“That was close,” Tess whispers.
“We have to get her out of here,” I whisper back.
Aunt Feen drains her wine and slams the empty glass onto the table. Every head turns toward the thud. Aunt Feen lifts herself out of her chair, gripping the table edge for balance. She stands. She straightens her shoulders. She surveys the room. Even Gepetto, who doesn’t understand a word of English, looks frightened as Aunt Feen looms over the table.
“And one more thing…,” she announces, raising one hand with a pointed finger to the ceiling. And then, like the drop delivery of a box spring from 1-800-MATTRESS, Aunt Feen falls full-body backward.
To the sound of twenty chairs scraping the wood floor, accompanied by cries of “Dear God” and gasps of “O Dio,” Aunt Feen hits the floor on cue, and at the drop of her Second Act curtain.
The Hospital of Santo Pietro looks less like a haven of healing, and more like a perfunctory credit union back home. The sparse waiting area has a plain desk and lamp, and simple wooden benches along the wall. There is a suite of small rooms tucked behind the waiting area, according to my mother, who peeked. I don’t have a good feeling about this place, and from the looks on the faces of my family, they don’t either. This place makes Queens General Hospital (the insignia in Latin is translated to: Don’t Go There) seem like the Mayo Clinic.
Aunt Feen is inside with the doctor. For whatever reason, when she came to she glommed on to Charlie, who carried her out of the restaurant in his arms and into the carriage, which brought us here. Aunt Feen, forgetting she’d rebuffed him earlier, or maybe guilty because she had, insisted Charlie go with her to be examined.
Tom took the baby and the kids back to the hotel. A quick call to Signora Guarasci, the proprietor at the inn, and she was on hand to help with my nieces and nephews. This is going to be a long night, and my sisters need the backup so they can be here for Aunt Feen.
Mom paces the floor. Her aqua chiffon cocktail dress looks like something the alto section might wear during a “Harvest Moon” number on The Lawrence Welk Show. A panel of fabric studded with pale blue seed pearls flows behind her as she paces the floor. Whenever my mother dresses formally, she resembles a bird, going for color, movement, and flight. Her upsweep, which stayed up at the restaurant, has begun its downward spiral.
My father sits between Jaclyn and me on a small bench under a framed movie poster in Italian of the Marx Brothers’ Animal Crackers.
“Feen went down like a brick.” Dad loosens his tie. “Ka-boom.”
“I hope there’s not permanent damage.” Jaclyn’s eyes fill with tears.
“Who knows? It’s a wait-and-see situation. When it comes to a head injury, I know it’s better if you see blood. Then you know she’s not bleeding on the interior. P.S. I didn’t see a drop of blood,” Dad says.
It’s times like these that I wish someone in my family had gone into the field of medicine. We could use an expert right now. “You can bleed inside and out,” I correct my father. “It’s not an either/or.”
“Okay. Then her fall could be a killer of the silent type caused by a stroke.” My father folds his arms across his chest. “A stroke and a sub-see-quent blow to the head…she’s finished.”
“Dad.” Jaclyn mops up her tears with a scrap of brown paper towel from the restroom.
When Aunt Feen toppled, the reception officially ended. She came to fairly quickly while lying on the floor, after the thud, but she was woozy. The cake went uneaten, the net bags of confetti remained on the tables, the cookie trays were untouched. We grabbed our purses and followed Aunt Feen to the hospital quickly. I’m worried about my great-aunt, but I’m sad for Gram that her wedding day has been ruined. I get up and go to Gram. “I’m sorry about all of this.” I put my arms around her.
“It’s okay. I just want Feen to be all right.”
The doctor pushes through the door. Dominic rushes over to him. They converse in Italian.
“Does Dr. Kildare over there speak English?” Dad says.
“I do.” The doctor looks at my father. He’s around forty, slim build, balding, and wears glasses.
“No wedding ring,” Tess whispers.
I glare at her.
“Is it serious?” I ask the doctor.
“We did a scan of her brain and neck—there appears to be no trauma to the head.”
We actually applaud the good news.
“I’d like to see that scan,” Dad says under his breath. “What did they do it with? Pliers and a mirror?”
“Allora, dottore,” my mother purrs, “mi dica la prognosi per mia zia?” My sisters and I look at one another. My mother flirts whenever a situation requires immediate service. This rule applies to mechanics and doctors as well as Pierre, who dyes Mom’s roots at the Jean Louis Hair Salon on Queens Boulevard.
“The scan showed nothing.” The doctor shrugs. “She is very lucky.”
“So what caused the fall?” Dad wants to know.
“Her blood alcohol level is extremely high,” the doctor says. “She’s inebriated.”
“Drunk?” My father throws his hands up. “Feen is drunk!” My father turns away in disgust.
“We gave her an espresso and two aspirins,” the doctor says. “She’s sobering up.”
“I don’t believe this,” Jaclyn says.
I’m beginning to miss the cake and the platter of cookies we left back at the restaurant. I could use a cannoli or two right about now.
“So, what do we do?” Mom asks the doctor.
“Take her home and let her sleep it off,” the doctor says.
My family goes from a grief-stricken pre-funeral-planning state to annoyance, then anger, in ten seconds flat. Only Gram breaks a smile. She’s relieved, and now her new life can begin. We gather our belongings to go.
“I knew no good would come of this trip. You can’t take senior citizens abroad and hope they survive out of their comfort zone. I don’t think anybody should venture into areas where they don’t speak the language,” Dad says.
“Really. They don’t speak English in Bayside, Dutch, and that’s a quarter of a mile from our house.”
“You know what I mean. Foreign countries. Aunt Feen is too old and too American to be cavorting around the world. She can’t handle the stress, so she hit the bottle.”
“What stress?” Tess wonders. “She had to get dressed up and sit in a church and then go to a restaurant to eat. How hard is that?”
“It’s not. But something is troubling her. Why would Aunt Feen get drunk?” My mother addresses our group. “She’s not a drinker.”
“She’s jealous,” I tell them.
“Of what?” Mom asks.
“Of whom. She’s jealous of Gram.”
“Oh come on. They’re eighty and seventy-eight—jealous of what?”
“They’ve been competitive all their lives. Feen has always felt second-class, the baby who could never surpass the older sister. And Feen remembers who got the roller skates for Christmas and who got the socks.”
“Valentine, that’s ridiculous.”
“Really? If you had caught Aunt Feen on her second cocktail, three before she hit cement, she would tell you all about how Gram was the favorite, and how her sister always got everything she wanted. And now, Gram even has a husband. Aunt Feen faked being sick this morning for attention. She fell asleep at the ceremony like it wasn’t important enough for her to stay awake at her own sister’s wedding, and then, when neither of those things worked to her advantage, when her mere disdain of the whole wedding didn’t get it canceled, she did what she had to do to refocus the limelight off Gram and onto herself by getting stewed at the reception.”
“Dear God.” My mother shakes her head in disbelief. “Is this who we are?”
“And look. Aunt Feen won. We left the reception and came to the hospital and sat vigil for her. Now, instead of the bride being the center of attention on her wedding day, it’s Feen. Mission accomplished! And now, get ready. When sh
e sobers up, expect complete contrition. She’ll be so sorry that she turned this day that belonged to her sister into one that she stole with an accidental fall. But don’t believe a word of it. This has been an act all along.”
“Charlie overheard her playing it up in there to the doctor. She pulled a full Meryl Streep, with tears and everything,” Tess says. “Told the doctor she had a nervous condition.”
“Aunt Feen ruined this wedding, and that was her intention from the moment she set foot on the flight,” I assure them.
“That’s sick,” Jaclyn says.
It’s hard for Jaclyn to imagine that one sister could ever turn on another. Tess, Jaclyn, and I have had our fights, but we get over our disagreements quickly. We root for one another’s happiness and do everything we can to support one another. We are not like Great-aunt Feen and Gram. Tess shakes her head sadly at the realization that what I am saying is true.
“It’s just awful. That’s all,” Mom says.
Gianluca and Lady Zing-Zang-Zoom push through the door. Carlotta’s perfume fills the air like a breeze after a sweet, summer shower. I hate her.
Gianluca looks around the room. When his eyes find his father, Dominic, he goes directly to him. They speak rapidly in Italian as Dominic explains the diagnosis. I can’t catch everything he says, but it sounds like Dominic is telling Gianluca that everything is okay and he is free to go.
Gianluca kisses Gram on the cheek, and then embraces his father. He then goes to my parents and says good night. Then he turns to the group, the rest of us, and sort of does a wave on his way out. I got a wave for you, I want to shout after him, and it’s four fingers short of a hand. Now, I hate him too. I can’t believe I was longing to kiss him only twelve hours ago. Now I’d like to sock him. Take your lips and go, I’d like to tell him. Too late. He took his lips and he’s gone. He’s out the door with Carlotta—lotta everything I ain’t got.
A cold winter wind kicks up, sending a chill through us as we walk back to the inn. It took Aunt Feen an hour to sober up, and when she did, Mom, Dad, Dominic, and Charlie loaded her into the carriage to take her back to the Inn. My sisters, Gram, Alfred, and I volunteered to follow on foot.
Arezzo is serene; it closes down early like most quiet Italian villages when night falls. The lights from the houses throw streaks of gold light onto the dark streets as we pass.
Alfred, Gram, and I walk together, not saying much. The only sound we hear is the soft click of our heels hitting the stone streets and the muted chatter of Tess and Jaclyn, who walk ahead of us, no doubt discussing whether to put Aunt Feen in rehab. We revel in a crisis that results in putting one of our own in a short-term residential facility. We enjoy nothing more than packing a picnic basket and visiting our infirm on the weekends.
Gram takes Alfred’s arm on one side, and mine on the other. “This is nice, just the three of us,” she says.
When it comes to Alfred and me, Gram is on a peacekeeping mission at all times. Even though I’m her longtime partner at the Angelini Shoe Company, and she confides in me, Gram had a lot of decisions to make, big and small, personal and professional, when she accepted Dominic’s proposal to marry. Alfred has become a sounding board for all the arrangements, and has helped her shape her life plan moving forward.
Alfred holds the place of authority in our family universe. He is our grandmother’s only grandson. He is also the eldest and only son in our family, which gives him the advantage thanks to the ancient Roman law of primogeniture. Alfred is “the prince,” and our de facto leader. A decision is never final until my brother gives it his stamp of approval.
“What a day.” Gram sighs.
“We’ll remember the good parts, Gram,” I tell her.
“I hope so.” Gram smiles. “I’m relieved my sister is going to be all right.”
“She’ll be fine,” I assure her.
“You know, I count on both of you.” Gram tightens her grip on my arm.
Gram had planned to meet with Alfred and me after the reception. One last attempt to encourage us to be nice to one another, I’m sure. I haven’t trusted my brother’s motives since he tried to sell Gram’s building out from under us last year, and close the shoe company that has been in operation since 1903.
I was four years into my apprenticeship when he attempted his takeover. The economic collapse of the American banking system last fall helped me throw him off his plan. As real estate values plummeted, he became less eager to sell Gram’s building, but I can tell from his demeanor that he’s still up to something. My brother always has a plan B.
In the world of Manhattan real estate, Gram’s building is still prime, with its West Village location and spectacular Hudson River views. But Gram could never sell it now for the price she would have gotten only one year ago. This has only made Alfred more resentful toward me. Now that Gram has a new life in Italy, it’s clear I’m on my own again. I’m the only thing that stands between Alfred and a hefty sale on Perry Street. I accept that I will be in the fight of my life when the plane lands at JFK tomorrow night.
“I hope you’ll look out for Aunt Feen,” she begins.
“I will,” Alfred promises.
“We all will,” I amend. I’m always amending my brother. Plus, I know the truth of the situation. It won’t be Pamela and Alfred running over to Feen’s apartment with meals. My brother won’t do her laundry and take her to her doctor’s appointments. He won’t be the one to sit with her at the senior center on bingo night. It will be the women, my mother, sisters, and me.
“I didn’t mean you wouldn’t—I was just assuring Gram that she can count on me.”
Alfred’s tone is insulting.
“Great,” I snark.
“That’s enough. Listen to me. I have given a lot of thought to what’s to become of the Angelini Shoe Company. And I’ve come up with a plan. I’m going to make you partners.”
“Alfred and me? You can’t be serious. We’d have to call the company Chalk and Cheese, because we couldn’t be more different.”
Alfred puts his hands in his pockets and looks away.
“It’s the Angelini Shoe Company now and forever,” Gram says firmly.
“All of sudden you’re nostalgic? How could this work?” I point to my brother. “Ever?”
“It has to work. I trained you, Valentine, and you’ve proven you’re at the start of a great career as a shoemaker—a designer—an artist, which, really, I never was. But you need help.”
“I don’t need his help. I don’t want his help. I’m doing fine without him.”
“You need help on the financial end of things.”
“The financials are easier than the design,” I say defensively.
“That statement alone shows that you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alfred jabs.
“What don’t I know, Alfred?”
Alfred faces me. “We should have sold that building last year, when we could have gotten a fantastic price. We could have been proactive and moved the company to a cheaper site, like Jersey. Now, because we waited, because you made us wait, we have to ride this bad economy out until it turns!”
“I’m not riding out my design career! I’m in it for life!”
“No, he means the value of the building versus the debt,” Gram says calmly. “Valentine, I wouldn’t be comfortable saddling you with everything involving the business. But you’ve been right on two counts.” Gram looks at Alfred to make certain he is listening. She turns back to me. “The custom bridal shoe business should not move from Perry Street—it’s been there nearly a hundred years and it should stay there. It’s important to keep the original shoe business going as you develop your new line. There is power in the name, and in our tradition, so exploit it. I think you’re brilliant to have come up with a design for an everyday shoe. It never dawned on me to expand the company in this way. But you thought of the Bella Rosa, and you’re doing it, and good for you—good for all of us.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.<
br />
Gram continues, “Now, I’ve worked everything out with my attorney, Ray Rinaldi. Alfred, I’ve made my decision, and I expect you to honor my wishes. The workshop and the business will remain in the building. Valentine, you may also continue to live in the building. You will be the chief executive officer of Angelini Shoes. You will be in charge of everything creative, and of the day-to-day operation of the shop. And Alfred, you will be the chief financial officer.”
“Don’t do this to me, please!” I beg her.
“Valentine, you have to trust me,” she says.
“But this is a huge mistake!” I stop and throw up my hands. Jaclyn is right. My family is always yelling—inside the hotel, on the quiet streets of Arezzo—it doesn’t matter, anywhere you look, no matter what time of day or night, we are ready for a fight.
“It’s what Gram wants.” Alfred turns to face me. “It’s her decision.”
My mind reels. I don’t want this, but it seems if I don’t agree to it, Gram will be forced to devise another strategy—and it won’t be in my favor. On the other hand, Alfred has a full-time job—so really, how much would he be around? Not much. I take a deep breath. “Okay, Gram, if this is what you want…”
“It’s what’s best,” Gram says.
“But there have to be conditions to this deal.”
“Oh, now you have terms.” Alfred folds his arms across his chest.
“I work there, I’ve been working there for over five years, and I intend to stay.”
“Fair enough,” Alfred concedes.
“I run the shop. On the custom side, I buy the materials, make the deals with the vendors, and maintain the stock. I meet with the customer, design the shoe to her liking, and then put it through the construction process on a schedule. I oversee the pattern cutting, and I build the shoe. I’ve developed the secondary line, and I don’t intend to share the copyright of the Bella Rosa with anyone. Anything that I design belongs to me. At the moment, I also keep the books, pay the bills, and juggle the loans. If you want to take over the books, handle the loans, and structure the debt and the taxes, great. The time I save with you doing all of that will free me up to do more design work. I’m not interested in being your boss, and I won’t have you be mine.”
Brava, Valentine Page 4