Jaclyn passes the sketch of the dress to Alfred.
“What’s this?”
“The Bergdorf dress.”
He looks at it. “You got to be kidding.”
“It’s definitely a design challenge,” I say, forcing a smile.
“You really think that this is going to change the course of the shoe company?” He shakes his head.
“We can only try,” I say evenly, resisting the temptation to snap back at him. I take the sketch from him and slip it back into the envelope, placing it on the table behind me. A dull quiet settles over the table. Roman surveys our plates, making certain his guests have what they need. He stands quickly and replenishes our wineglasses.
“Dad, how are you feeling?” Charlie asks.
“Pretty good, Chuck. You know, I get a burning sometimes, in my nether parts-”
“Not while we’re eating, honey,” Mom says.
“Hey, he asked. And I do get a burning sensation.”
“When are you going to Italy, Gram?” Alfred changes the subject.
“April. Valentine is going with me.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to meet the suppliers,” I explain.
“April. I love Italy in April,” Roman says as he sits back down.
“You should join us.” I squeeze Roman’s hand.
“I just might.”
“I’d invite myself along, but it’s planting season in Forest Hills,” Mom says gaily.
“For the record, we can’t fit any further flora and fauna on Austin Street.” Dad waves his fork at Mom.
“Honey, you say that, and then, voilà, there’s another gorgeous rhododendron or strip of yellow phlox thriving somewhere in the garden.”
“There’s always room for phlox,” I say and pass the bread to Jaclyn, who finds the word phlox so funny, she can’t stop laughing. “Now what?” I ask her.
“I don’t know,” she giggles. “It’s like I had too much sugar and I’m on the scrambler at Six Flags. On the inside, I’m not laughing. I swear,” she laughs. “Bah-ha-ha.”
“I never had those mood swings when I was pregnant,” Tess says.
“Who are you kidding? It was like Glenn Close with the curly perm moved in. You hid in closets. You read my e-mails. You swore I was having an affair,” Charlie says.
“I don’t remember that at all,” Tess insists. “But childbirth? That’s another story.”
Tess rips a piece of bread in two and butters it. “They say you forget, but you don’t.”
“Tess, you’re scaring me,” Jaclyn says. Tom pats her hand.
Roman looks at me and raises both eyebrows. He stands, picks up the tureen, and goes around the table serving the ravioli. I can see he’s about to snap, between Dad’s burning groin, Tess and Charlie’s fussing, and Jaclyn’s weeping, this isn’t exactly the kind of light dinner conversation that goes well with handmade ravioli. What’s the matter with my family anyhow? They almost seem annoyed to be here, as if coming to dinner at a hot Manhattan restaurant was a supreme sacrifice. On top of their surly moods, they seem oblivious to the amount of work Roman has put into this meal for them.
I try and make up for my family. “Roman, the ravioli is scrumptious.”
“Thank you.” Roman sits down.
Why aren’t they complimenting his cooking? I kick Tess under the table.
“Ow,” she says.
“Sorry.” I look at her but she doesn’t catch my cue.
When Tess was dating Charlie, I knocked myself out to make him feel welcome. I listened to Charlie drone on about installing home-security systems until my eyes rolled back in my head like martini olives. When Jaclyn got serious with Tom, she warned us that he was “shy,” so we made sure to bring him in on every conversation, to try and include him. He finally told Tess and me to back off, that it wasn’t necessary to include him in our dull conversations, he gets enough of that at work. We’ve failed with Pamela, but it wasn’t from lack of trying; she’s just not into the stuff we enjoy, like eating, so it’s always been a struggle to find common ground. When Alfred was dating her, we were on our best behavior, but once they married, it was too much work.
Now, as I look around the table, reciprocation of my kind gestures toward my sisters and brother when they were bringing someone new into the family has gone out the window. It seems they are just too jaded, disinterested, and old to put on a good face for Roman. He’s getting the rent-a-wreck version of my family when the rest of the in-laws got the Cadillac treatment. It’s almost assumed that Funnyone isn’t a serious player in romance, so why bother? Why use the good china on Roman, he won’t be around anyway. But they’re wrong. They are my family, and they should be on my side and, God forbid, root for my happiness. Tonight, it’s clear they couldn’t care less. Here they are at a restaurant short-listed in New York magazine for Best Italian Eatery and they act like they’re grabbing a sweaty hot dog in wax paper out of a bin at Yankee Stadium. Don’t they see that this is special? That he is special?
“Are you going to tell the chef what you think?” I say so loudly that even Roman is startled. The family does an en masse hmm, good, great garble that seems insincere.
And then Alfred says, “Who’s paying for the trip to Italy?”
“We are,” I tell him.
“More debt.” He shrugs.
“We need leather to make shoes,” I snap at him.
“You need to modify your operation and sell the building,” he says. “Gram, I agreed to come tonight hoping that I might be able to tell Scott what your plans are.”
Now I’m really angry. This dinner was supposed to be a lovely evening about getting to know my new boyfriend, and now it’s turned into agenda night for the Angelini Shoe Company. “Could we talk about this another time?”
“I have an answer for Alfred,” Gram says quietly.
Alfred smiles for the first time this evening.
“I’ve been doing a little research on my own,” Gram begins. “I had a long talk with Richard Kirshenbaum. Remember him?” She turns to Mom. “He used to run the printing factory on the West Side Highway? He and his wife owned it.”
“I remember her well. Dana. Stunning brunette. Amazing fashion sense. How is she?” Mom asks.
“Retired,” Gram deadpans. “Anyhow, I told him about the offer and he advised me to wait. He said that Scott Hatcher’s offer wasn’t nearly enough.”
“Not enough?” Alfred puts his hands on the table.
“That’s what he said.” Gram picks up her fork. “But we can talk about the details another time.”
“You know what, Gram? We don’t have to. I can see Valentine and her crazy ideas have gotten to you and you’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m clear,” Gram assures him.
“No, you’re just buying time.”
“First of all, Alfred, if I could buy time, I would have done it already. It’s the only thing I don’t have enough of. Though none of you would understand that, not having reached your eightieth birthdays.”
“Except for me.” Dad waves his white napkin in surrender and continues. “Time? It’s like a freakin’ gong in my head in the middle of the night. And then I get the cold sweats of death. I’m hearing the call to arms, believe me.”
“Okay, Dutch, you’re right. You’re exempt. You would understand this because you have a health situation-”
“Damn right.”
“-that would make you empathetic to old age. But the rest of you are too young to understand.”
“What does this have to do with your building?” my brother asks impatiently.