“Your mother ran me all over Chinatown like a runaway rickshaw. I’ll be dead but she’ll have a lifetime supply of slippers.”
“Where are your husbands?” I ask Tess.
“Parking.”
“Thank God the boys like each other.” Mom swirls her burgundy-colored Manhattan around in the tumbler and sips. “You know that doesn’t usually happen with in-laws.”
Tess looks at me.
“Ma, we know,” I remind her. Sometimes Mom can be clueless; after all, we’ve had nothing but frost with Pamela for years. “Are Pamela and Alfred coming? They didn’t RSVP.”
“We’re still on the Island,” Tess says and shrugs. “Pam hasn’t spoken to any of us since the blowup at Christmas.”
“Did you call and apologize?” Mom asks her.
“I don’t know what to say. Besides, Valentine should call. She’s the one who blurted it out.”
“We all call her Clickety Click. Besides, she calls us the Meatball Sisters behind our backs and I never got an apology for that.” I sound five years old.
“Mom, you make comments about her size, too,” Jaclyn says as she fishes a cherry out of her ginger ale, pops it into her mouth, and chews.
“About her general size, her smallness, yes, but never specifically her feet.”
“Feet, ass, hands, it doesn’t matter,” Dad declares. “You girls are icky picky and Pamela got her feelings hurt. Now it’s up to you to heal the rainbow. Our rainbow has a gaping hole in it right now because you can’t keep your opinions to yourselves. Somebody needs to call her and straighten out the situation.”
“Your father is right. We should call her,” Mom says.
“I don’t want to call her!” Jaclyn grabs another breadstick. “I can’t! I’m seasick until noon every day, and the truth is, I can’t take any more stress. I’m tired of it. She’s been in this family for years. Grow a hide already! Yeah, we’re a tough crowd, but so what? And while you’re at it, eat a sandwich. Clickety Click? It’s more like Thin-ety-thin.”
“The pregnancy hormones have arrived,” Mom whispers. “Must be a boy.”
Charlie and Tom enter the restaurant and greet Mom and Dad. Roman comes out of the kitchen with a plate of fried pumpkin blossoms. He places them on the bar, then shakes their hands.
“I’m giving you four stars already for the parking. It was a slam dunk.” Charlie takes off his coat.
“Parking is a snap in Little Italy,” Dad says. “Italians know how to attract business, right, Roman? And when we taste your food, we’ll tell you if you can keep it.” Dad throws Roman a wink.
Roman forces a smile. My father doesn’t notice. Gram pushes the door open and enters. She takes off her hat, shakes out her new hair, and then turns full circle, like a model. Charlie and Tom whistle, while my sisters marvel at her brown hair.
“Ma! You’re a brunette again!” Mom claps her hands together joyfully. “Finally you took my advice!”
Dad spins around on his bar stool. “Somebody’s been throwin’ back her Geritol,” he says approvingly.
“Mom, now you can trim another five years off your age,” Tess offers.
“At least! If eighty is the new sixty, that makes me forty!”
“And that makes me a perv.” Dad sips his drink. “With your fuzzy math, I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Nothing wrong with an older man,” Mom says and shrugs.
“Alfred is on his way,” Gram announces.
“He told me he wasn’t coming.” Mom goes behind the bar to pour Gram a Manhattan.
“I told him he had to come.” Gram puts her tote bag on a stool by the bar. “I’m tired of this silly feud. I’ve seen enough of them in my lifetime. A family fight stagnates, then over time turns into a hundred-year war, and nobody remembers what the argument was about in the first place.”
“My sediments exactly, Ma.”
“Sentiments,” Mom corrects Dad.
“Should we wait for Alfred to begin?” Roman asks Gram. “I’ll go ahead and bring the food out,” he says on the way to the kitchen.
“Need me?” I ask him.
“I got it,” he calls over his shoulder.
I catch Roman’s exasperated tone. My family has done nothing but complain since they arrived. My boyfriend got a very tired look on his face when my family rehashed the Pamela Christmas tiff. No one should have to live through that twice.
“The sketch of the wedding gown arrived.” Gram hands me a large gray envelope marked BG from her tote. “Hand-delivered by Bergdorf Goodman.”
The sketch of the wedding gown we are to design a shoe for is rendered in ink and watercolor on a heavy sheet of drawing paper. The silhouette shows shards of chiffon, which look like they’ve been cut with a steak knife and sewn haphazardly onto a fitted sheath. It looks like a dress made of fine silk that accidentally ended up in the washing machine. It’s dreadful.
“Who needs shoes with this gown? You need a coat.” I give the design to Tess.
“One that buttons from neck to ankle.” Gram shakes her head. “Who is Rag and Bone?”
“Two hot designers,” I tell her.
Mom puts on her reading glasses and peers through them at the design. “Oh dear, is there some sort of new austerity program in place?” She hands it off to Jaclyn. “I don’t understand why they wouldn’t use someone like Stella McCartney. She’s classic and romantic and whimsical.”
“And your mother was in love with her father. Paul was her favorite Beatle,” Dad chimes in.
“I’m not going to apologize for my good taste,” Mom says and swigs her drink. Roman brings a tureen of ravioli to the table.
Jaclyn gives me the design. “Why can’t things be pretty? Why does everything have to be so ugly?” Jaclyn weeps, then bangs her hands on the table. “What is wrong with me? Why am I crying?” she sobs. “I’m not crying inside my mind-inside my mind, I’m sane! It’s just a dress. I don’t care about that dress,” she blubbers. “But I can’t stop…” Roman goes behind the bar and pulls out a box of tissues. He places them on the table, next to Jaclyn.
“Now, now.” Mom puts her arm around Jaclyn to soothe her.
“God, I wish I could drink! Four more months with nothing to take the edge off!” Jaclyn puts her head in her hands and cries, “I need booze!”
Roman exhales slowly as he surveys the table. He has the same look on his face that he did during the fight on Christmas Eve. He’s trying not to judge, but he’s definitely annoyed. Good food doesn’t matter when you’re serving it to angry people.
Alfred pushes open the entrance door, bringing a brisk shot of cold air in with him. Alfred extends his hand to Roman. “Nice to see you again,” he says with a tone as chilly as the winter wind he dragged in.
“I’m glad you could make it,” Roman says pleasantly, but he looks as though he’s got six Roncallis too many in the restaurant already.
Alfred doesn’t move to take off his coat. Instead, he surveys the tops of our heads, refusing to make eye contact. He finally walks over to Mom and kisses her on the cheek. He shakes Dad’s hand. “I can’t stay. Gram asked me to show up and say hello, but I have to get going soon.”
Tess looks down at her empty appetizer plate, while big wet tears drop onto Jaclyn’s sweater like dew. “What’s the matter, Jaclyn?” Alfred asks her.
She sobs, “I don’t know!”
“Please, Alfred. Stay at least for the antipasto,” Dad implores him. What can Alfred do? Say no to his sick father?
Alfred pulls out a chair. “Just for a minute.”
“Great.” Roman forces a smile. “I’ve got a fresh antipasto, followed by a specialty of the house, a truffle ravioli, and then we’re having pork roast with roasted root vegetables.”
“I’d like to see the menu,” Dad jokes. Everyone laughs except Roman.
We take our seats. Alfred sits on the far end, next to Gram. Dad sits at the head of the table on one end, while Roman takes the seat at the head of the table closest to the kitchen. We dig into a platter of rolled salami, sweet sheets of pink prosciutto, glossy olives, sun-dried tomatoes, hunks of fresh parmesan, and flaky tuna drizzled in olive oil. Roman puts a basket of homemade bread, fresh from the oven, in rotation around the table.