“I want to be ready, though. Then, if there’s actually a judgment day like the nuns promised, I’ll have minded my p’s and q’s. God will show up at the end as He did in the beginning, and check to see if I’ve done okay. What more can a man ask for? I wouldn’t mind seeing the face of God. What the hell.”
“Dad, I think you’re a Buddhist.”
My father has never been eloquent, especially where his feelings are concerned. But no matter what he didn’t say, I knew he loved us, and he loved us deeply. But I never knew that he had a spiritual philosophy. I figured he didn’t need one because he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. “Dad, you’ve never talked about God to me.”
“I left that up to the church. We hauled you to mass every week for a reason. Those people are in the redemption business. Let’s face it,” he says, crossing his hands on his lap and continuing, “I’m not a holy man by a long shot, but I did have to ask myself the big question: What about me, Dutch Roncalli, is eternal?”
“And what’s the answer?”
“The acre forest at park 134. When I was made an urban park ranger in 1977, I was given the responsibility of planting and maintaining a two-acre green space in the center of the park with a natural pond and a surrounding grove of fir trees. It can never be sold, just like the land in Central Park. By law, the natural habitat must be maintained in perpetuity. So, it’s my little gift to the future generations of the borough of Queens. Small stuff, but to me, eternal.”
“That’s great, Dad.” I take a deep breath. “But don’t you think your children are your legacy?”
“I can’t take credit for what you and Tess and Jaclyn and Alfred have become. You kids are like those hamsters you had to raise in the second grade. You’re strictly loaners. I just took care of you until you could take care of yourselves.”
“But you loved us, too.”
“Absolutely. And, as fathers go, I look damn good on paper. None of you on drugs, none of you gamblers or bookies. Nobody with a tic. But that’s to your mother’s credit. All of you are successful in your fields. And you, taking up the shoemaking and taking care of your grandmother. That says a lot about you. You will be repaid, Valentina.”
My father is the only person in my life who puts an a on the end of my name, and to hear him say it brings me great comfort.
Then he says, “Somebody’s gonna take care of you when you’re old. Payback.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Some guy would do the Watusi for a shot at such a good wife.”
“Me?”
“You. You’ve got a big heart. Of all the kids, you’re the most like me. You didn’t spring out of the womb knowing all the answers, like Alfred. You didn’t have a master plan, like Tess. And you never relied on your pretty face, like Jaclyn. You’ve worked hard for everything you’ve ever gotten. That’s why you’re funny. You needed a sense of humor when things didn’t work out the way you hoped. And the same is true for me. Things didn’t always go my way. But I never gave up. And I don’t want you to give up.”
“I won’t.” I squeeze my dad’s hand.
“I want you to find a nice guy.”
“Know anybody?”
Dad puts his hands in the air. “That’s up to you. I don’t get involved in those matters.”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve met somebody.”
“Really?” Now it’s Dad’s turn to shift in the tiny seat and get a jab in the hips. I adjust to make room for his 360 degrees. “What does he do?”
“He’s a chef. Italian.”
“Real Italian? Or is he Albanian or Czech? You know, nowadays they come over here with an accent and open pizza parlors like they’re authentic sons of Mama Leone when us real Italians know the truth.”
“No, no, he’s real Italian, Pop, from Chicago.”
“So, what do you think about this paisano?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“You know what? You don’t have to know everything. Sometimes, it’s better not to.”
A Forest Hills Sunday-afternoon quiet descends on the garden, like old fog. The arm of the love seat pinches my thigh, but I don’t shift. I want to sit next to my father as long as I can, just the two of us, he with his theories of religion, love, and the eternal nature of trees, and me, hoping that he’ll be around for the turns my story will take.
I reach out for my father’s hand, something I haven’t done since I was ten years old. He grips it tightly, as though he will never let go. Dad looks off into the Buzzacaccos’ yard, with its fire engine red picnic table, shriveled hedges, and crumbling statue of the Venus de Milo (with arms). I look up at the house. My mother stands in the kitchen window watching us with a face so sad, now she’s the Modigliani.
The wheels on the brush machine whirl as I crank the pedal. I put my hand in a cotton mitt and then place a soft pink leather pump over the mitt. I brace the heel with my free hand and place the shoe between the round brushes. I buff the vamp of the shoe until the leather looks like an iridescent pink seashell.
One of the joys of working with leather is finding the patina. Sheets of new leather from the tanners are lovely, but new leather without a cobbler’s expertise is just a hide. In the hands of a craftsman, the same animal flank becomes art. Hand-tooled leather develops its own personality; etching and embossing give it a pattern, while buffing gives it character. And character makes it one of a kind.
Sometimes it takes days of resaturating the leather with dye, letting it dry, then polishing and buffing for hours to acquire a shade that pleases the eye and is appropriate for the shoe. Then I give the leather a pearlized depth by manual brushing. I can see grades and tones in the surface that change in the light; deep veins in the fiber give a look of age, and the sheen provides a layer of energy for the final product. My grandmother has taught me that the palette for leather and suede is limitless, like musical notes. One persnickety bride wanted her shoes dyed Tiffany blue to match the box her engagement ring came in. It took me a month to get the right saturation of color, but I did it.
I place the second shoe on my left hand, guiding it under the brushes with my right. I hear a tapping on the front window of the shop. Bret waves to me and I motion for him to meet me at the entrance.
“You’re up early,” he says as I hold the door open and usher him in.
“That’s the shoemaker’s life. And evidently the same is true for the barons of Wall Street.” I check the clock. It’s 6:30 A.M. I’ve been working in the shop since 5:00.
“I’ve got some information for you.” Bret sits down on the rolling stool at the cutting table. I sit down next to him. He opens a file. “I’ve done some digging. Let me start out by saying that you’re in the worst possible profession to get investors.”
“Great.”
“Fashion is a wild card. Many more failures than successes. Completely dependent upon the whims of the marketplace and individual spending habits. Designers are artists, and therefore considered unreliable in the business world. In a word, handcrafted anything is on shaky ground for investment purposes.” I find it odd that anything as necessary to human beings as shoes could be viewed as risky, but Bret continues, “Unless you’re Prada, or some other venerable family company that the conglomerates are looking to buy.”
“Does it matter that the business has been here since 1903?” I ask.
“It helps. It shows a level of quality and craftsmanship. That’s good. But it also says rarified to the investor.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means that your name has exposure to a very small audience, and that wedding shoes are luxury items. Given the current economy, investors aren’t looking at luxury goods for a return on their money. Right now, in fashion, it’s all about trends and a low sticker price. That’s why you see so many celebrities with clothing lines. Target, H & M, even Wal-Mart, all have a stake in low-priced high fashion. They’re the guys financing the trend.”