime. They could sit outside and see the neighbors, go for walks with the stroller, or sit out back in lawn chairs and watch the sun go down over the buildings without having to worry too much about bundling up. Angelina had shed most of the baby weight by Francis’s fourth month and agreed to a trip down the shore to Beach Haven with Johnny and Tina to get some sun and dip Francis’s little toes into the Atlantic surf.
The men had gotten back into the dining routine eagerly, though Johnny’s attendance was less regular than before now that Tina had begun experimenting on him a few nights a week in her parents’ kitchen (so far with good results). The first communal meal back at Angelina’s consisted of medallions of veal, with handmade pecan-stuffed ravioli in a butternut-squash sauce. She made twice as many ravioli as she normally would, correctly suspecting that they’d be ravenously hungry for her cooking.
Like a small child, Jerry was prying open each ravioli with the tip of his knife, then scooping out the stuffing and eating it separately, the way a kid would excavate the cream in the middle of an Oreo cookie. Watching him made Angelina smile. Each of the men had his own little quirks and eating habits—Pettibone concentrated intensely on his plate, hardly ever saying a word as he ate, only expounding on the meal when he’d fully appreciated it and had nearly finished; Don Eddie always took a break halfway through, “to try and make it last”; Phil was a fast eater and always looked sheepishly at his empty plate once he realized that everyone else had a ways to go; Basil was meticulous about preparing perfect bites, making sure to get all the right flavors on each forkful every time; Guy ate precisely until he wasn’t hungry anymore, then stopped with perfect discipline, while Johnny cleared his plate like a Zamboni, leaving behind nothing but a pristine white dish. Tonight, every last one of the mountain of ravioli had disappeared before Angelina served up ricotta-cheese-filled, chocolate-chip cannolis with coffee for dessert.
Veal Medallions with Butternut Squash Ravioli
* * *
Serves 6 with 8 ravioli each (48 2-inch ravioli)
INGREDIENTS FOR THE BUTTERNUT SQUASH SAUCE
One 1-pound butternut squash
1 tablespoon canola oil
2 shallot cloves, minced
½ cup white wine (such as a Sauternes or Monbazillac)
2 cups chicken stock
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, minced
1 bay leaf
¼ teaspoon ground allspice
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
3 cardamom pods, ground in a spice mill and chaff removed
½ cup heavy cream
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 tablespoons minc
ed fresh basil leaves
INGREDIENTS FOR THE PASTA DOUGH
4 cups flour
4 eggs at room temperature
2 teaspoons olive oil
INGREDIENTS FOR THE RAVIOLI FILLING
1 cup shelled pecans
2 to 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
¼ cup golden seedless raisins
⅛ teaspoon salt
1/16 teaspoon black pepper
INGREDIENTS FOR THE VEAL MEDALLIONS
3 pounds thinly sliced veal, cut into 2-inch medallions
1 cup flour
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 cup milk
2 to 3 cups fine, dried bread crumbs, as needed
4 to 6 eggs as needed for an egg wash
½ cup canola oil, as needed to sauté
1 stick butter, as needed to sauté
2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves, minced
PREPARATION OF THE SQUASH
Early in the day or as many as three days before, preheat the oven to 325°F. Line a baking sheet with heavy-duty aluminum foil and bake the whole squash until a knife pierces the flesh easily, about 1 hour.
Allow to rest until cool enough to handle, then slice the squash open and remove and discard the membrane containing the seeds. Scrape out the pulp and let stand in a colander placed over a pie plate to allow any excess liquid to drain away. Purée until smooth in a food processor or blender. Retrieve 1 cup of pulp. Any extra can be stored in the freezer for a pie or other use.
METHOD FOR THE PASTA
Mound the flour in the center of a clean room-temperature work surface such as a large wooden cutting board. Create a well in the center of the mound. Crack the first egg into the center of the well and add ½ teaspoon of the olive oil. With a fork, gently begin to scramble the mixture within the confines of the well, while integrating the flour from the sides of the well as you carefully beat the egg. Once the first egg is mostly mixed in, shore up the sides of the mound again with flour, maintaining the mounded shape. Repeat the process with the 2nd egg and another ½ teaspoon of olive oil, and again with the 3rd and 4th eggs and remaining olive oil in half-teaspoon increments. Start kneading the dough with your palms, allowing the warmth of your hands to impart elasticity to the dough. Knead until you feel you have created a cohesive mass, for a count of about 400 strokes. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and allow it to rest for about 30 minutes.
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