The Difference

by C. D'Angelo

  “Did you hear me?”

  “No. I try not to.” He smirks.

  “Yeah, same here. Anyway, do you know anything about ancestry research?”

  “Like what? Using Google?”

  “Please be serious for a second. No, like finding old documents and information, when you have very little to enter.”

  “Not really. But ask me about World War II. The laws that came as a result of it is on Monday’s test and it’s also my favorite war.”

  Of course he loves war. He creates a battle every time I see him.

  “All right.” I don’t know why I try. He can barely tear his glance away from the game. It’s more important than his sister.

  How I wish Grandpa and I could do our secret handshake in front of him right now. That always angered Dylan. I know it’s horrible of me to want to aggravate him, but look what happens when I try to have a real conversation. Whenever he’d see us go through the ridiculous steps of our shake, he’d practically push me aside to get Grandpa’s attention and try to make him do it with him. Grandpa never conceded. That was our thing.

  Be the bigger person, Rachel. Well, that isn’t hard. I sigh.

  “Dinner is ready!” Mom’s voice echoes through the house.

  Four voices respond in sync. “Be there in a minute!”

  The years may have flown by, but some things never change. Our loud Italian voices being one of those things. Stereotypical? Yes. Realistic? Yup.

  Granza Sunday dinner is officially commencing, a top pride of anyone in my culture. The traditional Sunday dinner in an Italian house consists of what a typical American family would consume on a big holiday, so the thought alone makes my stomach rumble. The meal is enormous, and we make no apologies about it.

  Our first course is always Grandma’s soup. Her recipe is not quite the same as when Mom makes it, but it is still tastes better than the concoction I would make. The rib meat, carrots, celery, onion, and garlic blend to a level of perfection, especially with hand grated Romano cheese on top. Ooh, it’s time. I take a large sniff before eating my first spoonful.

  All of us enjoy a tiny glass of red wine tonight, as is typical for even kids during Sunday dinner in Italian households. Sometimes children as young as eleven drink alongside their family, a tradition that started when the water quality in Italy wasn’t extremely safe. Adding alcohol to water killed the bacteria, so it was a flawless solution. Immigrants kept the practice of allowing the youth to sip wine moving forward and I’m glad. Once Dylan and I were old enough, we had our own shot glass sized table wine to consume. When my friends would join us for dinner, their comments were surprising to me and brought it to my attention that my family had a strange custom. Add it to my personal list of being abnormal.

  I take a bite of heaven. By this I mean hard, crusty white bread with real butter. I could eat the whole loaf by myself. Sometimes Grandpa and I would, in fact, eat the whole loaf by days end. How have I not come for dinner in such a long time?

  The main course is—obviously—always some type of pasta. Tonight, a glorious cavatelli pasta, my favorite, sits on the table in front of me. I always struggle with deciding whether to have it with the most amazing sauce my mom makes or plain with butter and that Romano cheese. Yes, we put it on everything. This time, I can’t pass up the sauce, or as Grandma called it “gravy.”

  In the typical European way, we eat salad after the main dish. Marinated chickpeas in extra virgin olive oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, and oregano round out the Sunday dinner as the dressing and a topping. It’s perfection.

  Between bites, the dinner conversation consists of generic topics—weather, friends, jobs, etc. My dad is a quiet man, just like my grandpa was, but at the dinner table, he talks more than in any other setting. Family dinners were always meant for quality time, and he makes sure this value is carried on with us.

  I look around the table and the impact of how much I miss our family dinners hits me. I need to make sure Brian and I eat together more often—at our counter not on the couch—so we can have this meaningful time. We already don’t talk that much, so we don’t need the TV putting more distance between us.

  As dinner continues, I feel it’s actually going okay. I could almost push aside the fire inside of me to launch into my quest for our family history with the amazing food we are experiencing. Almost.

  “Hey, guys?” I ask. “Can you help me clean up? I’ve been waiting for a cannoli since Mom mentioned them the other day.”

  Dylan groans as Brian stands and gathers plates without missing a beat.

  I think how Grandpa was our family’s official dish dryer. Grandma handed him the newly washed dishes, he dried them, and eventually put them away. I’ll embody that ritual tonight in his honor. Maybe that will be my new role when I visit for dinner.

  Before starting in my new job, I grab the cannoli and set them on the table, then grab the cups for the cappuccino. There can’t be a better combination in the world. The sugars in both must complement each other to form one enchanting experience—and I need all the magic I can get.

  Chapter 10

  “So, what do you want to know?” Dad sits in the chair next to me at the table, sipping on the rest of his cappuccino.

  “Everything you know.” My heart races. Oh, please don’t faint, Rachel.

  He chuckles. “Well, your grandpa came to the United States with his dad and brother when he was fourteen years old. Uncle Vince was a few years older…maybe two years? They came to Philly after entering through New York, then started their tailoring business. That was the family business in Genoa, but they wanted to start a new life in America, as most Italians did then. They thought they could have more success in this country. Your grandpa’s dad, my grandpa, died when your grandpa was a teen, but I don’t know how young he was at the time. As far as I know, they had no family here yet so most of their time was spent at the shop. They learned English quickly and were able to grow their business. I’m not sure why, but your great-grandpa left his wife and daughter in Italy. Your grandpa never wanted to talk about it…or much about their journey in general.” His mouth curls in his pause.

  I jump in. “Okay. I calculated Grandpa was born in 1902. Is that right? What was his dad’s name? Why did they come to Philly and not stay in New York if they didn’t have family here?”

  “Whoa, Nelly, slow down there. I think your grandpa was born in 1902, yes. So, he came to the US around…1916 then.” He looks up in thought. “Age fourteen, born in 1902. Yes, that’s right. That would probably mean Uncle Vince was born in 1900. Probably.”

  “Thanks, Dad. This helps. Oh, what was Grandpa’s dad’s name?”

  “Gino. Gino Granza.” A slight smile appears on his face. “What a great name.”

  “Are you kidding with me? That’s your name!” I tap his shoulder.

  “I am not joking. That really was his name. I was named after him.”

  “I can’t believe I never knew that. What a great bit of info.”

  Mom had conveniently escaped the kitchen at the beginning of our conversation but is now back at the sink. “Mom, I never knew Dad was named after Great-Grandpa.”

  “Oh, yes, dear.” Could she sound any less enthused?

  “Okay…” The sarcastic teenage voice sneaks out again and she notices.

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. I just don’t feel it’s right to dig up the past,” Mom says.

  I feel immediate anger ready to burst out of me. “Wait, what? Why would you say that?” I scream, my voice loud and shaky. I didn’t realize how much anger I held over her apathy on the topic.

  She looks shocked at my differing emotions. “Calm down, honey.”

  “Stop calling me honey and dear! I am not your honey and dear right now. How could you be so disrespectful to our family? You don’t even want their names mentioned!” I shout, tears streaming down my face.
r />   Brian and Dylan run into the kitchen.

  “Everyone just wait a second now,” Dad adds. “People have a right to their opinions, Rachel. Don’t talk to your mother like that. Charlotte, explain to our daughter why you feel this way.”

  “Yes, let me hear the reasoning behind your insanity, Mom.” I wipe tears from my face, but more replace them.

  “Rachel, don’t go using your psychobabble in this house. I just feel that since Grandpa never wanted to talk about them coming to America, why should we want to? He was so proud to be an American. He didn’t like to bring up the past and if anyone else brought it up, he looked so sad. I never wanted to hurt him. He would be displeased to know you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “My nose should be exactly where it is!”

  “Yeah, on your ugly face.”

  My dad points to the hallway. “Dylan, leave.”

  And he does, miraculously.

  I take a second to mindfully breathe in and out before I answer. Say it calmly, Rachel, calmly. “I think Grandpa would be honored that I want to know more about him and our family. I know he would be on my side, as he always was with me. Mom, I am sorry you feel this way, but I’m going to continue my research. There has to be more to this story. Something bizarre must have happened for his mom and sister never to have come to the US. I am going to get to the bottom of it…for me and for Grandpa.”

  She shrugs and turns away. “I can’t stop you. Just be careful.”

  I lower my eyebrows. “What do you mean by that? Be careful?” So much for staying calm.

  “God is watching. And so is Grandpa.”

  “OH. MY. GOD!” I can’t contain myself.

  Mom throws the sponge in the sink and leaves the room.

  Dad and I stare at each other, mirroring puzzled looks.

  Brian is speechless and his body’s turned to the side, looking like he wants to head home now to avoid another awkward Granza family moment. This isn’t the first argument he witnessed between my mom and me, but it could be one of the loudest. He just wants everyone to get along, he’s said in the past.

  “I don’t understand why she can’t be happy for me.” I fall into the chair and grab another cannoli.

  Dad places his hand on my arm. “Sometimes your mom has…different thoughts, but she does mean well. She’s just trying to honor your grandpa and keep you from going down a dead-end road. I think it would be fantastic to find out more about our family and I think that my dad would want you to do whatever you feel you need to do.”

  Knowing Dad thinks Grandpa would be okay with my research, a sense of tranquility washes over me. If he didn’t want to talk about his past when he was alive, that was his choice, but now it is my time to find out the real story.

  “Wait, what do you mean about a ‘dead-end road’?”

  “Researching family history is hard work.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know if there’s even a mystery to solve, but if so, don’t you think that it will be extremely difficult to find out the facts?”

  “I am ready for that possibility.” I nod once and take a bite of cannoli.

  “That’s true. Nothing will stop you when you get interested in something,” Dad reassures.

  Brian kisses me on the cheek and leaves the room again, still refraining from adding to the conversation.

  “So, Dad, how old was I when Great-Uncle Vince died? I remember him waving outside of a home, wearing some sort of blue outfit. That’s my only real memory of him.”

  Dad nods. “Your mom always says she can’t believe you remember that. You were about three years old. We were leaving his nursing home.”

  “That means he died in 1983, or around that year.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s right. Too bad you didn’t get a chance to know him. He was my favorite uncle. He was the greatest.”

  “He sounded as sweet as Grandpa. They must have been best friends.”

  “Definitely.” He pauses and looks me straight in the eyes. “Your grandpa was such a strong man. He came to this country as a poor boy and to help build a successful family business, not even knowing the language. And look where we are now. You went to college and live in New York City. You always made him proud. What a long way we came from the old country where business was tough, not like the opportunity of having an American business.”

  I reflect on his words for a moment. “I wish he could have seen my success with school and my career though.”

  My dad grabs my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “He does.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” I know I sound desperate, but I am.

  “I don’t know why they chose to live in Philly. That’s one mystery.” He looks up in thought. “You already know Grandpa and his sister wrote to each other for the rest of their lives. They wrote in Italian, so I never knew what the letters said. He wrote to his half-sister too. Sometimes they would talk on the phone. Now that I think about it, I don’t know either of their names. That never occurred to me.”

  Both of us remain silent a moment.

  “Oh, one more thing. I remember it being important to your grandpa that he came from northern Italy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, he would always say ‘northern Italy’ when anyone asked where we were from originally. It was never ‘I’m from Italy.’ It was ‘I’m from northern Italy.’ I never really understood why.”

  “That’s strange, but okay. Yeah, I think I remember that too. Hmm. Thanks, Dad. At least I have something else to work with now.”

  “Let me know what you find out. Don’t worry about your mom. She’ll come around.”

  “Brian, I’ve got the bed in the basement ready for you.”

  He responds from next to me on the couch. “Thanks, Mrs. Granza.”

  Dad, him, and I caught a re-run of I Love Lucy, a favorite classic we have in common. Thankfully, Dylan went home earlier so we watched in peace. Ahh.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Granza,” Brian says before we part ways for the night. Since we’re not married, we have to sleep in separate rooms—a Granza house rule.

  I take my time getting ready for bed in my old room. All the information Dad shared is making my head spin, and I find myself having a lot to think about from the evening. Laying in my teenage bed, complete with the cranberry and forest green accessories that threw up all over my room in the late ‘90s, my mind is flooded with thoughts of my early years.

  My bed faces my childhood closet, so I stare at some of my long-forgotten clothes. There are dresses from weddings I was obligated to be in—the brides always lie, they are not dresses I can wear again—to everyday clothes to other formal clothes. Man, I used to wear some ugly stuff in the ‘80s. There are colors I would never wear now. Bright red? Orange? Even yellow. What was I thinking?

  The outfits that stand out the most are the ones Grandpa tailored for me. Sometimes, he made pieces for Dylan and me in his spare time. From scratch. Just for fun. I mean, who did that? He could whip up any piece of clothing—or mend, hem, shorten, take in, loosen, or whatever else the garment needed. He was a magician.

  No other kids I knew had someone with this skill in their family. My mom’s friends always asked if he was available to help out here and there. The choice of doing things for free or asking people to bring their clothes to the store and pay was a hard one for him. His heart didn’t want to charge people, but his business, home, and bills required it.

  Grandpa often joked that I should have taken over the family business instead of going to college. I knew Italians want to pass on their craft to the younger generations, but he knew Dad wouldn’t want to do it. And Dylan would never have considered it. I was left as the last option in our family. I still hope I didn’t break his heart by declining his flattering offer, but I didn’t see myself happy in a career like that. So, there
was one minor dissimilarity between Grandpa and me. If it disappointed him, he never let on. He always accepted me no matter what decisions I made in my life. He valued independent thinking, since that was what he had to do as a young man.

  The fabric arts gene may have been left out of my DNA, but the tradition of hard work did transfer to me. I know I made Grandpa proud when he was alive. He knew about every single school performance and good grade, and he showed his pride with a huge hug and peck on the cheek—and Grandma too, of course. Their acceptance of me, no matter what happened, was so comforting in my youth. How I could use that now in my life…

  A quiet knock at the door pulls me from my memories.

  “Coming.” I jump out of bed and open the door.

  “Shh, not too loud.” Brian whispers. “I wanted to say that I was proud of you tonight. It kind of turned me on to see you so passionate about something again. The old Rachel is back…or at least on her way back.”

  “Thanks.” I grip the door tighter.

  “Hey, you wanna—”

  I bend down to grab a decorative pillow to throw at him. “No! My parents are down the hall. Are you losing your mind?”

  He puts his hands up like he’s guilty. “Just thought I’d try.”

  “Go to bed, Casanova.”

  “’Til tomorrow, I guess.” He puts on an exaggerated sad face as I giggle and shut the door.

  This morning at breakfast brings an interesting vibe. Mom is busying herself cooking a large American style breakfast of eggs, bacon, ham, toast, and coffee, while Dad is reading the sports section of the newspaper at the table. Neither of them are speaking to each other, but this is not unusual for the Granza morning ritual. Dad is not quite a morning person. Like father, like daughter.

  As Brian and I come into the kitchen around the same time, I think how grateful I am that Dylan went home last night. That gift will bring me a little harmony this morning. Sad, but true.

  Dad’s consciousness strikes when Brian’s chair makes a loud screech upon pulling it away from the table. “Oh, hi kids.”