“Yes, you may ask.”
“It’s finished! I knew it!” Connie claps her hands together.
“Enough for a first fitting!”
“Yay!” Rita jumps up and down, followed by Connie. They embrace me, and I have no choice but to hop up and down along with them. I enjoy this rare moment where I feel like one of the girls and included.
“Have my daughters gone mad? I haven’t seen you jump like this since you used to play Ring Around the Rosie.”
“Ma! It’s finished! Valentina’s dress is finished, and she’s showing it to us today!”
I quickly look at my mother, raising my eyebrow to remind her of our secret pact.
“Valentina! At last!” Ma holds her hands up to the ceiling as if she’s thanking God for ending a centuries-long drought. Leave it to her to overact when she’s lying.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Don’t keep us in suspense any longer, Vee!” Rita takes me by the arm and leads me to the back where my dress awaits its debut.
Nothing beats the feeling of slipping on your wedding dress for the first time, knowing this will be the gown your future husband will see you in. I want to savor every moment. As I carefully step into the fluffy pools of organza that swirl around my feet, I bask in the whisper-light feel of the fabric brushing against my skin. Since the gown features a halter neckline, I don’t have to worry about my family seeing the dress from the back first so that they can help me with the zipper. I can just place the halter around my neck and hold the dress against my waist to give it a more fitted look. Taking a deep breath, I look in the mirror.
The pale ivory of the dress complements my fair-to-medium complexion, and my shoulder-length chestnut brown hair gleams in contrast. My hair is a blend of my parents’. It is thick like my mother’s and Rita’s, but unlike their tight curls, I only have waves. My hair is closer to Connie’s and my father’s shade, but not as light. Even my skin tone is a blend of my parents’ coloring.
I admire how the halter straps of my gown show off my high neck and toned arms, thanks to the Pilates sessions I’ve been taking since I got engaged. It has been hard squeezing the three sessions a week into my already-packed schedule, but I know it’s important to look my best on my wedding day.
The A-line of the skirt doesn’t overpower my petite frame. Though I’m not as short as Connie, I am still only 5'3 ".
I keep staring at myself in the mirror. Spinning around, I look at myself from all angles and whisper, “I never want to take you off. You’re perfect!”
“What are you doing in there, Valentina?” Rita screams out.
“We’re giving you to the count of three, or else—Whoa!”
I open the fitting room door.
“It’s beyond beautiful. It’s brilliant!” Rita gently lifts the hem of the dress, closely inspecting my stitch work.
“I almost forgot. Can someone zip me up?” I turn dramatically around and hear Rita and Connie gasp.
“Oh my God, look at the back! Vee, you sexy siren, you! Who would’ve ever thought?” Connie has her hand over her mouth. With her taste for sexy clothes, I can tell she definitely approves. “Are you sure this dress is for you and not me with that racy back?”
I laugh.
“This isn’t the Plain Jane we grew up with. What happened to safe and classic? What did you do with my sister? You’re her clone.” Rita shakes her head, but I see the look of awe in her eyes.
I look at my mother. She’s been terribly silent. She’s just standing there with her arms across her waist.
“Ma, what’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”
My heart starts to drop, but then my mother’s eyes fill with tears, and I’m quickly reassured.
“You’re so beautiful! The dress is absolutely stunning! Yes, it’s very different from your usual fashion tastes. But it’s perfect, and it looks perfect on you! You look like Venus coming out of the sea. It’s a masterpiece! I can’t believe I’m standing here, watching my oldest daughter in her wedding dress at last! I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Oh, Ma! Stop with the hysterics!” Rita laughs.
“Shush! You’re ruining the moment for me. Come here, Valentina.”
Ma opens her arms wide. I pick up the skirt of my dress and walk over to her, letting her embrace me.
“I’m so proud of you. Look at the gorgeous work you’ve done on this dress. Your seamstress skills are impeccable. But of course, you learned from the best.”
Ma winks at me.
“I’m glad you like the dress, Ma. Your opinion means the world to me.”
“Let’s get some shots! You’ll need them to show the stylist when you go for your hair rehearsals.” Wasting no time, Connie grabs her iPhone and clicks away.
Suddenly, the sounds of Madonna’s “Vogue” come streaming through the shop’s stereo system.
“This is a Madonna moment!” Rita exclaims. Though it’s 2010, Madonna remains her idol.
“Oh God! You guys are cheesy!”
But I decide to indulge my sisters for once, and begin striking poses.
“That’s it! You show it off, girl! Whoo-hoo!” Connie shouts as she continues taking pictures.
I pick up my hair and pout my lips, giving them my best sultry pose.
“Now, you’re talking! Where have you been hiding all these years, Vee?” Rita asks me.
“I’m the big sister. I have to be a role model. Just because I don’t flaunt my wild side doesn’t mean I don’t have one!”
“Whoa!!!!!” Rita and Connie yell out.
“You girls are crazy!”
Ma is blushing, but she’s also laughing. And tears are still streaming down her face.
“Valentina?”
I whirl around.
“Michael?”
He’s standing still, gaping at me, much like he did the first time we made love and he saw me naked.
And then it hits me.
“Oh my God, Michael! Get out of here!” I scream, ducking for cover behind Rita.
All hell breaks loose. Ma yells like I’ve never heard her yell before, “Malocchio! Malocchio! Go, go! Get out! You’ll give her malocchio! It’s bad luck forever!”
But Michael is still just standing there, staring at me, even though by now my sisters are doing their best to use their bodies to shield my dress from view. It reminds me of when we used to play Twister as kids. Then, Connie quickly leaves my side. I crouch lower behind Rita’s back, incredulous that Connie has abandoned me. But just as soon as this thought pops into my mind, a fabric is dropped over my head.
“Stay there! Don’t move!” Connie orders me.
She drapes muslin over me. Rita moves away from my crouching figure and adjusts the fabric. I drop to all fours, making it easier for Rita and Connie to cover me. I feel like a dog after it’s been shampooed against its will and is seeking refuge by rolling up in a towel. But I’m not doing any rolling. I’m just frozen in place like a squirrel, too petrified to move. How ridiculous must I look now to Michael!
I hear Ma’s heavy wooden Dr. Scholl’s clogs as she scurries over to Michael.
“Please! Go now!” I hear the bell of the door and the sounds from the street once it’s opened.
“Okay, okay. I’m going.” Michael is laughing. “Don’t worry, Signora DeLuca. There’s no such thing as bad luck.”
“Don’t tell a woman what she knows. I’ve got forty years over you, hot shot. Now go and don’t come back in here until after the wedding! You never know when Valentina will be trying her dress on for alterations.”
“ ’Bye, Vee, I’ll see you later, if you ever get out from underneath that cloth.”
I can still hear him laughing as my mother shuts the door behind him. The lock turns in the door. She’s not taking any more chances.
I pull the muslin off me and almost lose my balance as I try to stand up. Rita helps me.
Ma crosses herself as she exclaims, “O, Dio, aiuto. malocchio . . . malocchio.”
/> Snow is falling again as I glance out Sposa Rosa’s windows. The forecast is only predicting light showers. Lately, I’ve been closing up the shop every night since I’m working on my dress. The Michael Fiasco, as Connie likes to call it, has stirred things up. After my mother ushered him out yesterday morning, she kept telling me I had to make some alterations to the dress so it would be different from the dress Michael had seen.
“You can’t start a marriage out like that, Valentina. It’s bad luck.”
“Oh, Ma. We’re living in the twenty-first century, and you still believe in the mighty evil eye. Give it a rest. I like the dress the way it is. I’m not changing it. Basta!”
“Basta? Don’t basta your mother. I say when enough is enough. I won’t be able to get a night’s rest forever if you leave that dress as it is.”
I knew I wouldn’t get a night’s rest either if I didn’t compromise.
“Okay, okay. I’ll figure something out.”
As soon as my mother left the shop, I consulted with Rita and Connie.
“Whatever!” Connie rolled her eyes. “You give in to Ma too easily. It’s your wedding. She had hers. Do what you want, Vee.”
“Well, you’re not the one who will have to hear it day in and out for the rest of your life if I don’t make the alterations.” I shook my head. “Of course with my luck, my fiancé has to walk in on me during my fitting.”
“Stop it! You’re starting to sound like Ma—bad luck this and that. But yeah, I know what you mean. Who wants their fiancé to see them in their wedding dress months before the wedding?”
Rita was eating a slice of prosciutto, without any bread. She was on a carb-free diet to look her best in her maid of honor dress. Both she and Connie were going to be my maids of honor. I didn’t want to choose one sister over the other.
Connie, who was standing behind Rita, slapped her in the back of the head. “Some help you are!”
“I’m just empathizing.”
Rita went over to one of the fitting room mirrors and patted back down into place her frizz-prone curls.
“I’m sure whatever you decide will be beautiful, Vee. Don’t stress out too much over it. And don’t let Ma get to you!”
Rita gave me a quick hug. “We have to go. We have a double date with the Broccoli Brothers. Come on, Connie.”
My eyes widened. “The Broccoli Brothers? How long has this been going on?”
Rita just smiled and waved as she pushed Connie, who was giggling, toward the door. And here I was thinking they weren’t dating at the moment. I could feel a small pang of hurt at being left out of my sisters’ lives once again. The moment we’d shared jumping and joking together had been quickly extinguished. Just when I thought I was finally entering their inner sanctum, the door was shut on me once again.
I watched them walking down Ditmars Boulevard, arm in arm, laughing as always—probably about how they’d managed to shock me with their revelation. The Broccoli Brothers were waiting for them outside of the 718 Lounge. I stretched my neck to get a better look outside the window. Both brothers kissed my sisters on the cheeks. I couldn’t see any more once they turned around to enter 718.
The Broccoli Brothers were John and Lou Rabe, as in the vegetable broccoli rabe. The Mayor of 35th Street had given them this name when they were in high school. Whenever he’d see the two brothers, who lived on the corner from us, the Mayor would yell out, “Broccoli Brothers! Got any good broccoli for me?” He always erupted into laughter as if it were the first time he was making the joke. John and Lou were good sports about it. Now everyone in the neighborhood referred to them as the Broccoli Brothers.
Well, at least they were nice, respectable guys—and Italian. My mom would be happy about that, of course. But she wouldn’t be thrilled that Lou Rabe owned a motorcycle. Of course, Connie was arm in arm with him. Their rebellious natures made them a good fit for each other. Lou was a paramedic and often looked exhausted from both the stressful work and late hours he tended to work.
John Rabe was more subdued than his brother. He was 6’3” and very broad-shouldered. Rita’s bigger frame looked smaller next to his. He worked as a paralegal in Manhattan and was studying for his LSATs.
I push my sisters and the Broccoli Brothers out of my mind as I return to my dilemma. Frantically searching my mind for an answer as to how I can make my dress look different without ruining its original design, I sigh deeply when nothing comes to mind. My design is perfect as it is, just as Ma had said. My completed gown has been my ideal vision for months now. From sketching the design to drawing the pattern and cutting it out carefully over the fabric to the meticulous hand stitching and sewing the pearl beads on one by one, I have bonded with my dress, much like the unborn baby you grow to love day by day as it is being formed. I just can’t imagine this dress looking any other way than it does now.
I glance back out the window and notice the snowflakes are falling more heavily, mesmerizing me as I stare.
“Snowflakes!” I cry out. “I’ll add a few snowflake-shaped embroidered appliqués to the skirt.” Right now the skirt has no ornamentation. Then I can place crystals over the appliqués, making them sparkle.
I spin around for joy. If there is ever a time that I am happy it’s winter and snowing, this is it! My enthusiasm suddenly freezes just like the icy temperature outside. Winter. It is winter now, but I’m getting married in June and in a Mediterranean country no less. Although Venice has its share of overcast, rainy days, I can’t have snowflakes on my dress. What am I thinking? I smack my head and all but collapse onto the plush suede couch we keep outside of the fitting rooms for brides’ relatives and friends.
“Think, Valentina, think!” I say aloud.
A Modern Bride magazine is on the couch. The glittering diamond necklace the model is wearing catches my attention. A thin strand of round-cut diamonds circles the model’s neck.
That’s it! It’s even better than snowflakes. I can’t believe I was actually entertaining the idea of putting snowflakes on a wedding dress! Diamonds. Yes! They’re sparkly so I’ll still get the same effect that the crystals over the snowflake appliqués would’ve given me. I can scatter crystal beads throughout the dress’s skirt. I can even add a few to the floor-length veil I’m planning on wearing. The dress will be different but I won’t have to alter the actual cut or style of my original design. But will it be enough? Michael probably won’t remember such a small detail as crystals and whether the dress has them when he sees me in it. Then again, most men don’t have good short-term memories. Maybe he doesn’t remember most of the dress, and my mother is stressing me out for nothing?
My cell phone rings. 8:20! I am supposed to meet Michael at Antoniella’s for coffee at eight!
“Hey, Vee. I’m sorry. I’m running late, but I’m on my way. Were you waiting long?”
“No. No. I actually lost track of time. I’m still at the shop, so don’t kill yourself to get to Antoniella’s.”
“Great. I’ll see you in about half an hour. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
My heart still skips a beat whenever Michael says he loves me. Will it continue to skip throughout our marriage?
I grab my cashmere camel-colored coat as I switch off the lights throughout the shop. My hand reaches for one of the many umbrellas we keep in a wicker basket by the door, but on second thought, I decide to leave it and enjoy the snow. I’m feeling lucky for a change.
4
Rotten Eggs
The radio in Antoniella’s Bakery is broadcasting a blizzard. The meteorologists had gotten it wrong yesterday when they predicted only three to six inches. Since the time I left Sposa Rosa, the snow has been falling at a rate of two inches per hour. I am sitting by the window at Antoniella’s, enjoying watching everyone trudge through the snow.
Kids are throwing snowballs at each other. Old ladies pushing their grocery carts are making their way carefully through the slippery pavement. Suddenly, a black poodle stands up against
the bakery’s window, its nostrils flaring and puffing up the glass, as it takes in the pastries’ scent. Taking a closer look, I notice its milky white eyes and realize it is Mitzy, Betsy Offenheimer’s blind dog.
Betsy and Mitzy slowly make their way into the shop.
“What will it be today, Mitzy? A black-and-white cookie or a mini cannoli?”
Mitzy continues sniffing, waving her head from side to side.
“Hi, Betsy. I see you’re still spoiling Mitzy.”
I smile as Betsy hobbles over to me. She walks with a black shiny cane that matches her black cat-shaped eyeglasses, circa 1950, of course. Every Tuesday morning, she gets her roller set. Her tightly wound white curls are kept in place all week by a hairnet, which she removes only on the weekends. It’s not like the weekends are any different for Betsy from the weekdays. She always stays at home or wanders the neighborhood with Mitzy. Maybe looking extra nice makes the weekends feel different for her? Today, she’s wearing her navy blue pea coat that hides her breasts well. Normally, her double D-cup breasts stand out like two cocked pistols in her knit shirts, never bouncing in their ultra-supportive 18 Hour Playtex bra, à la Jane Russell.
The kids on my block teased her mercilessly.
“Hey, Torpedo Tits! Look everybody, she’s got Torpedo Tits!”
“Stop that! You stop that right now!”
Poor Betsy’s face would turn the shade of the cherry peppers my mother grew in our backyard as she stood toe to toe with the kids. After that first incident, the kids on my block nicknamed her “Torpedo Tits.” My mother and the other Italian women dubbed her “La Vecchia Coi Mini” or “The Lady with the Tits.” Even after knowing her all these years, it’s hard not to stare.
“You look so PRETTY today, Valentina. You should always wear violet, it suits your GORGEOUS brown hair.” Every adjective that drops out of Betsy’s mouth is always pronounced extra loud, especially if she’s paying you a compliment.
“Thank you, Betsy. You’re so sweet. Sit down and keep me company until Michael gets here.”
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