by Peggy Jaeger
Before I could get the third degree from my father, I grabbed my own coat and, hustling him out of the apartment, said, “Come on. Ma’s in the car, right?” I steamrolled right over his answer before he could start grilling me like fresh fish about why Connor was in my apartment this morning if the event I’d baked for had been the previous night. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to get tossed a grumpy malocchio from Father Mario if we walk in late.”
I shoved the poor man out the door and down the stairs, chatting inanely the entire time about nothing at all. The last thing I wanted was ten thousand questions about Connor while we were on our way to church. Once we were in the car my mother started up with her plans for the holidays and talked nonstop until we arrived at St. Rita’s. Pop’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror frequently, though, questions and concerns filling them.
Chapter 7
Regina’s tips for surviving in a big Italian family: 7. Never let them see you sweat, and try to get the last word during any argument.
My family takes their Catholicism very seriously. Despite the sometimes questionable business deals they get involved in, their faith is strong and practiced with devotion. As far as I know, they haven’t broken any commandments—or laws—maybe just reinterpreted a few from time to time.
When I’d wound up pregnant and unmarried at seventeen, the first person my parents took me to wasn’t our family doctor, but our parish priest. He was instrumental in setting up my quick marriage and skimming over several church dictates like marriage counseling and the posting of the banns. I’m pretty sure Pop made a hefty donation to the parish’s refurbishing fund at the time, just like he did to the roof fundraising drive when it came time for my divorce from Johnny. Father Mario, our old-as-dirt pastor, is a long-time family friend and when it came time to bury Angelina, he was the one who said the funeral mass at St. Rita’s and then accompanied us to the graveside to conduct her final blessing. He’s said all the family’s funeral masses, in fact, and my family views him as an honorary member.
Since Christmas is such a busy season for the church, Father Mario and his junior priest, Father Tom Santini, who also happens to be my cousin Gia’s brother-in-law, were run ragged with all the weddings, funerals, baptisms, hospital visits, and masses they needed to perform daily.
“New guy’s saying the mass,” Ma said as she read the bulletin. Father Tom has been a member of our parish for almost a decade, but everyone still refers to him as “the new guy,” and probably will until Father Mario takes the express train to the pearly gates.
We all squeezed into three pews like sardines in a can. I sat next to my mother and father with my oldest brother and his family. Behind us, the rest of my brothers and their families had settled in. In the pews in front of us, my uncle Joey, aunt Frankie, and all their kids and families sat, whispering. Across the aisle, Aunt Frankie’s sisters and their husbands packed into two shorter pews. Aunt Grace had a cold, evidenced by her loud goose-honking cough every few seconds and then the deep, rumbling clearing of the phlegm from way down in the back her throat. The disgusting sound echoed straight up to the church rafters, bounced off the statues of Christ and the Holy Family in the crèche, and then sandblasted the congregation with the mucousy grumble.
“She should-a stayed home,” Ma said, shooting a squinty-eyed malocchio at her sister-in-law’s sister. “She’s gonna infect everybody around her, and right before the holidays, too.” She muttered something in Italian, and it didn’t take a genius to realize it was a curse. Immediately after she closed her lips, she made the sign of the cross and tossed the statue of Christ that sat over the altar a pleading, sorrowful look. I knew she was asking for forgiveness for casting a curse in God’s house.
Mia famiglia. Sigh.
The organist sounded, and like the good and respectful Catholics we are, we all rose. Father Tom stepped through the sacristy door with two altar boys, the reader, and the cantor in front of him. Eddie, one of my cousins, carried the fifty-pound, four-foot, gold-encrusted cross and led the procession down the center aisle of the church.
“Frankie and Joey’s Eddie is applying to the Knights,” Ma whispered to Pop. My mother’s whisper is the kind that’s euphemistically called a stage whisper, because everyone in a forty-foot radius can hear it. “You should-a joined years ago when you was asked,” she added, her pursed lips pointing to my father.
“The Knights of Columbus take up too much time,” Pop said back. No whisper for him. “I was busy back then with the business and couldn’t spare the time. The Knights meet, like, twice a week. Sometimes more if there’s an event.”
In full disclosure here, I’ve never really known exactly what my father does for a living, what he calls, his business. I’ve heard him described as an entrepreneur by some, a wheeler-dealer by others. But there’s always been food on the table, a new family car for Christmas each year, and a roof bought and paid for in cash over our heads, so I never gave it much consideration.
“Excuses,” Ma countered. “You could join now. You need all the help you can to get into Heaven.”
To that, Pop just shook his head and rolled his eyes.
While the procession, well, proceeded, up to the altar, Gracie’s hacking and throat clearing accompanied them, drowning out the organist and the singer.
From my position, I saw my Aunt Frankie turn in her sister’s direction and make some motion to her. I just bet it was for her to either quiet the noise or leave.
As the procession passed us, we all genuflected and made the sign of the cross.
Once Father Tom was situated and the Mass began, I let my mind drift to Connor.
To say I was smitten would be an understatement. The man hit most of the boxes on my what-you-want-in-a-guy list, not that I’d ever actually made the list or referred to it. He was smart. Check. Successful. Check. Good-looking. Double check. Kind, courteous, and loved his family. Check, check, check. The one box I couldn’t check was his nationality. While it made no difference to me whether or not he had Italian blood coursing through him, it did matter to my parents. They’d gone on and endlessly on when my brothers were younger about finding brides who matched them in social status, religion, and ancestry.
I was the one child who’d defied that. Johnny had a German father and a Spanish mother. At the time, I didn’t care about the differences in our backgrounds. Once we were married and had to actually live under the same roof, those cultural differences became apparent. Johnny had watched his mother kowtow and bend to his father’s will throughout their marriage, and he expected me to behave the same way. Not happening. I mean, have you met the women in my family? All strong willed, opinionated, and mouthy. It’s coded into our DNA.
Connor’s mother had a lovely and refined way about her but wasn’t snooty or a nose-pincher, a term my mother uses to explain how someone looks down their nose at you. Their nostrils flare at the tip while the bridge of their nose looks pinched and pained while they size you up.
I hadn’t met his father, but if he was anything like Aiden, the man was sure to be a darling.
Unfortunately, no matter how darling or charming or nice I thought a man was—and Connor hit all three—my parents were never going to accept any man for me that they didn’t vet completely. They had their own man-list for what I needed, and the most important box to be checked on it was that the guy came from an Italian background and put family first.
A long-winded hack and then a deep nose suck blew through my thoughts from across the aisle. This time my mother’s malocchio was joined by my other aunts and all the wives of my brothers and cousins. It was a wonder Grace didn’t petrify on the spot, like Lot’s wife, from all the angry squinted glances zeroed in on her.
I think Father Tom even tossed her a stink eye.
Once the final blessing was spoken and Father Tom was stationed at the front door of the church to shake hands and give blessings, my family nudged and wedged their way to him.
From behind me, Aunt Fra
nkie said in a voice that also didn’t know the meaning of whisper, “Gracie, you should-a stayed home instead of infectin’ the whole congregation with ya germs.”
A loud nose blow into a tissue and Grace glared at her older sister as she swiped at her reddened nostrils. “You’d-a come too if you was sick, and you know it, Francesca. It’s nine days ’til Christmas. I can’t be skipping church on account of I gotta cold.”
“You could try,” my Uncle Joey murmured. Only it didn’t come out like a murmur since everyone in the next six pews heard him.
My cousin Gia and her husband, Tim, Father Tom’s twin brother, made their way up to the priest, then kissed him on both cheeks. My father envied his older brother because Joey had a son-in-law with a priest for a brother, and therefore—in his thoughts—a direct link to God. To see Tom and Tim together was a little scary at times. They were monozygotic, or identical, twins. The only way I’d ever been able to tell them apart was because Tom always wore his clerical collar. Always. Every family event he’d ever been a guest at he wore his full uniform. If he hadn’t, I would have a hard, if not impossible, time telling the brothers from one another.
As a unit, my family made their way up to the junior priest, shook hands, and received a blessing. Then we all headed back to my parents’ house for the usual Sunday food fest, or as my brothers referred to it, the best meal they got all week, since none of their wives were the cooks Ma was.
My mother had been slow-cooking a pork roast all morning, and by the time we got home and were ready to sit down to eat, it was done to perfection.
After grace, my father turned his attention away from the conversation my brothers were having about the Jets, and toward me.
“What’s going on with you and that Irish guy?” he asked without any preamble.
Luckily, I hadn’t taken a sip from the water glass I’d lifted to my mouth, otherwise I knew I would have choked on the liquid.
“Nothing.”
“Regina Maria.”
“Really, Pop. Nothing. I made a cake for him. That’s it.”
I could hear the angels in Heaven tsk-tsking me. I’d been in church less than two hours ago, and now I was committing a sin by lying to my father. I could see a visit to the confessional before the end of the day was in order.
“Guys you make cakes for don’t usually spend the night in your apartment, little girl.”
My brother knows a guy named Tony Cartieri. Everyone who knows him agrees that if Tony didn’t have bad luck, he’d have no luck.
Right at the moment Pop made that statement, I knew exactly how old Tony felt, because the conversation had slowed and ebbed, Pop’s words spreading around the table loud and clear. The kids were set up in the living room, so I don’t think they got wind of it. But everyone else did.
Ten pair of eyes glared at me from all corners of the table. Some were wide-eyed; some were narrowed. All of them were filled with varying levels of emotions ranging from shocked ( Ma) to suspicious (my brothers) to pleased (my sisters-in-law).
“Regina.” Ma threw her napkin on her plate and slammed her cutlery next to her plate. “What is your father talking about? What man spent the night at your apartment?”
“It’s not like it sounds, Ma. It was late and we were talking, and then we both just fell asleep—”
“Holy Madonna.” She made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes, hands clasped together as her lips moved silently in prayer.
“Where?” ’Carlo asked.
“Where what?”
“Where did the two of you fall asleep? In your bed?”
Another finger cross from Ma. This time she kissed her fingertips afterward and threw a prayer up to the Lord.
“I don’t think you get to ask me that question, ’Carlo. I’m thirty-two years old, and you’re my brother, not my father.”
“What I am is suspicious,” he spat back. “How come we didn’t know you were seeing a guy? Why you keeping him a secret?”
“First of all, what I do in the privacy of my own home”—now Ma was rocking back and forth as she prayed—“or don’t do, is none of your business. Second, I’m not seeing anyone, so the fact that it’s a secret is null and void. Stop with the third degree, GianCarlo. Use it on your own kids, ’cause like I said, you’re not my father.”
“But I am,” Pop said, his tone hard and filled with anger, “so answer it. Where did Irish sleep last night?”
“Irish?” Petey exclaimed. “What the Hell kinda name is that?”
“Language, Pietro,” Ma said, awaking from her spiritual coma to chastise her son.
There are so many things I simply adore about my family. The unshakeable connection and love we all have; the fact that we live close to one another; our shared faith and sense of tradition. But the one thing I do hate is the antiquated morality system they adhere to. Girls don’t have sex with men before marriage, plain and simple. Of course since the one and only time I’d done just that, I’d wound up pregnant and forced to get married, my parents’ concerns made sense.
To them.
I was almost fifteen years older, much wiser, and a full-fledged adult now, but I was still treated like an ignorant bambina who had to be protected from wolves and scoundrels. If my father had his way, I’d be married right now to one of his goombahs, eight months pregnant with probably our seventh child, and in the kitchen making gravy.
So many times over the years, I’d wanted to smack him on the back of the head much the way he smacks us, and say, “Wake up! It’s twenty-first-century America, not eighteenth-century Sicily.” Wanting to do something and actually doing it, though, are very different beasts.
So.
I don’t get mad often, especially with my family, but I was tired, overworked, emotionally drained, and royally pissed off right now, so the anger bled through my usual calm.
I rose from my chair and threw my napkin down on the table like my mother had. “You know what? I’m done. I’m done with you all treating me like a child. I’m not one of your underlings, Pop, who needs to be kept on a short lease and told what to do every minute of the day because you don’t have enough trust to let them act on their own. And”—I glared at my brothers—“I’m not five years old and unable to defend myself against bullies and bad guys. You don’t have to hold my hand so I can cross the street and not get hit by a car.” I grabbed my plate and walked to the kitchen. “I’m done with you all thinking I can’t make a wise and appropriate decision with my life,” I added over my shoulder. I placed the dish in the sink and called out, “I’m done with the checking up on me, the second-guessing me, and the way you all think you have a right to manage my life.”
I yanked my coat off the hall tree and yelled, “I’m a thirty-two-year-old grown-ass woman who owns and manages her own business and her own life. I don’t need protectors, handlers, or any of you telling me what to do, who to see, or how to conduct myself. I’ve been on my own a long time, and I think I’ve done a great job with myself, even if you all don’t.” I shrugged into my coat and wound my scarf around my neck. “If I want a man to spend the night or not, it’s none of your damn business. Deal with it.”
I may have screeched that last part.
I slammed the door behind me and sprinted down the stairs of the brownstone, my ungloved hand waving in the air for a passing cab.
As an exit line, I think it was a pretty good one.
Chapter 8
Regina’s tips for surviving in a big Italian family: 8. Family means everything, so forgiveness is nonnegotiable.
The entire drive home, my phone blew up with texts and voice messages. The cabbie kept shifting his gaze to me in his rearview every time a new ping sounded. Furious with my entire family, I silenced the ring tones and alerts.
The second I walked through my apartment door, my house phone started ringing. If they couldn’t get in touch with me via cell, they knew the old-fashioned princess phone that had belonged to Nonna was still serviceable and sitting in m
y living room. I yanked the cord from the wall, silencing the blaring ringer.
My body shook from head to toes with anger. Years of pent-up emotions and resentment whirled like a tornado through my system. I loved my brothers, of that there was no doubt, but right now I didn’t like them one bit. I’d even go so far as to say I despised them. Who did they think they were, passing judgment on me and questioning me like I was criminal, or worse, one of Pop’s wiseguy-wannabes?
I could understand my father acting like the alpha male in the group. He was. Plus, he was my father. I knew whatever he did, whatever questions he asked was because he loved me and wanted to make sure I was okay, not in trouble, financially sound, and emotionally fulfilled. While his way of expressing that concern may have been overbearing and archaic, it was still his right as a parent to voice his concern and ask his questions.
Not so my brothers. They had no right to question me about anything.
I pulled my clothes off and jumped into the shower, needing to physically cleanse myself. The hot jet-massage shower spray—a gift from a guy my father floated a loan to who owned a hardware store—went a long way in untying the knots in my shoulders and neck. As I doused myself, I realized I’d never answered ’Carlo’s question about where Connor had slept last night. That parting shot about a man spending the night if I wanted him to might have given them all the idea I’d actually had sex with Connor.
If only I’d been so lucky.
Right now, hot, sweaty, no-excuses, no-questions-asked sex with a man I found undeniably desirable sounded pretty darn good to me.
As I was getting dressed again in my old culinary school sweats, I picked up my phone. Twenty-seven texts. Ten from Pop, two each from my brothers, and two more from each of my sisters-in-law. A single text had come in from Connor while I was in church. His was the sole one I opened.
Sorry about this morning and if it upset your dad seeing me in your apartment. If you were my daughter, I’d be upset at finding you alone with a man, too.