My sister’s brand-new mother-in-law, Mrs. McAdoo, wears a fussy corsage of purple roses, which hangs off her lilac crepe dress like a ruby red tire. Mrs. McAdoo’s pale skin blends into her hair, cut to her chin in a simple bob. My mother would never allow a strand of white hair on her head. The only gray you will ever find in direct proximity to my mother’s person is the terrazzo floor in the foyer of our family home. “Matrons belong in prisons! Besides, I don’t believe in going gray,” my mother would say. “It’s an advertisement for death. Go gray and you might as well say”—as she beckons off in the distance—“come and get me, Grim Reaper!” No, Mom is rich sable brown, now and forever (or for however long L’Oréal makes it).
I look around the room, 312 guests strong. Last night they were a bunch of Post-its on a board in my mom’s kitchen, and today, they’re at the table they have earned in our version of Italian-American hierarchy. First tier: Parents, Close Friends, Professionals, Coworkers, Cousins, Kiddies. Second tier: In-laws. And third: the Island (relatives we aren’t speaking to because something bad went down, never mind that we don’t remember what); Rude (late responders); and Dementia (don’t ask).
I must look lonely on the dance floor. Why didn’t I bring a date? Gabriel offered, but I didn’t want him to feel obligated to flap to the chicken dance with cousin Violet Ruggiero in this heat. How can it be that out of all the people in this room, I remain the only single person under forty? Sensing the inert shame, my brother, Alfred, takes my hand as the music starts. It’s a little weird to waltz with your only brother, with whom you share a strained relationship, to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” but I make the best of it. He is, after all, a dance partner, even if he is a blood relative. We take what we can get. “Thanks, Alfred.”
“I’m dancing with all of my sisters,” he says, as if he’s ticking off a to-do list for the mechanic at Midas mufflers.
We sway for a few moments. I have a hard time making conversation with my brother. “You know why God invented brothers in Italian families?”
He takes the bait. “Why?”
“Because He knew that the single sisters needed someone to dance with at weddings.”
“You’d better come up with a better joke for your toast.”
He’s right, and I’m not happy about it. My brother is thirty-nine years old, but I don’t see a middle-aged father of two, I only see the persnickety boy who made straight A’s and had no friends in school. The only time his cranky mood would lift was when the cleaning lady came on Thursdays and he’d help her scrub the tile. This was when Alfred was the happiest—when he had a brush in his hand and ammonia in a bucket.
Alfred still has the same cowlick on the crown of his head and the same serious countenance of his youth. He also has Mom’s old nose and the thin upper lip of Dad’s side of the family. He doesn’t trust anyone, including family, and he can talk for hours about the evils of the Media and the Government. Alfred is at the ready with a doomsday report any day of the week. He’s the first to call when a house is burning live on New York 1 and the first to send mass e-mails when the bedbug infestation on the East Coast is announced. He’s also an expert on all diseases that run in families of Mediterranean descent (autoimmune disorders are his specialty). We spent last Christmas dinner listening to his tutorial on prediabetes, which really made the baba au rhums go down smoothly.
“How’s Gram doing?” he asks.
I look over at our grandmother, my mother’s mother, Teodora Angelini, who got stuck at the Dementia table so she might sit with her cousins and her last living sister, my great-aunt Feen. While Gram’s peers are hunched over their plates, sorting through the walnuts on top of the salad, she sits upright, with military posture. My grandmother is the lone red rose in a garden of gray bramble.
With her bright red lipstick, two-piece red linen summer suit, coiffed white hair, and large octagon-framed glasses in jet black tortoise, she looks like a gracious Upper East Side lady who has never worked a day in her life. The truth is, the only thing she has in common with those society matrons is her tailored suit. Gram is a working woman who owns her own business. We’ve made custom wedding shoes in Greenwich Village since 1903. “Gram is doing great,” I tell him.
“She can hardly walk,” Alfred says.
“She needs knee replacements,” I tell him.
“She needs more than that.”
“Alfred. Except for her knees, she’s in excellent shape.”
“Everything is always rosy with you,” Alfred sighs. “You’re in denial. Gram is almost eighty years old and she’s slowing down.”
“That’s ridiculous. I live with her. She runs rings around me.”
“That wouldn’t be hard.”
And there it is. The Jab. I don’t want to fight at my sister’s wedding, so I let go of him, but he goes on.
“Gram won’t be around forever. She should retire and enjoy the kids. There’s a nice assisted-living place out by us.”
“She loves the city. She’d die in the suburbs.”
“I’m the only person in this family who can face the truth. She needs to retire. I’m willing to buy her a condo.”
“Aren’t you generous.”
“I’m not thinking about myself.”
“Then it would be the first time, Alfred.”
The law of the sibling jungle springs into effect. Alfred’s tone, the look on my face, and the fact that we’ve stopped dancing sends a silent alert out to my sisters. Tess, sensing a fight, has come to the edge of the dance floor and locks eyes with me. She shoots me the Need me? look.
“Thanks for the dance.” I turn my back on Alfred to make my way to the Friends’ table, which is now empty because everyone over the age of sixty stampedes the dance floor for an uptempo version of “After the Lovin’.”
I squeeze past Mom and Dad in the stampede. “It’s our song!” Mom chirps as she holds Dad’s hand high in the air, like a May Day ribbon. They pull each other close as Mom plants her cheek on Dad’s. They look like Siamese twins joined at the blush line. Engelbert Humperdinck used to be my mother’s favorite singer, until Andrea Bocelli provided the first emotional catharsis of her life. She listens to Bocelli in the car, drives around Queens, and weeps. Through her tears, she says, “I don’t need therapy because Andrea taps my grief.”
I sit down at the empty Friends’ table, pick up my fork, and stab my salad. I’ve lost my appetite. I put the fork down and survey the crowded dance floor, which, when I squint, looks like a pointillist painting of sequins, jet beads, and Swarovski crystals on a canvas of lamé.
“What did Alfred say to you?” Tess says, sliping into the chair next to me. Tess, my older sister by a year and a half, is a busty brunette with no hips. The bridesmaid gown gives her the shape of a champagne glass. Despite her bombshell physique, she is the brainiest of the three sisters, perhaps because Alfred used her as his flash-card moderator from the time she was four years old. Tess has Mom’s heart-shaped face, and the second best nose in the family. Her wavy black hair matches eyelashes so thick she never has to wear mascara.
“He implied I’m a loser.” I yank up the front of my dress like I’m pulling a full Hefty bag out of a trash can.
“He told me that I’m a bad mother. He thinks I let Charisma and Chiara run wild.”
I look over at the Venetian table, where seven-year-old Charisma pokes a hole in a cannoli and hands it to five-year-old Chiara, who blows out the filling. Tess rolls her eyes. “It’s a party. Let them have some fun.”
“Alfred wants Gram to retire.”
“He’s on a campaign.” Tess checks her lipstick in the butter knife. “You know, those assisted-living places can be really nice.”
“Don’t tell me you agree with him!”
“Hey, I’m on your side,” Tess says gently.
“Every time Alfred brings it up, it’s like he stabs me.”
“That’s because you care about Gram.” Tess dips the knife in a butter rosette, then s
preads it on what remains of Bob Silverstein’s dinner roll. “And the shoe company is your livelihood.” My sister looks weary, which tells me she had the same discussion with Alfred and got nowhere.
I don’t want to ruin the reception, so I change the subject. “How’s your table?”
“Why did Ma spread us out like UN peacekeepers? Doesn’t she get that we actually like each other and want to sit together? Okay, maybe put Alfred and Clickety Click at the Stuck-up table—”
“Call her Pamela. You want an in-law war?” I look around to make certain there aren’t any in the area. Alfred has been married to Pamela for thirteen years. She’s four feet eleven and wears five-inch stilettos, even at the beach and, rumor had it, during labor. We named her Clickety Click because that’s the sound her heels make when she walks in rapid little steps. “The petite inherit the earth. Nothing is more alluring to a man than a woman who can fit in his wallet.”
“I’d love to be tall like you,” Tess says supportively. “At least you have gusto. Pam has no gusto. Anyhow, they’re completely suited for each other. Alfred is shut down and Clickety is positively bloodless. This spoon”—Tess holds it up—“has more personality.”
Tess looks over at Charisma and Chiara, who have taken black olives out of the crudité dishes and placed them over their eyes. The girls laugh as the olives roll off their faces and onto the floor. Tess motions for them to stop. The girls scamper off. Tess waves to her husband, Charlie, to watch the girls. He’s stuck at the Rude table listening to the guests gripe about their lousy seats near the kitchen.
“Look at Alfred’s boys,” I tell Tess.
Our nephews, Alfred Junior and Rocco, look like miniature bankers with their bow ties and the crisp napkins on their laps.
“I heard Pamela sent them to the Good Manners and Me class at Our Lady of Mercy. So well behaved.” Tess sighs.
“Do they have a choice?” I yank up the front of my gown again. I check my watch. It feels like it’s been fifteen years between the soup and the salad. “Mr. Delboccio put his hand on my ass.”
“Disgusting,” says Tess.
“To tell you the truth, with the Spanx on, I couldn’t even feel it. I could sit on a hot griddle and I wouldn’t know it.”
“So how do you know he took a feel?”
“The look on Mrs. Delboccio’s face. I thought she was going to pick up the candelabra and beat him.”
“He probably had too much to drink. And it’s so hot out. The liquor just goes right to the brain and pickles it. Promise me you’ll get married in a blizzard.”
“I promise. I also promise to get married at city hall on a Tuesday.”
“C’mon, you’d miss out on all of this.” Tess turns in her chair and looks out at the sea of our relatives. She turns back around. “Okay, city hall is fine. We’ll wear suits. Day suits and wrist corsages.”
The tuxedoed waitstaff pours out of the kitchen and through the galley doors like chocolate chips into cake batter. With one hand, they carry enormous silver trays loaded with plates covered in metal hats. With their other hand, they snap open metal racks and place the trays on top of them. In quick succession, dinner plates filled with succulent beef tenderloin, a delicate purse of whipped potatoes, and spears of fresh asparagus are placed on the table. At the sight of the food delivery, the dance floor empties instantly. The guests return to their tables like a football team heading for the locker room at halftime. Tess gets up. “Gotta go. It’s the entrée.”
The Friends take their seats and nod approvingly at the plates. The tenderloin is pricey, thus demonstrating a level of opulence, which Italian Americans appreciate more than the dissolution of the cold war and tubes of anchovy paste on demand.
“So, how’s it going at the shoe shop?” Ed Delboccio asks. His bald head looks like the sterling-silver platter hats the waiters have stacked in the corner. “Tell me this. Does anybody even want handmade shoes anymore?”
“Absolutely.” I try not to snap, but I must have since everyone at the table looks up at me.
“Don’t take offense,” Mr. Delboccio says and smiles. “It’s just a query for discussion’s sake. Why would anybody order custom-made shoes when you can buy them cheap at those outlet malls? Shirley here is a regular at those warehouse sales. KGB—”
“DSW,” his wife corrects him.
“Whatever. The point is, I’ve saved a lot of wampum at those discount joints, believe me.”
Mrs. Delboccio nudges him. “For God’s sake, Ed, it’s a different thing altogether. You don’t buy shoes from Valentine like you buy them from Payless. They’re deluxe. And Valentine works with Teodora, she’s…” She waves her fork at me, searching for a word.
“She’s a master and I’m her apprentice.”
“You take care of your grandmother, too, don’t you?” Mrs. Delboccio says.
“She takes care of herself.”
“But you live with her, which is so nice. You’re giving up your freedom to take care of Teodora. That’s very generous.” Mrs. Delboccio smiles, her lips pulled tight, like the zipper on a change purse. Her magenta hair is piled high on her head and sprayed to a shiny finish. She adjusts her bold stampato gold necklace. Her purple nails match her gown, which matches her shoes.
“In this day and age, it’s rare to find a kid who will take care of an old person,” Mr. Delboccio says, leaning toward me and breathing. His breath is a mix of cinnamon and headcheese. Not awful, just refrigerated. “That’s why I’m saving up. I’m going for one of those assisted-living condos. I’m gonna have to pay for what my parents and Shirl’s here got for free. When the time comes, God forbid, I don’t think our kids will take us in.”
Mrs. Delboccio shoots him a look.
“Well, they wouldn’t, Shirl. Face it.” Mr. Delboccio takes his knife and pushes some potato onto the meat already on his fork and pops it into his mouth. “They’ve got their own lives. It’s not like our generation. We took in all family members, regardless of their mental status. I can’t see our kids doing the same.”
“Why did you become a shoemaker?” Mrs. La Vaglio asks. She’s a tiny blonde with the Linda Evans haircut from Dynasty. Still. The La Vaglios live in Ohio, so I guess my story didn’t spread to the Midwest.
“I was teaching high school English in Queens—,” I begin.
“And then you had that bad breakup with your boyfriend. How many years did you go with him?” she interrupts. I guess my story seeped into Ohio after all.
“College and then some.” I’m not going to give these people a timeline. They’d brand an L for Loser on my forehead with the olive paste.
“Your first love,” Mrs. Delboccio says and looks at her husband. “Ed and I have the same story, except we have a different ending. I met him when I was eighteen. We were married at twenty-four. And here we are.”
“You’re an inspiration to all of us,” I say, oversalting my salad.
“Thank you,” Shirley says smugly.
“At the time, your mother was so worried about you.” Sue Silverstein reaches over and pats my hand.
“There’s nothing to worry about. I love the twists and turns my life has taken.” This is lovely. When my parents’ friends have too much to drink, they tell me things my mother won’t.
“A positive attitude is everything,” Max Silverstein says, shaking his fork at me.
“You know, our son Frank is totally available.” Mrs. Delboccio sips her wine. “He’s not gay,” she says quickly. “He’s just picky.”
“Well, I’m looking for picky.” I force a smile.
Mrs. Delboccio squeezes her husband’s thigh under the table so he’ll remember that I said something positive about Frank.
“How long ago were you dumped?” Mr. Delboccio asks.
“Ed!” his wife shrieks.
“Three years,” I mumble.
Mr. Delboccio whistles low. “Three years of your prime time.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?” Mrs. La Vaglio asks.
“If she was, she’d have brought him to the wedding.” Mrs. Delboccio talks about me as if the wine I’m guzzling is a magic potion that has made me invisible.
“She could get a date. Look at her.” Mr. Delboccio looks at my breasts as though they are two exotic fish swimming in opposite directions in a tank. “She must want to fly solo.”
“Let’s not worry about me,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I’m fine.”
“Nobody said you weren’t.” Mr. Delboccio finishes his bourbon and iced tea and clonks the glass down on the table like an ax. I look around to the waitstaff. Somebody cut this guy off, will you? The waiter interprets my signal and brings a gravy boat of jus instead. Mr. Delboccio takes it and douses what’s left of his meat. “Valentine, here’s the thing. As a woman, you got a window. A window of opportunity where you got the face and the figure and the pep to attract a man. Ergo, you got to grab a guy while the window is open, because once it closes, bam, you’ve lost your chance, and you’re in an airless closet. Alone. Okay? Oxygen is cut off. No man can survive in there. Got it? Tick. Tock. A man can always find a woman, but a woman can’t always find a man.”
“Ed, no more bourbon for you.” Mrs. Delboccio moves his glass. She looks at me apologetically. “Valentine has a lot of life in front of her.”
“I never said that she didn’t. But you remember my sister Madeline, who moved in with Ma when Ma got the brain tumor? My poor mother afflicted with a tension headache that turned into a cancerous mass overnight. Anyhow, how old was Mad back then? Thirty at the most. She moved in, took care of Ma until she died, may she rest in peace, and then Madeline stayed, where was she gonna go? She was the spinster aunt.” Ed looks for his roll to butter. He’s already eaten it so he reaches over and takes his wife’s. “Every Italian family has one of you.”
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