And actually, it is a little surprising because almost everyone that knows our telephone number is either in this kitchen, or sitting outside under the grapevine.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say when Siena looks confused. ‘She always does this. I’ll get it.’
‘Hello?’ I say, turning my back so I don’t have to watch the panic on my mother’s face.
‘Have you called him yet?’ says Felicia so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ears.
‘Keep the volume down! This is a phone not a trumpet.’
‘Well excuse me. You’ve become very haughty since you got a boyfriend.’
‘I don’t have a...’ but I stop just in time. Releasing this particular word into this room could have repercussions I am not ready for. ‘Hang on,’ I say, sensing my mother’s nervous vibration beside me. I muffle the phone into my shirt.
‘It’s all right. No one is dead. It’s just Felicia.’
‘It’s lunch time,’ she says, looking over at the wall clock that reads quarter to twelve. ‘Who calls at lunch time?’
‘Her family eats at one.’
She flicks her hand like she’s trying to cool something down. ‘So sophisticated,’ she says then goes back to the kitchen. ‘Don’t be long. We still eat at midday.’
Mum and Siena pretend to go back to their cooking, but I am not fooled by their cunning ability to look disinterested while still listening to every word. I wedge the phone between my cheek and shoulder and start scribbling on the phone book as I try to keep my voice low.
‘I can’t just call,’ I whisper, keeping an eye on Mum and Siena. ‘What would I say?’
‘If you don’t call he’ll think you don’t like him.’
‘I don’t want to look eager.’
‘Mira, he gave you his number. I assume this means he wants you to call him. So call him.’
With my red pen, I begin to draw a peace symbol on the back of my hand. I trace the circle over and over until it’s nice and thick. In the kitchen Mum and Siena are pretending to be absorbed in dropping handfuls of parmesan over the ravioli.
I am not fooled.
I turn my back on them and push the mouthpiece closer to my lips. ‘Can we discuss this later?’ I say.
‘You talk tough, but you’re really a chicken, Mira.’
‘LUNCH IS READY,’ shouts Mum, even though I am about two metres away.
I tuck the pen into my shirt pocket. ‘I have to go. It’s lunchtime you know.’
‘You’re eating already? We usually have our lunch at one.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘You’re not going to call him, are you?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Call him today. Promise.’
‘I gotta go.’
‘Chicken.’
‘Lobster, actually. Bye.’
I turn to see Mum standing close beside me, bowl in hands. She looks like she is waiting for me to say something.
‘How is Felicia?’ she says after it becomes obvious I am not going to start this conversation.
‘Fine.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Just talking.’
‘Talking about what?’
‘School.’
She shifts the bowl to her hips. Waits a bit more.
‘Everything okay?’ she says.
‘Yep.’
‘Just talking, then?’
‘Just talking, Mum. That’s all.’
She smiles, pats me on the shoulder.
‘Take the bread,’ she says.
‘Sure.’
And I follow her outside.
***
Lunch is served to a chorus of hungry oo-ing and ahh-ing, as though some other family was responsible for eating the mounds of pizza, olives and breadsticks that have disappeared from the table. Mum dishes out plates of richly sauced ravioli and Siena is at her side adding parmesan to each plate before passing it to Via who decides who gets served. The first plate goes to her husband. Then her daughter, son and grandchildren are fed before the rest of us are offered anything. I take my place at the end of the table with Sera and Marco; I help them tackle ravioli which refuse to stick to forks and wipe down their red smeared faces with the edges of the tablecloth. As everyone quietens down to eat, Via takes the opportunity to fire some shots at me.
‘Couldn’t you wear something nice,’ she says loudly then looks around to make sure everyone has heard her. I am wearing a black shirt, black ripped jeans and my Doc Martens. ‘It is your mother’s birthday for God’s sake. Rosa had her dress especially made for today, didn’t you darling?’ She leans over and rubs the material between her fingers as though this illustrates some important quality. ‘It’s lovely don’t you think, Sofia?’
‘Oh yes. Beautiful colour on you, Rosa.’
‘It makes her skin glow,’ agrees Via. ‘What did you say this colour was called, darling?’
‘White?’ says Rosa.
Via laughs, flaps her wrist like Rosa is just kidding her around. ‘No, the other name. What did the lady at the store call it?’
‘Ivory Satin?’
‘That’s it,’ says Via, sitting back proudly and sliding a cigarette from her bosom. ‘Hi-vor-ee Sigh-ton.’ There is a murmur of approval around the table.
‘I don’t wear dresses,’ I say resting my foot on my knee and leaning back into my chair. ‘No offence, Rosa. You look good.’
‘Thank you, Mira.’ We’ve never spoken about it, but I have always sensed Rosa dislikes her mother’s comparisons of us as much as I do.
‘I like your boots, Mira,’ says my cousin Franco, pitching in with some help of his own.
‘You’re very nice, Franco, but it doesn’t help your cousin when you lie to her,’ Via says, moving quickly to rectify any misunderstanding I may have. ‘You look like one of those children who can’t walk.’
‘I think they look like those boots you used to wear, Via,’ says Siena, leaning across and dropping more parmesan into her plate.
Via crosses her arms and tries to look blank but there’s a bit of a twitch in her nose.
Siena then says to me. ‘When Via was about your age, she found a pair of our grandmother’s boots. Funny thing is, they were a bit like the ones you’re wearing, with laces all the way up. Do you remember, Sofia?’
‘Oh yes! Remember Via? Mamma hated them. She said you looked like an orphan.’
‘A gypsy,’ corrects Siena.
‘You walked around the piazza every day to show them off. The whole village remembers those boots and how Mamma cried.’
‘The laces broke and she wouldn’t get you new ones,’ says Siena.
‘Then you found some wool and made laces,’ adds Mum.
‘There was a hole in the bottom, and your socks would get wet.’ Siena and Mum laugh loudly about this.
Via looks at me, ignoring the continuing chatter of her sisters who are almost falling over as they remember more details and stories about those boots and Via. ‘That was a long time ago,’ she says quietly.
‘They were good days,’ says Mum, wiping tears from her eyes.
They sit quietly, each remembering their own things. The rest of us wait for them to finish.
‘This is delicious, Sofia,’ says Siena, breaking the silence and we all murmur our agreement.
Mum looks down shyly. She’s red but proud. ‘Not as good as Mamma’s,’ she says prompting an eruption of protests, and the mood lifts as everyone once again focuses on the day’s job of eating and drinking.
As Mum and Via clear plates and get ready for the next course, Siena comes and sits beside me.
‘Don’t let her get to you,’ she says, hugging my shoulder lightly.
I shrug. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘We all are I suppose,’ she looks over at Via who is currently shouting at my father because he has taken off his shoes. Her hands are flaying, and there’s lots of finger jabbing punctuating her words.
‘What is her pro
blem?’ I say shaking my head.
‘She sees it as her job.’
‘To yell at everyone?’
‘To look after us. You know,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘When she was a young girl she was actually a bit of a free spirit.’
I laugh loudly. My aunt Via’s spirit is about as free as her long-suffering bosom.
‘It’s true,’ says Siena, kicking my shin playfully. ‘Via was a lot of fun. She was quite a beauty too, and had lots of boyfriends.’
‘You’re making this up.’
Siena leans back into her chair. ‘She changed after Mamma died. She was the eldest and I guess she just thought it was her job to take her place, you know?’
She looks away, her hand goes to her throat but I can’t tell if she is getting emotional or just distracted by one of the many conversations going on around us. I want to ask Siena about the day that Nonna died. I want to tell her that I remember how she carried me outside, but conversations about that day are like conversations about cancer, and I know better than to bring it up.
‘Hey, daydreamer,’ says Via, sneaking up on me and grabbing me by the ear. ‘Go help your mother in the kitchen. It’s her birthday.’
‘You could just ask me,’ I say, pushing her hand away.
She rubs my head affectionately. ‘Then you wouldn’t do it.’
‘How would you know? Not like you’ve ever tried.’
‘I do what works,’ she says, lifting me out of my chair. ‘Now go, the poor woman is working her fingers to the bone for you.’
Certain that I will follow her directions without question, she moves onto her next task which is getting all those remaining at the table to join her in yet another chorus of ‘Mamma mia dammi cento lire’. So as my family begins to sing, each in their own preferred key, I pick up some plates and go to help my mother in the kitchen. Anything to escape the madness.
***
As the table is cleared to make room for the final course, I insist that my six-tiered lobster shell tower be allowed to remain as the table centrepiece. Marco and Sera, who have helped me create this marvel of engineering, wholeheartedly agree. Together we resist the mocking glances, the threats of slaps to various parts of our anatomy, and prayers to that god that hovers above us all, until Via finally gives up and lets the tower stay. As she moves on in search of something else to take control of, we celebrate our rare victory with cheers and sloppy high fives.
‘What’s on your hand?’ says Marco, noticing the peace sign I scrawled there earlier.
‘It’s a peace symbol. It means no nukes.’
‘What’s a nook?’ says Sera.
‘It’s a big bomb,’ says Marco. ‘I’ve seen them on TV.’ He makes a loud explosion sound and throws his arms out wide to represent the mushrooming cloud. ‘They’re cool.’
Sera shakes her head sadly. ‘They make me scared.’
‘Me too. You want one of these? It will keep you safe.’
‘Oh yeah!’ she says pushing her arm out towards me. I take the red pen I have in my pocket and begin to draw on her wrist. ‘How’bout you Marco?’ But he looks a bit unsure.
‘Can you draw a dog?’
‘Sure,’ I say, and draw him a smiling canine with floppy ears. I add a little peace symbol to the dog’s collar, but he doesn’t notice.
‘Want to play wars?’ he says, and he positions his arms like he’s holding a gun. He begins to spit and rattle like a machine gun, taking aim at everyone around the table before running off to fight more battles with the garden.
‘You coming?’ says Sera.
‘Not today,’ I say, flashing my peace sign.
She looks uncertainly at her own then towards the battling noises coming from Marco. ‘I won’t kill anyone,’ she promises, then tears off down the path after her brother.
I watch them play for a while, then go help Siena who is walking towards us with a large stack of bowls for the cake. Via taps her spoon against the table.
‘Speeches!’ she says, eyeing each of us to make sure we are paying attention. ‘I go first!’ She clears her throat then leans forward on the table with both hands, forgetting or perhaps not caring, that the table top is actually a loose plank of wood propped up on trestles. Suddenly everyone is scrambling to balance the weight on the other side to stop the tabletop from catapulting.
‘Dear family, we are here today to celebrate the bird-day of my dear sister, Sofia. We have celebrated many bird-days together, but I think we all know why this one is so special. Today is the end of a long and difficult year, and for this we are thankful. Today I want us to put these difficult times behind us, and look forward again to enjoying our family and our health, for many, many years to come.’
She already has half the table in tears, but she stands up tall to deliver her final blow. With a tear slowly blooming out of the corner of her eye, she turns to my mother and holds her spoon up like it’s a glass of champagne.
‘To Sofia. I wish you a long, long life, and many grandchildren.’
There are muted cries, meaningful glances and wrung hands everywhere. Determined that I won’t be sucked into this drama vortex, I concentrate on digging my pen into my hand until it hurts just enough to distract me.
‘Thank you,’ says Mum looking bashfully at her hands. ‘Thank you very much everybody.’ She stands to start dishing out the birthday cake, but Via pushes her back down into her chair.
‘ More speeches,’ she says, then sits down and looks at each of us with a one-of-you-better-get-up-and-say-something look. When no one does, she pulls her husband to his feet. ‘Would you like to say something, darling?’
Half Via’s size, Zito sways and smiles as he peers at us through sleepy, half closed eyes. He is, as always, ironed and buttoned, combed and soaped, but Via still manages to find an excuse to groom him, swiping at microscopic crumbs on his pants and correcting a minor deviation in the fall of his shirt. ‘Go on,’ she says when she’s done and I lean forward in anticipation of his usual mumbling, which I alone seem unable to understand.
‘Mmm, urrr, mmmm-aaaa,’ he says, ‘egg zeekly yom mmmmmring.’ And everyone laughs. I look around, wondering what it is that I have missed. Zito turns to my Mum and raises his wine glass.
‘Mmm-uurgle-eezel, Sofia.’ And whatever he says generates a round of ahh-ing and a fluttering of hands over hearts. Via’s strapped bosom heaves with pride.
‘Beautiful!’ she says and pulls him down to kiss him sweetly on the lips. Around the table heads nod in agreement. Via sits her husband down and offers him a bowl of strawberries. She lets him choose one then hugs the plate to her chest. ‘Next,’ she says. When again no one volunteers, she turns to Siena. With a sigh, Siena gets to her feet.
‘Happy birthday, Sofia. I am so happy that you are well again,’ she says. She is smiling at my mother, who is smiling back, and I lean forward to hear what she is going to say next, but she just stands there smiling. Finally she opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a little sob, and she covers her face with her hands and sits down.
‘Thank you,’ says Mum still smiling.
Via shakes her head, like she’s exasperated by Siena’s inability to hold it together. She gives Siena a we-will-talk-about-thislater look before turning towards her next victim. I consider escaping into the garden where Sera and Marco are playing, but luckily, she sweeps past me and focuses on my father instead. In stark contrast to Zito’s neat and soft appearance, my father looks and smells like a vagrant. He’s got a can of beer in his hand, and one leg crossed over his knee exposing his cracked and blackened heel.
‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ asks Via.
Dad eyes her back easily, raises a single eyebrow in amusement. He stands to make his speech and he’s got the slight sway of a drunk. I look at the others to see if they have noticed but my father’s drunkenness is too commonplace to be worthy of comment.
‘My lovely wife,’ he says raising his beer can. ‘A beautiful party, for a beautiful wom
an. My wallet is empty, but my heart is full. I hope you all enjoy the beer. It’s free,’ he says and falls back into his chair, sloshing froth from his open can. Via stares angrily, but makes no further comment. Before she can nominate the next target, Mum stands and puts her hands up in protest.
‘Enough now. Time for cake,’ but Via intervenes again, this time by hugging Mum around the shoulders so her arms are pinned uselessly to her side.
‘Just one more thing. I want to make sure you know how much we all love you.’ And she starts to sing.
‘Appy bird-day to you!’
And we all join in.
‘Happy birthday dear Sofia. Happy birthday to you.’
‘Ip ip!’
‘Oooray!’
‘Ip, ip!’
‘Oooray!’
Finally satiated, Via falls back into her chair and refills her wine glass. She turns to speak quietly with her daughter, content for now to allow proceedings to take their own course. I watch them for a while, hearing Via’s words but only knowing that Rosa is responding because her lips are moving. Mum slices big wedges of cake and Siena passes them around the table. Marco and Sera run back, following their sugar and cream radar to the source. Not long now, I think to myself. This party’s got about another hour in it and then I will be able to think about making that call or not. Mum comes over and sits beside me. Her smile is one of tired relief, like someone who has just finished a successful marathon.
‘So what’s for dinner?’
She laughs, gives me a quick side squeeze. ‘Have you had fun?’
‘It wasn’t really bad.’ Which is the best I can give her. It must be enough because she pulls me closer, holds me in a hug as she looks dreamily across the table at her family.
‘What a lovely day.’
‘Uh-huh. The best “bird day” ever,’ I say but she doesn’t notice.
‘It’s so nice, everyone together again.’ She squeezes me again so that I have trouble breathing. ‘Do you have homework for school tomorrow?’
‘It’s not school, and we don’t have homework. We have assignments. And no, I don’t have any to do.’
‘Good,’ she says, looking down into her armpit where I am currently jammed. ‘Then tonight we can sit down together and you can tell me all about this boy you like.’
The Mimosa Tree Page 9