Lionel smirks. “There’ll be time later to talk about that. Just get back out there and get to work.”
After my meeting with Lionel, I take the Metro-North train to New Haven, Connecticut. My parents live in West Haven with two of my three brothers, John Dante and Stefano, twenty-four and twenty-six, respectively. My oldest brother, Mike, twenty-eight, is married and lives less than a mile away. My three brothers work with my father at his plumbing business—and have long tried to get me to do the same.
In truth, it was not me that the Russo men wanted at Russo Plumbing. What they wanted was a version of me who would answer phones and clean up the basement. A version of me in jean shorts and a Russo Plumbing T-shirt with a double process and full manicure. A version of me who would happily fetch Italian subs from Harry’s Deli at lunchtime and be sweet-yet-firm to the customers on the other end of the phone. A version of me who would fry chicken cutlets with my mother, even in the dead of August, wash dishes, get married—provide grandchildren. The problem, for them, is that that version of me never materialized, leaving everyone deeply confused about what I’m really up to—and why. No one understands my ambition. When I got into college, the conversation with my father went something like this:
“College? Good for you, Cat. You’ll be the second. Talk to J.D. You doing business like him?”
“No. I want to be a writer.”
“A writer? Like newspapers?”
“Like novels.”
“Oh, good.”
“I already got in.”
“To what?”
“College?”
“I know. You just said. Southern, right?”
“The University of Pennsylvania.”
“Where the heck is that?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Are you trying to kill your mother?”
“No . . . It’s an Ivy League school, Dad.”
My dad paused. “I’m proud of you, Cat. But why you gotta go there just to write? Go to Southern, like J.D. It’s cheap and good enough. Who’s gonna pay? You’ve gotta tell me if I’m gonna have to pay.”
“I’m not asking you to. I got a partial scholarship.”
“Let me know what you need.”
“I’m good.”
“Door’s always open. When you come back. Door’s open.”
Of the whole exchange, it was that last thing he said, the reflexive notion that I would fail—the “when”—that set me on fire. It was all I needed to get me through.
My brother John Dante picks me up from the train station in the twenty-year-old Cadillac he restored himself. When I lean in to kiss him, he smells like Drakkar Noir and motor oil.
“So . . . ,” he says.
“So what? Does this thing even have seat belts?”
“Stefano says you were out in Utah or something.” His hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, and I notice his fingernails now look like my dad’s—cracked and filthy.
“Colorado.”
“What the hell were you doing out there?”
For the first time I process the plush, red seats. “Did you reupholster this?”
“Yeah, last summer.”
“I feel like I’m in a mobile Turkish brothel.”
“I wish. What were you doing out West?”
“Interviewing to be a writer’s assistant.”
John Dante nods, his faraway look betraying the slightest jealousy. “Anybody I’d know?”
“His name is Walker Reade.”
J.D.’s eyebrows shoot up. “Walker Reade?”
“You heard of him?”
“I’m not an idiot, Alley. I went to college, too, you know. Of course I’ve heard of him.” J.D. got his degree in business administration from Southern Connecticut three years ago. In addition to solving basic plumbing issues, he keeps the books for my father’s business. “I’m just not sure that what I know about him would suggest that he’s all that good for you.”
“What?”
“The drugs? The drinking? The young chicks . . . like you? You must think I’m some kind of idiot. I know things about him, Alley. I read Liar’s Dice.”
“Calm down, J.D. First, I don’t think you’re an idiot, so stop saying that. Second, I’m smart enough to know a good opportunity when it comes my way. He’s actually pretty normal. Do you really think I’d put myself in danger?”
“No, but why can’t you just get a real job? You paid all that money for that school and you can’t even get a real job?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a recession. And what I apparently didn’t realize when I plunged myself into debt for my diploma was that the degree doesn’t get you the job. The connections do. And I don’t have any. So maybe I’m the idiot. And second of all, it’s Walker Reade. Walker Fucking Reade, J.D.”
“Hmmm.” He stops at a light and looks at me squarely. Apparently he’s on assignment. “Dad asked me to see if you’d come home for the summer and help out.”
“What?! Huh . . . help with what?”
“Stuff for the business. We’re expanding.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.”
“Just for the summer. We all know you’re on your way to becoming a famous novelist,” he says in a smart-ass way that makes me want to slap him in the face.
“Look, J.D., you have to admit this opportunity could put me on the right track.”
“Yeah, if you survive . . . maybe.”
I roll my eyes not so subtly. “Right, J.D. I just busted my ass putting myself through an Ivy League school. I’ve done two of the most prestigious magazine internships in New York. I won the Playboy college-fiction contest. I’m broke and up to my eyeballs in debt. And I’m going to sit on my ass all day and, what, order parts? Answer phones about shit-clogged toilets and schedule drain snakes while Walker Reade moves on to the next? Maybe you are an idiot.”
“Fuck you, Alley. I was just asking.”
“Well, what did you think I was going to say?”
He lets out a snort through his nose. “You’re a snob.”
“Why? Because I have ambition that no one around here seems to understand? I’m sorry that I don’t think I’m going to find fulfillment bringing Dad and the boys sambuca and coffee every night while you watch baseball in the breezeway and Mommy does the dishes. Because we all know that’s how this would turn out.” I’m speaking a little louder than I probably mean to, but my family brings it out in me—a frustrated shrillness that’s never otherwise on display. We are a block from my parents’ house.
“Fuck you.” He pauses, softening his tone. “What are you going to tell Mommy?”
“What do you mean? I’m telling her I got a job and I’m moving. I’m a grown-up. This is what grown-ups do.” I dial my voice down a few notches, too. “Look, J.D., don’t tell her about Walker. She’ll just get all worked up. The fact that I’m leaving will be hard enough.” My mother never even liked me being in Philadelphia or New York, which were reasonable train rides away. Colorado might as well be Thailand.
“What’s up with your New York place?”
“Cara’s sister is taking my room. She graduates next week.” Cara is my roommate from college. I thank God that I only have to cover two weeks’ rent; after that, I’ll have about forty-seven dollars in the bank. “Just don’t tell Mom anything, okay?”
“What about your job at the bar?”
“Trust me, there is nothing in this world that is easier to do than quit a bartending job.”
John Dante pulls into the driveway, which is currently housing three other cars: Stefano’s Ford pickup, my mother’s Lincoln Continental, and my dad’s van. The men run the family business out of our basement and garage, so all of the cars remain in the driveway year-round. I can smell the all-day sauce from outside.
“She doesn’t even know who he is, Alley.” He’s right. My mom reads cozy mysteries that involve muffin recipes. My dad reads two sections of the New Haven Register.
When I w
alk into my parents’ house, Mike, Stefano, and my dad are out on a call. My mother is setting the table for supper with my sister-in-law, Lisa, who’s five months pregnant. My mother drops a handful of forks on the table when she sees me and runs to the front door, hugging me aggressively, almost violently, effectively voiding me of my next breath. When I come up for air, I am overcome by the smell of garlic and fried meat.
“My Alessandra.” She goes back in, this time for a humid kiss on the cheek. Even though my mother has been in the United States for most of her life, she still speaks slightly accented English.
“Hi, Ma.” I kiss her back.
“Where have you been?” she says in an accusing manner. “Stefano says you were out West somewhere. Nevada or something. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Stefano has a big mouth.” I move in to give Lisa a kiss. “I didn’t want you to worry about me.”
“What do you mean? I’m your mother. I always worry about you.”
“I know, Ma. I’m fine.”
“Someday you’ll understand. God willing.” I’m only twenty-two and my mother is already gunning for me to breed.
Lisa, thankfully, is buying me time. “John Dante, take your sister’s bag back to her room.”
My mother hands me the forks and starts taking wineglasses out of the credenza. She and Lisa and I finish setting the table.
“How’re you feeling, Lee?”
“Fat.” She puts a French-manicured hand on her belly. “Just really fat.” I have a feeling “just really fat” might be a direct quote from my brother Mike.
“Stop. You look great.”
“How’s New York?” she asks. My mother looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Good. Good. Working a lot . . . I actually got a job.”
“I thought you had a job,” my mother says, picking at a dried sauce spatter on the tablecloth.
“That was an internship. This one pays money. Well, will pay money.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“I’m assisting a writer with his next novel.” My mother makes a face. “Out in Colorado.”
My mother stops arranging glasses and sits down. “What are you saying?”
“That I’m moving temporarily to Colorado for this job and that I’ll be back in about six months when he’s done with the book.” I try to say this as matter-of-factly as possible, but she’s not buying it.
“You’re going thousands of miles away to live with some man you don’t know?”
“No, Mom. I’ll be living in a guesthouse on his property, with his female assistant.”
“How many assistants does this man need?” I consider Devaney, too, and think to myself that my mother is not without a point.
“She takes care of his business affairs. I’ll be helping with his book.”
“Mmmmhmmm.” My mother is endlessly suspicious of men and their intentions with me.
“It’s a lot of money if I help him finish the book.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five grand.” My mother continues to look unimpressed as John Dante enters the room.
“Twenty-five grand, what?” J.D. asks.
“Dollars,” I say. “I’ll make that much if I help this writer finish the book.”
“Who is this person?” my mother asks. “John Grisham?”
“His name is Walker Reade. He wrote mostly in the seventies and eighties. He has a lot of awards—a Pulitzer, a National Book Award.”
My mother shrugs and throws both hands up. “I never heard of him.”
This is a relief, of course. Lisa is quiet as she sets the spoons down with a little too much intent. When she catches my eye, one eyebrow goes up.
“That’s a lot of money,” J.D. says. “What would you do with it?”
“What else? Student loans.”
“I told you, you shouldn’t have gone to that place. You have to be pazza to spend that kind of money with perfectly good schools around here.”
“Yale’s not any less expensive, Mom.”
“Southern is. And UConn. You’re too good for UConn?”
“No, Ma. But it’s done, okay? I’m graduated. Now I’ve got to make some money. And it’s not just that. I’d be working with one of the best editors of all time—someone who might someday want to publish my book. I can accomplish three big things for six months’ work.”
I watch as J.D. counts in his head the number of rationales I’ve mentioned, then asks, “What else, besides your book and the money?”
“It’ll probably get me a job back here. I’m coming back, okay?”
“Hmmmm . . .” is all my mother can say.
Just then my father walks in with Stefano and Mike trailing behind him. The three of them together look like that evolution-of-ape-to-man T-shirt—the exact same humanoid at three different stages. They’re even dressed alike in khakis and blue T-shirts with RUSSO PLUMBING across the back. They all wear identical pagers; a wrench is sticking out of Mike’s front pocket.
When my mother heads back into the kitchen and my dad heads for the bathroom, Lisa tilts her head toward Mike’s crotch and says coyly, “You happy to see me, baby?”
Stefano laughs. “It’s only his tool. No big deal.”
“Why you breakin’ ’em off on me?” Mike says, leaning in for a kiss as he pats Lisa’s belly.
“Hey, guys. Hello?”
“What’s up, Alley Cat? I see you there.” Mike comes over and kisses me on the cheek. Stefano waits behind him.
“Stef, what’s up?” I take his hand and lean in for a kiss. He also smells like cologne—slightly more expensive cologne.
“Where you been, Cat?”
“You know where I’ve been. Everyone knows where I’ve been thanks to your big mouth.”
“What, you said Nevada or some shit.”
“Jesus . . . Colorado. You know, the American West isn’t just an interchangeable collection of states. I was in Colorado.”
“Yes, it is,” J.D. says. “Cows, corn, horses, cheese.”
“That’s Wisconsin,” I say.
“Whatever. They have cheese in Colorado.”
“Yes, but they’re not known for cheese in Colorado. That’s Wisconsin.” I am perhaps arguing a bit too passionately about the exact location of the Cheese Belt.
“Who cares? It’s not here,” J.D. says.
My dad walks into the room and plants a kiss on my forehead. “What’s not here?”
“Alley.”
“You can hang here for the summer. Rent-free. You can work on your writing. Your mother hasn’t touched your room.”
“Really, Dad. I’m good. I’m taking this job.”
“Really?”
I look at him evenly.
“Don’t give me that look. You know how many kids would like to have a paying job and live rent-free? You make it sound like I want to pull your fingernails out.”
“Thanks, Daddy. I’m good though.”
My mother enters from the kitchen and starts putting food on the table: a giant platter of meatballs, sausage, braciole, and pork ribs from her all-day sauce. A huge bowl of steaming cavatelli, a platter of baked chicken, a salad, and a bowl of freshly grated Parmesan cheese.
As we eat, the scene plays out in slow motion, the way great athletes say it happens when they’re in the zone—the plumbing jokes, the semicrude banter, the casual sexism—with me, taking it all in like a moderator at a focus group. There’s my dad, who actually, sincerely wants me to come help him this summer, even though I have one of the greatest writers of all time offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Really. There’s John Dante, smart but destined to never rise above what has been carved out for him here—the basement expectations and daily grind just enough to keep him going. There’s my mother, who wants nothing more than for me to be married and pregnant and frying meatballs all day for someone who would, in an ideal world, work for my father. There’s Mike, clearly in love with Lisa, but barreling
toward an inevitable affair about three years after that baby comes. And then there’s Stefano, who might be gay. In Italian families, there are some things you’ll never know. I barely understand how I can love these people so much yet not be able to wait to get out of here, as if the contentment, the lack of ambition, and the conforming notions might be contagious.
“So you gonna do it, Cat?” Stefano asks.
“What?”
“Leave us,” my mother says, her lips pursed.
“Yeah, it’s done.” I look down at my plate, astonished that I actually have to say what I say next. “Someone around here could congratulate me, you know.”
Everyone looks around, wondering whose role that is.
J.D. finally speaks up. “Give ’em hell, Cat. You’re going to do great.”
“Thank you, J.D.”
But there are no other takers. My mother starts pulling at threads on the tablecloth, her gaze averted and intent, and I can tell she’s wondering exactly where she went wrong.
When I get on the plane the next morning, I’m happy only once we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, comforted by the anonymous landscape of plastic cups and pretzels, tomato juice and close quarters with strangers, the flight attendants and their carefully studied makeup. I like being in this limbo—suspended in the sky, somewhere between the place I’ve left behind and wherever it is I’m going.
CHAPTER 7
At first I think the guy behind the counter in the Aspen liquor store is holding a can of beer in his right hand as he rings up my order with the left. Fifteen large bottles of liquor and five cartons of cigarettes later, when he turns to put it all in a box, I realize the can is not a can at all, but a prosthetic hook.
“You need anything else?”
“Do you have any grappa?”
As he wrinkles his nose, I give him the once-over. He’s your garden-variety tanned ski bum. In other words, really, really cute. His brown hair is short and combed neatly to the side.
“Your car run out of gas?” He goes to the far end of the counter and pulls out three bottles. “It’ll all mess you up pretty bad. This one”—he points to a slightly sinister-looking label in Italian—“is five bucks more.”
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