I watch the students as a teacher silently moves through the easels, stepping back to observe their work. She touches the shoulder of one painter. She points. The artist nods, leans back, squints at his canvas, and then takes a step forward, dips a small brush on his palette, and paints a slim white seam along the top of an old factory building he has painted in detail. In an instant, the gray sky in his painting, hovering over the rooftops like old cotton, is suffused with light, changing the entire mood of his cityscape. Gram taught me about the power of contrast, using a light trim to heighten the vamp of a shoe, or a dark one to define it, but I’ve never seen the concept come alive with such a subtle placement of color. I’ll remember it the next time I choose a trim.
Bret works at a brokerage house within walking distance of our shop. When we were together, he’d sometimes come and help on weekends when he needed a break from studying for his MBA. I admired that he never forgot his working-class roots and was able to roll up his sleeves and do good old-fashioned manual labor when it was called for. I think if we needed help with an order and we asked him to come over today, he would still pitch in for old times’ sake.
In the distance, I see him, walking briskly toward me in his suit, his beige Burberry trench flapping open in the breeze. Bret finishes the last bite of an apple and tosses the core into the Hudson River. I’m genuinely proud of him and all he’s accomplished; but I also worry. He’s the only man I know who has it all, but the man who has it all can top himself only one way: by getting more. I think of Chase and her dazzling smile. Is she more? When Bret reaches me, he gives me a kiss on the cheek. “So fill me in. Tell me everything about the business.”
“Gram has been borrowing against the building to keep the business afloat. Alfred looked at the books and said she needs to restructure her debt.”
“How can I help?”
“I think Alfred is using this as an excuse to have Gram retire and sell the building. He’d be cashing in on sky-high real estate, but it would mean the end of the Angelini Shoe Company. Which would leave me—”
“Without a place to work. Or a home.”
“Or a future,” I add bluntly.
“What does Gram want to do?”
“She told him she’s not ready to sell. But, between you and me, she’s scared.”
“Look, she’s sitting on prime real estate. We have guys who handle that.”
“I don’t want you to help her sell it. I want you to help me buy it.”
Bret’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“You know how much this business means to me. It’s everything. But I don’t have much money saved, nowhere near what it would take. I have no collateral. And while I’m close to being a master, there are still things I’m learning from Gram.”
“Val, this is tough. Alfred has your grandmother’s ear.”
“I know! But I do, too. If I had an alternative plan, I think she’d consider it.”
“So you’re looking for investors who would keep you in business while you figure out a way to buy the business outright?”
“That sounds good. I mean, I don’t know anything about finance.”
“I know,” he says, smiling.
“But you do.”
“You know I’m here for you. Let me figure this out.” He takes my arm as he walks me back to Perry Street.
“Are you behaving yourself?” I ask.
“Like a conscientious altar boy. I know what I have at home, but thanks for reminding me.”
“Hey, that’s why I’m here. I’m a foghorn for fidelity.”
Tess twirls in the stylist’s chair to check the back of her brand-new haircut in the mirror. I lured my sister to Eva Scrivo’s, the chicest hair salon in the Meatpacking District, with the promise of hip, modern hair.
Black leather chairs are lined up in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, filled with customers in the various stages of cut and color. One woman wears a headdress of massive fronds of tinfoil painted with bleach; another woman, with short, swingy champagne-streaked strands is getting a blow out, her hair pulled tight on the end of a round brush; another customer has her roots saturated with a purplish brown mixture while the ends of her hair stand away from her scalp like bike spokes.
“You were right, Val. I needed this. I was a boring soccer mom with that blunt cut.” Tess smiles. “Not that there’s anything wrong with soccer moms, because I am one.”
Scott Peré, the master of curly hair, fluffs Tess’s chunky layers with one hand while looking at her reflection. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up. Layers after thirty, girls. Layers.”
“I can think of a lot of things a woman needs after thirty, and layers aren’t even in my top ten,” I tell him.
“Rule amendment,” he says. “With your gorgeous skin you’ve got until forty.” Scott takes his comb and moves on to his next customer, who sits under a drying contraption that throws heat on her pin curls as it slowly gyrates around her head like a swirling metal halo.
I poach some smoothing cream from Scott’s station and flip my head over and work it through. My cell phone rings in my purse. “Grab that for me, Tess. It’s Gram wondering where we are.”
“Hello.” Tess listens for a few moments. I put my hair in a topknot. “This isn’t Valentine. I’m her sister.” Tess hands me the phone. “It’s a man.”
“Hello?”
“I thought it was you. Sorry,” Roman says.
“Roman?”
“Sexy name!” Tess says approvingly as she takes her purse and goes to the counter to pay.
“I was calling to thank you for the other night,” Roman continues. “I got your note. I carry it in my pocket.”
“I’m dreaming of that risotto.”
“Is that all?” He actually sounds disappointed. “I was wondering when we could see each other again.”
“Do you need a haircut?” I ask him.
“No,” he laughs.
“Too bad. There’s an open chair here and I’m pretty good with scissors.”
“I’m going to pass on the haircut, but not on you. Okay? But here’s the hard part. I’m pretty much chained to this place.”
“It’s the same for me in the shop. How about I call you for coffee? After lunch sometime?”
“That’s good.”
I close the cell phone and slip it into my pocket. I meet Tess outside the salon. She motions to me as she talks to her husband. “No special night. Absolutely not. You tell Charisma to stay away from that canned frosting, and Chiara is not allowed to sleep in our bed. Okay, honey. I’m going back to Gram’s with Val. I’ll be home by bedtime. Love you.” She hangs up her phone. “Charlie has his hands full. Charisma was playing on his cell phone and called his boss by accident.” Tess looks at me. “Well?”
“I had a date.”
“And?”
“And he’s very interesting.”
“A Poindexter?”
“Not at all. He’s hip.”
“Complicated?”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Even my Charlie. Complicated even in his simple demands. He likes pasta every Tuesday, a movie on Fridays, and sex on Saturdays.”
Tess has never mentioned sex with her husband. Obviously, the haircut has freed her. I laugh. “That’s a doable schedule.”
“I’m not complaining. But you gotta watch out for the routine. You need to keep a man on his toes. Charlie’s getting close to forty, and you know what happens. New car, new wife, new life.”
“That will never happen to you,” I promise my sister.
“It happened to Mom.”
“Yeah, but that was the eighties. Back then, it happened to everyone’s mother.”
“History has a funny way of repeating itself.” Tess buries her hands in her pockets as we walk. “Even Gram had her problem with Grandpop.”
I stop and face my sister. “What?”
“Yeah, Mom told me that Grandpop had a…friend.”
“Are
you serious?”
“I don’t know her name or anything, but Mom told me about it before I got married.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“As if tales of infidelity are some sort of heirloom we need to share like the family silver?”
“Still.” I feel bad that Gram hasn’t confided this to me. “Gram’s never mentioned it.”
“You idolized Grandpop. Why would she?”
I unlock the front door to our building. Tess and I go into the vestibule. The door to the shop is propped open, the worktables are bare, and the small desk lamp throws off the only light in the room. There’s a note on the desk in Gram’s handwriting. “Meet me on the roof—the chestnuts are in.”
We race up the stairs, out of breath as we reach the top. “In my next life,” I gasp, “I want to live in one of those fabulous lofts, all the space without the stairs.”
“The original assisted living,” Tess pants.
I push open the door to the roof. Gram has the grill going, with two large frying pans covered in tinfoil over the red charcoal flames. The smoke from the charcoal offsets the scent of sweet chestnuts as they roast, a delicious smell of honey and cream.
“They’re good this year. Meaty,” Gram says, shaking the pan, gripping the handle with an oven mitt. She wears a kerchief over her hair, and her winter coat is buttoned to the top. “Oh, Tess, I love your hair.”
“Thanks.” She tosses her head. “Scott is very good. You should go to him, Gram.”
“Maybe I will.” Gram lifts the spatula off the hook on the side of the grill. She lifts the foil off one pan with her oven mitt, then she whacks the chestnuts with the flat side of the spatula, cracking them open. She scoops them onto a stainless-steel cookie sheet. Tess and I sit down on the chaise longue and take the tray. We blow on them, and then take one apiece, pulling the sweet, translucent chestnut out of its burnished shell. We pop them in our mouths. Heavenly.
“My mother hated chestnuts,” says Gram. “When she was growing up in Italy, money was tight and they made everything with chestnuts—pasta, bread, cakes, fillings for ravioli. When her family emigrated, she vowed she’d never eat another chestnut. And she never did.”
“It just goes to show you, sometimes you can’t shake the things that happened to you in childhood.” Tess looks off toward New Jersey, where her husband is probably locked in a garage while Charisma and Chiara paint the automatic doors with frosting.
“I’d like to shake some of the things that happened to me in adulthood,” I say as I crack open another chestnut.
The door to the roof swings open. “Don’t be alarmed, it’s just me,” Alfred says as he places his briefcase by the door. He goes to Gram and gives her a kiss.
“This is a surprise,” says Tess as our brother kisses her on the cheek and then me.
“Gram called and said the chestnuts were in,” Alfred says stiffly.
“I’m glad you could make it.” Gram beams at her only grandson with enough love to fill the boat basin on Pier 46.
“I’ve been to the bank,” he says, drawing a deep breath. “They want some numbers, a new appraisal on your property.”
“Do you think we’re going to be okay?” I stand up.
“I don’t know yet, Valentine. There’s still a lot of information to gather. The more I dig, the more I believe you should think about selling the building.”
“Oh, so you didn’t come for the chestnuts, you came here to nail up a For Sale sign,” I tell him.
“Val, you’re not helping,” Alfred says.
“And you are?” I shoot back.
Gram moves the chestnuts around with her spatula. “Bring the brokers through, Alfred,” she says quietly.
“Gram…,” I protest but she cuts me off.
“We have to, Valentine. And we’re going to.” Her tone tells me the subject is closed. Alfred takes a chestnut from the tray Tess holds, cracks the shell, and eats it. I look at Tess, who looks at me. Then Tess says, “Just don’t forget Valentine, Gram. She’s the future of the shoe company.”
“I think of my grandchildren first.” She takes the tray from Tess. “All of you.”
5
Forest Hills
THERE ISN’T A SOUL on the E train as Gram and I board at the Eighth Street station to go out to Queens. It’s a quiet Sunday morning, but the evidence of a wild Saturday night is visible as we skirt empty liquor bottles and soda cans. As we push through the turnstile, the subway platform is filled with the pungent scent of motor oil and Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ve never understood how the doughnut smell can waft down from street level but the fresh air can’t.
A train pulls into the station, its dull gray doors open wide, and I quickly step in and scan the car to make sure it’s a good one. A good car has no abandoned food on the seats, odd riders, or mysterious moisture on the floor. Gram chooses two seats in the corner and I sit down next to her. As the train lurches out of the station, Gram pulls the Metro section of the New York Times out of her purse and begins to read.
“You know this is a setup,” I tell her. “We’re going for Sunday brunch, but there’s something else brewing. I’m very intuitive about these things.”
“Aren’t we going to see the pictures from Jaclyn’s wedding and watch the video?”
“That’s only part of the agenda.”
Gram folds the newspaper into a square. “Well, what do you think they’re up to?”
“Hard to say. What do you think?”
I attempt to be direct with Gram, who is known to keep important details to herself, only to drop the bomb when there’s a room full of relatives. When she doesn’t answer me, I try another tack. “Alfred called. What did he want?”
“He had a question about quarterly taxes. That’s all.”
“I figured he already sold the building and the Moishe brothers were on their way to pack us up.”
She sets the paper down on her lap. “You know, Valentine, I’m just trying to do the right thing for my family.”
I’d like to tell Gram that this time the right thing for her family is the wrong thing for the two of us. I’ve met with a real estate agent in the village, and there’s simply no place to move the Angelini Shoe Company that we can possibly afford in the vicinity of Perry Street. The real estate agent found an empty loft space way out in Brooklyn, in an industrial area surrounded by auto-repair shops, a steel factory, and a lumberyard. The thought of moving our shop away from the Hudson River and the energy of Greenwich Village made me so sad, I never even went to look at the space.
“You understand why I’m on edge.” I look out the window.
“Nothing has happened yet.”
I nod. This is vintage Gram, and the very attitude that got us into trouble in the first place. And, I’m afraid I’m just like her. Denial provides temporary comfort, cushioned with hope and bound by luck, it’s a neutral, an emotional state that goes with everything. Years may pass as we wait for the other shoe to drop, and in the meantime? Well, we’re fine. We wait in hope. Denial does no damage until the last minute, when it’s too late to salvage a situation. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous, that’s all,” I tell her.
As the train pulls into the Forest Hills station, I help Gram stand. Her grip is strong, but her knees are unreliable, and lately, they’re getting worse. It takes her longer to climb the stairs at night, and she’s all but stopped her walks in the Village. I cut an article out of the New York Times about knee replacement and left it by her morning coffee, but when Gram read that there’s a six-week recuperation period, it killed any possibility that she’d actually go in for the surgery. “My knees are good enough,” she insisted. “They got me this far, they can get me to the finish line.” Then she dropped the article into the recycling bin.
We take the escalator up to the street. I don’t know what we would have done if she had to climb the stairs. I might’ve had to throw her on my back like the shepherd carrying the sheep in our Christmas crèche.
&n
bsp; We emerge on the sidewalk facing Our Lady Queen of Martyrs Church where I attended mass every Sunday until I went to college. Gram takes my arm as we walk the two blocks to my family homestead.
“You know, sometimes I can’t believe I grew up here,” I say as I take in the old neighborhood.
“When your mother told me that she was moving to Forest Hills after she got married, I almost died. She said, ‘Ma, the fresh air.’ Now, I’m asking you—is this air any better than our air in Manhattan?”
“Don’t forget her pride and joy—her garden and her very own attached garage.”
“That was your mother’s highest aspiration. To park her car where she lived.” Gram shakes her head sadly. “Where did I go wrong?”
“She’s a good mother, Gram, and a fine member of the Forest Hills bourgeoisie.” I take Gram’s arm as we cross the street. “Did she ever rebel?”
“I wish!” barks Gram. “I hoped she’d become a hippie like all the other kids her age. At least that showed some moxie. I told your mother that every generation should take their culture by the collar and shake it. But the only thing your mother wanted to shake were martinis. To tell you the truth, I don’t know where she came from.”
I know what Gram means. I used to pray for a feminist mother. My friend Cami O’Casey’s mother, Beth, was a lean broomstick of a woman, with gray hair at thirty-six, who wore Jesus sandals and pounded her own oatmeal. She worked in a government agency in Harlem and wore cool buttons that said things like KILL YOUR TV SET and I LOVE YOU WITH ALL MY KIDNEY. Instead, I got Hollywood “Mike,” with her wiglets and her tackle box full of makeup and that damned dressing room mirror surrounded by Greta Garbo lightbulbs. Cami’s mother marched for peace while my mom sat around and waited for fishnet hose to come back in style.
To this day, my mother holds up current fashion trends like barbells. She knows when to shelve lime green because purple is the color of the moment. When big hair was huge in the eighties, Mom went for perms. She’d come home kinked, frizzed, and puffy, and when the curls weren’t big enough, she’d throw her head upside down and spray her hair from the roots out until it stood away from her scalp like the rays over the head of Jesus on the Holy Sacrament tabernacle. Sometimes her hair was so big we worried that she might not fit into the car.
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