Brava, Valentine: A Novel

by Adriana Trigiani

  "Thank you," Gabriel says proudly.

  One by one, the family finds their seats as they check for their names at the place setting.

  "Where's Pam?" I ask Alfred.

  "She's upstairs. She has a migraine," Alfred says, tapping his forehead.

  "I told her to lie down in my room." Gabriel places baskets of fresh rolls down the center of the table. "The serene green walls will cure whatever's ailing her."

  "This year, we're gonna join hands...," my father begins.

  "I am not holding hands," Aunt Feen complains. "The Catholic Church went in the toilet when they started that--I don't like it in church, and I don't like it at dinner."

  "Okay, then we won't hold hands," Dad says.

  "Wait a second, Dad," I interrupt. "Aunt Feen, if Dad wants us to hold hands, we're going to hold hands. He's the head of this family. You're our beloved great-aunt, but what he says goes."

  A silence settles over the table.

  I bow my head. I close my eyes, and instead of picturing Jesus on his heavenly throne surrounded by a choir of saints, I see Gianluca. Our relationship may be as dead as the autumn leaves in the centerpiece, but the things I learned from him are very much alive. He would be proud that I defended my father and his role. Gianluca taught me that tradition isn't something we do, it's the way we are. And now that 166 Perry Street is my home and this is officially the first holiday where this is my table--and Gabriel's--it's my call. I make the rules in this house.

  "Hold hands," I say firmly.

  "Aw, what the hell." Feen grabs the hands of Gabriel to her right and Charlie to her left.

  "Dear God, we want to thank you. It's been a year of transmissions--"

  "Transitions," Mom corrects him.

  "--transitions. We got my mother-in-law in the old country with a new husband. We got the grandkids growing healthy and strong, we got Aunt Feen on the mend from the bruising she took in Arezzo, we got an all-clear on my prostrate--"

  "Prostate." My mother sighs.

  "And we got Gabriel handy with the paint can and the sponge, turning 166 Perry Street into a Phoenecian palace."

  My mother is about to change Phoenecian to the correct Venetian. I squeeze her hand so she won't. Egypt and Venice are close enough. Mom takes the tip and leaves Dad's vocabulary alone.

  "What I'm saying, dear Lord, is that we are grateful. June, you're a good Irishman, and we love to have you anytime--"

  "You got it, Dutch," June says, her head bowed.

  "And we thank you for this bee-you-tee-full food and table, the Vegas pumpkins, the wine from your grapes, I got my eye on you, Aunt Feen, no fair guzzling. The last place we wanna celebrate this Thanksgiving is the emergency room at Saint Vincent's--"

  "I don't want to be no trouble," Feen grouses.

  "So, dear Lord," Dad continues, "we got another year under our belts. And we thank you for that. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost...Amen."

  "I'm going to check on Pamela," Alfred says, as my sisters pass the platters. He goes up the stairs as we help the kids load their plates.

  I fill my plate with turkey, stuffing, whipped potatoes, and green beans. I place my napkin on my lap. I listen while my brothers-in-law and father talk college football, and as always, the chatter loops around to Notre Dame, and will the Fighting Irish place in the polls this year. The number of the year may change, the children may grow older, and we may add in a new baby or spouse here and there, but every autumn, and every Thanksgiving, the talk turns to Notre Dame football and will they or won't they.

  Alfred returns to the table with a look of concern on his face.

  "Is Pamela okay?"

  He nods that she is.

  But I notice that my brother isn't eating. I'm not hungry either. Something is going on, something under the surface, looming in the depths. I can see the shadows. I can't name the beast, but it's there, lurking. I can feel it. And when I look at my brother, I know that he can too.

  "Oh, Val, tell Feen about Buenos Aires. She hasn't heard any details," June says.

  My mother kicks me under the table.

  "It was really nice," I say.

  "That's all?" Feen says critically. "I get on the bus and go gambling in Atlantic City--now that's nice. But Argentina? That should be something more. Am I right?" Feen waves her fork around.

  "Tell about the river walk, and the cobblestones," June persists.

  "They were lovely."

  Silence settles over the table. "But you have people there, right?"

  "Yes, Aunt Feen."

  "I never saw any pictures."

  "I have them. I can show you later."

  "Okay. Nothing like waiting months on end to see your relatives who I never met and probably never will. I'll be dead, and then maybe you'll get off your duff and think, Sheesh, should've shown Aunt Feen the pictures. You'd think you'd have made a video or something. I'm never gonna get on a plane again. I'd like to see your long-lost cousins before I die."

  "You will, Aunt Feen," I assure her.

  The kids giggle as they poke the glitter pumpkins with their forks. "Don't destroy the table," my mother says to them nicely.

  "You know, when you get to be my age, it's a bad idea to withhold anything. That includes mail. I could win the lottery, and if I died, right before I found out, let's say. You know, none of youse could collect the money? That'll show you. You know, I could go in a heartbeat. Boom. One minute here, the next, I'm code blue. So, if you wouldn't mind, get the pictures."

  "Later, Aunt Feen," Tess pipes up.

  My brother-in-law Charlie shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  "Who wants to go to the park?" my brother-in-law Tom says.

  Chiara, Rocco, Alfred, and Charisma leap out of their seats. "The baby is fussy. She needs air." He kisses Jaclyn on the cheek. The truth is, Tom needs air. These family dinners don't sustain him--they literally choke him.

  Tess helps the girls into their coats. Alfred zips up the boys' parkas. "You want me to go with?" Alfred asks Tom.

  "Nope. We'll be fine," he says as he drops baby Teodora into the snuggly. "The big girls and boys will help."

  "We will!" Chiara promises, but that devilish look returns to her face as she narrows her eyes. She probably plans to hail a cab, throw the baby in, and send her on a joyride through the five boroughs.

  "And when you guys get back, we'll go up on the roof for chestnuts and marshmallows, okay?"

  The kids shout in delight as they race down the stairs.

  "Kids, they are balls of energy," June laughs.

  "That's why I never had any." Feen takes the napkin from her lap and tucks it into her collar and spreads it across her chest. "They destroy everything they touch."

  I drain my wineglass. I look down at my food, which I still haven't tasted. But I'm on my third glass of wine. Not good.

  "So get the pictures," Aunt Feen insists.

  "Later." I force a smile.

  "Val's not done eating, Aunt Feen," Mom says hurriedly.

  "She can eat, and I can look at pictures."

  "We are not looking at pictures!" Charlie bellows.

  "Why the hell not?" Feen demands.

  "Not while my children are here."

  "Technically, they're at the park," Mom offers helpfully.

  "What difference does that make?" Aunt Feen looks around, confused. Her eyeballs bounce around in her head like slot machine lemons.

  "I don't want them to walk in and see the pictures," Charlie says firmly.

  "Are they pornos or something?" Feen throws up her hands.

  "They are not...pornos." My mother squeezes the word out, not wanting to allude to pornography at a family meal (or any other time, for that matter).

  "Tell your aunt what the problem is, Ma," Charlie says.

  "There isn't a problem," I correct him. "At least not to thinking people."

  "What are you saying?" Charlie looks at me.

  "Stop squabbling and get the pictures," Aunt Fe
en says. "When Tessie and I die, you people are all that's left. Our blood line will collapse like a tapped vein. So you found some relations on your side and I want to see them. What's the big deal?"

  "Not now," Mom says.

  "But I don't understand why...," Aunt Feen persists.

  "Because they are black," Charlie blurts. "That's right. African American."

  Aunt Feen is confused.

  "They can't be African American--because they are not American. They are Argentinian," I correct him. "But even that isn't exactly right--they are a mix of many cultures, Ecuadorian, African, and Italian."

  "No matter how you mix it, there's still one predominant color--and that would be black," Charlie corrects me.

  "No, it's a mix."

  "A mix." Feen is surprised. I guess Gram didn't paint the fine details about our long-lost relatives. Aunt Feen thinks. Then she says, "Well, what did you expect? They're south of Mexico."

  "That doesn't have anything to do with it," Mom interjects.

  "Huh. Look at a map." Feen shrugs.

  "Okay, look. Before this careens headlong into a stone wall, let me just say that I met our family, I like them, they're good people, and Alfred and I are in business with them. Yes, they are black, and they are also Italian."

  "Blah blah blah," Feen mumbles.

  "That's right. They are both. And they're beautiful people." I sound like an idiot. But I realize, in the center of this ridiculous argument, I react like one.

  "Of course you'd say that." Charlie taps his fork on the table.

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I turn to Charlie.

  "You accept anything. You're a liberal."

  "What does that have to do with our family in Argentina?"

  "You're happy to have black people in the family. Sure, sure, let everybody in." He waves his arms around. "What's the difference to you?"

  "There is none. Who cares what color they are?"

  "I do. I don't want my girls coming home with black guys. Okay? I'm all for equal rights, and everybody's one and the same in God's rainbow. I just don't want them to marry it."

  "Charlie!" June pushes her chair away from the table. "Are you serious?"

  "He's serious." Tess shakes her head sadly. Clearly, they've been fighting about this for months.

  Charlie looks around the table for support. "Dad, back me up on this."

  "Hey, since I got the cancer, nothing bothers me." Dad holds up his hands. "I love the world and everybody in it."

  "Thanks," Charlie sneers.

  "It's not my husband's fault that we have blacks in the family," Mom says.

  "It's not anybody's fault, Ma," I say.

  "I didn't mean that like it sounded." Mom shakes out her hands as she does whenever she's nervous. "It's just that whenever we start talking about race relations, I never say the right thing."

  "You're fine," I reassure her. "There's nothing wrong with having black relatives."

  "Not to you," Charlie says.

  I turn to him. "It's not like I discovered our cousins are running a drug cartel."

  "How do we know they're not?"

  "Oh, Charlie--you're really sick." I can't help it. I haven't eaten, and I'm losing all perspective. I could bite the ass of a wild bear right now.

  Mom defends me. "Look, Charlie. Valentine did not go to Argentina to unearth some family secret--"

  "Oh, yes, she did--she found that goddamned drawing, Tess told me, and then she went on a hunt to find Ralph--"

  "Rafael," I correct him.

  "Rafael--whatever--and then she gets on a plane and goes down there and gets in business with these people. Come on. What are we doing here?"

  I find myself standing, leaning across the table. "Charlie, how dare you! Nobody has asked you for anything--ever. You rolled into this family, and we've been damn good to you. When you and Tess needed help buying a house, we all pitched in--"

  "Oh, now you throw that up in my face--"

  "It's true. But you're not grateful. Well, the black side of me loaned you the money, okay?" I yell.

  Tess stands up. "Everybody calm down."

  Gabriel hands me a bread stick. He lives with me. He knows a low blood sugar dive when he sees one. "He needs help!" I point to my brother-in-law. I realize that I'm tipsy. I hold the table.

  Charlie gets up from the table. "Sit down, Charlie," my father yells. "Nobody leaves the room."

  Charlie sits down.

  "I will not have this." My father pounds the table. "I will not have a rift. Nobody leaves until we settle this."

  "Well, good luck on that front, nephew." Aunt Feen picks her teeth with her name-tag flag from the pumpkin.

  We sit in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say or do. "I'm leaving," Pamela announces from the doorway behind us.

  We turn to face Pamela, who stands in the entrance to the hallway. She has on her coat.

  "Oh, Pam, you're up, how's that migraine? Come and eat. The stuffing is as good as my mother's," Mom says.

  "Don't condescend to me."

  "I wasn't condescending." Mom looks around the table at all of us. "Was I?"

  Tess and Jaclyn shake their heads that Mom was not.

  "Go ahead. Stick together." Pamela looks at my sisters.

  "Are you all right, Pamela?" June asks. "Am I missing something?"

  "This. This is what you're missing. And what I've been missing." Pamela hurls a piece of paper on the table. I pick it up and smooth it out. From the looks of it, Pamela has had it balled up in her angry fist for hours. It's a printout of an e-mail.

  "Read it," she barks at me. "I printed it out at home and memorized it on the train. Go on. Read it."

  "Read what?" my father asks. "What's on the paper, Val?"

  Alfred puts his face in his hands. "It's me. It's my fault."

  "What is your fault?" My mom asks softly.

  "Everything. It's my fault."

  My mother strokes her turkey brooch and thinks. Then she says, "Did you...did you break the law? Did you steal, Alfred?"

  He looks at her like she's insane.

  Mom leans back in her chair, relieved. "He did spend twenty-three years on Wall Street. Every day you pick up the paper and some other muckety-muck is on his way to the slammer for things he was unaware he was doing. The financial world is so complex."

  "Then what in God's name did you do?" Feen barks at Alfred.

  "He had an affair!" Pamela shouts. "An affair. He cheated on me. Happy Holiday, everybody!"

  "Pam...," my sister Tess says quietly.

  "Don't Pam me. I'm Clackety-Cluck--remember?"

  "Clickety-Click," Jaclyn corrects her.

  "Whatever. Feel free to call me anything you want because I'm outta here! You made me feel like the outsider all these years, and guess what? It was true. I was different. I was normal--and you, you're all crazy! I knew you were a pack of loonies before I married him, but it's only gotten worse. And I only put up with you quirky bastards because I loved your son. But your son has decided he doesn't love me anymore. He went out whoring around--"

  Alfred leaps to his feet. "That's not true, Pam. I love you."

  "Words! Words! That's all you got for me? They got a million of those in the dictionary!"

  Dad nods. "True, true."

  Pamela runs her hands down the sides of her body, from her bust to her waist and down to her hips. "Alfred. Look at me," she commands.

  Alfred looks down at the table; his head hangs in shame.

  Pam lowers her voice to a growl. "I said. Look. At. Me."

  Alfred looks up at Pamela, his eyes filled with tears.

  "I kept the deal. I am the girl you married. I didn't change. I didn't gain fifteen pounds, then lose five and gain back twenty on that Jenny Craig seesaw your mother's been on all of her married life."

  My mother gasps.

  "That's right!" Pam shouts. "Lose the damn weight already!"

  My mother, horrified, pulls her tummy in and sits up str
aight.

  "Look at me. Size two December 1994 and size two November 2010. How many women can say that at forty-one years of age when they've given birth to babies with heads the size of bowling balls?"

  "Sweet Jesus," my father mutters.

  "I got you all pegged. Each and every one of you. He cheats, but you all cheat! You all lie! You spread stories, you gossip--"

  "We discuss things, yes, but--" my mother tries to defend herself.

  "Ma, you're the worst!" Pamela charges the table. "Everybody knows you tuck tags into dresses you've bought and wear them once and return them for a full refund!"

  "Only once! I did that once!"

  "It's cheating, okay? It's against the law!"

  "It was a chartreuse gown, and it didn't do a thing for me. But my back was against the wall, and I had to wear it."

  "And you." Pamela points to me. "You're a thief. Your neighbor, Mr. Matera, was dead for two years and you took his newspaper and read it every morning."

  "It was a glitch. I reported it to USA Today eventually." My face burns hot with embarrassment.

  "And you--" Pamela points to Tess. "Telling the ticket guy at Great Adventure that both of your children were under six, when they were seven and nine at the time. You made your own children crawl into the park on their knees to get in for free."

  "They wouldn't honor my coupon," Tess says in her own defense.

  "It's still cheating!" Pamela screeches.

  "And you--" She points to Jaclyn. "You re-gift! That's right. I gave you the Estee Lauder makeup kit for your birthday, and it wound up under the Christmas tree for Tess...from ...you!"

  "It was more her palette, not mine," Jaclyn stutters. "I'm a winter, and she's a summer..."

  "It doesn't matter. It's still cheating!"

  "I was with you till the re-gift," June says generously. "That's just a skin tone thing."

  "Her point would be that we're all sinners here," Dad explains to June.

  "Yeah, Dad, that's my point. And chew on this. I can't believe I got mixed up with this bunch when I knew better. I saw all the signs, but I loved you so much, Alfred, I sucked it up and joined this lot of losers! Out of all the families in Queens, out of the millions of families, I marry into this one!"

  "I take umbrage--" My mother raises her voice.

  "Take the umbrage. Take it all. I'm done with you people." Pamela paces back and forth behind the table like a prosecutor on Law & Order. "And you know what? Charlie and Tom feel the same way. That's right, when you're whispering about us, you got it: we're talking about you! That's right, the in-laws carp about you! Why do you think Tom is always going out for walks? Nobody likes fresh air that much! He can't take you people! And Charlie? Tell 'em, Charlie. Tell them how you make up phony excuses about work so that you're only forced to attend two major holidays a year!"