Or maybe they, like us, know the truth: none of us are good enough for Alfred, whether we were born after him, gave birth to him, fathered him, or married him. Alfred's standards are so high no one can reach them. I have to remember to tell Bret to keep this in mind. I can't have Alfred derail my relationships at the Angelini Shoe Company because he has unrealistic standards--or because he doesn't want to see the sister who never measured up succeed despite herself.
"I know this is against your religion...," I say into my cell phone. I stand on the corner of 14th Street and 8th Avenue, with one hand over my ear and the other clutching my phone. "...but I had to do the modern thing and call you."
"Valentina?" Gianluca could not be happier to hear from me.
"I have good news. Dad got a great report at the doctors."
"Va bene!" Gianluca is thrilled by the news, and just as happy to hear from me.
"I wanted to tell you." A bus pulls up at the stop and decompresses with a loud blast as the steps are lowered closer to the sidewalk. "Sorry about the noise. I'm outside. On my way back to the shop."
"The noise is not a problem," he assures me. "I am happy to hear your voice."
"Gianluca?"
"Yes?"
"Be patient with me."
"Valentina."
The soothing sound of his voice, the way he says my name, blankets me. I want to let him know what he means to me, that I couldn't wait to get home and write it on the onionskin paper. Suddenly, it felt urgent. It only takes a trip to Sloan Kettering to remind me how short life is, and that there's nothing wrong with a little prioritizing. "I'm not as good at this as you are, at expressing myself. I..." I pause and think.
He waits patiently until I speak. He doesn't interrupt me. He lets me find my point, and then gives me the time to share it. "I am trying to say that I love your letters. They are very descriptive and honest...and I feel so much when I read them."
"Grazie," he says, then amends. " Mille grazie."
"I guess, what I'd like to tell you is to...keep them coming. And if you do, I will read them with as much care as you take when you write them."
"Valentina, I must see you."
"When?" I ask him.
"I wish today."
"Me too," I tell him, and I mean it.
"Now, in the shop here, it is difficult. My father is a new man with a new life. The old life holds very little interest to him now. So, I work twice as long each day."
"The same at my shop."
"We're in, how do you say it?"
"The same boat!"
"Right. Correct. That makes us closer still? No?" he asks.
"Yes," I tell him.
When I return to the shop, Gabriel and June are laughing at the cutting table. There is something so natural about the two of them working side by side.
Gabriel wasn't around as much when he lived in Chelsea, but now that he is about to move in, there isn't any aspect of life on 166 Perry Street that he isn't a part of--and that includes the shoes.
"What's going on?" I hang up my coat and look over at Alfred, whose head is buried in a file.
"June is teaching me how to cut patterns," Gabriel says. "I've decided to make the drapes for the living room myself."
"Do you think you can?"
"You should know better than to ask that question. I can do anything I set my mind to."
"He's very good, this guy. Very quick," June says. "He has a real eye for dimension--which is the one attribute every pattern cutter needs."
"And when I choose to learn something new, I insist I learn from the master," Gabriel says.
"Well, that's me, kiddo." June cackles. "Thirty-plus years with these pinking shears. I'd say that makes me the master."
"You feel like a coffee break?" Gabriel asks her.
"Sure," June says.
"I made blondies with walnuts." Gabriel looks at me and Alfred.
"I'm okay," Alfred says without looking up.
"Me too. Late lunch. You go."
June and Gabriel head up the stairs.
"Dad got an all-clear."
"Great," Alfred says.
"You couldn't be more thrilled."
He puts the file down. "What do you want me to do? Dance a jig?"
"No. I'd like you to show up," I tell him. "You've never been to the hospital--not when Dad had the surgery, or the chemo, or the radiation--you just leave it to us. And it's not fair."
"If you remember, I got him into Sloan, and I paid for the extras. I've done my bit."
"You're his only son."
"Yeah, well, that's its own reward, isn't it?" he snaps. "I don't want to fight with you, Valentine," he says wearily.
"No. You're fighting the whole world, and then I'm forced to live in it."
"What does that mean?"
"You don't get along with people. You take a defensive position. Or you issue an order and expect me to fall in line. You decide we're going to make the Bella Rosa in China, and that's how it's going to be. You steamroller me, you make Bret unhappy..."
"Oh, now I'm responsible for Bret's happiness?"
"When you're working with him, you are. Because he matters to me, I value his opinions, and he's stepped up for this company."
"He'll get his commission."
"That's not the point. He didn't have to take us on. But he did. And if we succeed, and that's still a big if, Bret will have been a major part of that. So act a little more appreciative and a little less imperious--if you don't mind."
"You got it, boss," he says.
"If only that were true. But I got the deal with the devil here."
Alfred looks at me. "Now I'm the devil."
"You can be cruel. I don't like the way you treat our dad."
"It always comes back to that." He turns away from me and goes to sit down at the desk.
"If you'd only make an effort."
"It's not gonna happen." Alfred sits down and props his face on his hand and opens a file. He actually ignores me and goes back to work. So I haul out the big gun, the torpedo of the Roncalli arsenal: guilt.
"Dad isn't going to be around forever."
"That'll be a relief," he snaps.
"Take that back!" I shout.
A rage wells inside me. My brother's deliberate absences make it so much harder for our family to cope with my father's illness. It's almost as if Alfred gets joy in separating from us, from our problems--because as long as he does so, they are not his own. He is not this way with his in-laws. He's dutiful toward them. He's there when Pamela's family is in crisis. He's most comfortable in the role of family member once removed. But with the Roncallis, he cut the tie long ago, and left us hanging.
"If you don't want to make it right with Dad for your mother, or your sisters, consider your sons. Because I guarantee you, if you don't get past whatever it is you have against Dad, it will visit you and your children."
"My sons are different." Alfred turns back to his work.
Alfred's tone tells me he's done talking about this. If I could throw him out of the shop, I would. I don't know how long I can handle having him around. We try to get along, or rather, I try to get along with him, but I find myself either tiptoeing around the land mines or stepping on them, then dealing with the aftermath of the explosion. We have spats over nothing, and then I have to bring the mood of the shop back to normal. On top of my real job, I have another--trying to please Alfred. I have been doing this all of my life, and I'm tired of him.
I'm also furious. So I'm going to talk to Bret about a time line. On days like these, when the tension is as deep as the ten layers of leather on the cutting table, I can hardly do my work. And then, exhausted from the dance, I lie in bed at night and dream of what it would be like to own this business outright. I imagine the shop, debt-free, all markers paid in full. I'm the boss and answer to no one. Someday I will buy my brother out, and then I'll be free of him once and for all.
It took two days to move Gabriel Biondi out of his cous
in's illegal sublet in Chelsea and into 166 Perry Street. There's that much stuff.
The eight floors of the ABC Carpet and Home warehouse store on Broadway have less furniture than Gabriel Biondi. We could easily fill an additional building (if we had it) with his possessions. Boxed and crated, or wrapped in batting, each item is revered.
There are gilt Rococo mirrors, Art Deco hat stands, demi love seats in matching zebra print, a set of six straight-backed chairs shellacked off-white with rattan seats, turn-of-the-last-century steamer trunks that made it off of the Titanic and into Gabriel's collection, Tiffany floor lamps with bronze tree-trunk bases, and lamps composed of mosaics of turquoise and rose glass, and framed posters of Broadway shows since On the Twentieth Century and She Loves Me were running long on the Great White Way.
Gabriel stands with his hands on his hips. "I know, it looks like a gay tag sale. But trust me, I plan to weed out a lot."
"Like what?"
"A set of Minton china with soup tureens."
"You should keep that."
"Why?" Gabriel asks nervously.
"Because it goes with the English riding saddle you want to mount on the wall."
Gabriel looks around at the skyscrapers of brown paper boxes in my living room and is about to ask, "What saddle?" when he realizes that I'm joking. "Oh, ha, ha. You."
"Really, you have more stuff than a holding cell at the Met. Every period in interior decoration is represented here."
"Except early American. I loathe it. I like Abraham Lincoln as much as the next guy, but I can't abide major furniture that looks like it was whittled."
"Me neither."
"I know I have a lot of stuff. But I dream of a summer home in Bucks County. I imagine it--in full. And everything you see here is a part of the backdrop of that dream. I see a four-story white clapboard farmhouse with black shutters on a green hill in Pennsylvania, surrounded by clear acreage. There's a swimming pool, a patio with slate floors, a kitchen with copper pots and a butcher-block island, and sumptuous interiors.
"I imagine parties in my home with guests who fascinate--Doris Kearns Goodwin and Tina Fey in one corner, with the Coen brothers and Lady Gaga in another. Oh, look! It's Tony Kushner arguing theater economics with Joe Mantello. Michael Patrick King zings with bons mots as Mike Nichols intercepts them. Imagine a tan and freckled au naturel Frances McDormand reading aloud pithy scenes from Arsenic and Old Lace, while Bartlett Sher looks on and then gives a Juilliard critique. Afterward, we have grappa and cigars by a roaring fire, and after Mary Testa sings a couple of numbers from The Rose Tattoo, we discuss the fate of our national theater--that is, of course, if there's one left by the time I buy my dream house.
"Oh, Valentine, I have big, big plans for my enormous life! And when I'm able to afford it all, and yes, that means buying it all for cash, and installing full-grown trees just like Moss Hart did sixty years ago because I, like he, am not one to wait, I will fill that house with things that matter to me. Decor that inspires me. Furniture that moves me. Basically all the stuff you see right here."
"So what do we do with it in the meantime?"
"We can use it here."
"Okay, how about this. How about you redecorate the living room with your things--these prized possessions..."
"They are prizes, believe me."
"I agree. But whatever doesn't fit, or you don't think works, you put in storage."
"Fair enough. I definitely can afford storage because you gave me such a break on the rent."
"I'll offer Gram's stuff to my family. Except the farm table. The table has to stay." I run my hand across the edge of the table that has been the center of our family gatherings since before I was born. I can't imagine this apartment without it. "That's the only rule. This table, in this very spot."
"No problem. I like the table," Gabriel agrees. "But I may want to refinish it."
"Permission granted."
"And we'll keep the chandelier. I've always loved that touch of Venice."
Gabriel and I immediately fall back into our old college roommate dynamic. It's an easy give-and-take--I let him do whatever he wants, and he rides roughshod over me like a cowboy on horseback galloping through a dry creek bed in the Great Plains during a cattle crossing.
"Is this a record player?"
"RCA Victor. Truthfully, though, I use it for an end table."
"Does it work?"
"I don't know. I never turned it on. We've got all of Gram's old Sinatra albums upstairs."
"Brilliant! I can redecorate to Old Blue Eyes. Francis Albert will be my muse."
"I'm going to go down and lock up the shop," I tell him. "June and Alfred went home hours ago."
"How's the shipment coming?"
"Our twelve-hour days are paying off. Harlene Levin at the Picardy Shoe Parlor in Milwaukee is going to get her order on time."
"Need me?"
"Nope." I go to the top of the stairs, think better of it, and poke my head back into the apartment. "What's for dinner?"
"Chicken Florentine, a fresh tossed dandelion salad with steamed artichokes, and a creme brulee for dessert."
I place my hand on my heart. "I love you."
"Why wouldn't you?" he says.
I go down the stairs and push the door of the shop open. June left the work lights on over the iron. I move across the room to turn them off, grabbing the keys to lock the window gates as I go. Then I notice that June has already rolled them across the glass and locked them.
I go to flip off the work light. But then I stop, sensing I am not alone.
Someone is in the far shadows of the shop, where we organize the shipping. I freeze. I can't believe the security alarm didn't go off. My thoughts whirl, we're being robbed, who is it, what do they want, what do I do? But the burglars don't move. They don't try to flee. I realize they don't know I'm here.
I squint to see who it might be.
I gasp, letting go of the breath I held in fear. Kathleen Sweeney, who was here for a meeting, is in the arms of my brother. They are kissing passionately, and don't hear me or see me until I step back toward the entrance door to escape and accidentally drop the keys. In the quiet they sound like steel hitting iron.
Kathleen scurries into the bathroom, while Alfred turns away.
"Alfred. What are you doing?" I barely get the words out.
He doesn't answer me.
"What is going on here?" I put my hand to my head, knowing full well what I have seen, yet not wanting to believe it.
Alfred doesn't answer.
I put the keys on the table and go out the shop door, closing it behind me. I climb the stairs--my legs are weak beneath me, but I take them two at a time, wanting to put what I've seen, and now know, behind me.
7
Love Lies
GABRIEL OPENS THE OVEN AND pulls out a rack of fresh scones. The apartment fills with the sweet scent of butter, eggs, and vanilla, which makes me ravenous, and also reminds me of Gram, and the delicious cakes she would make from scratch whenever we had down time in the shop.
Gabriel and I don't chat much in the morning, but we have fallen into a comfortable routine. I put on the coffee, while he retrieves the Times from the entry downstairs. He comes upstairs, hands me the paper, and goes into the kitchen. Gabriel is from the Land of the Proper Breakfast. There has to be something hot served, or it's considered cheating. For example, Gabriel doesn't eat a bagel out of the sack or pour himself a bowl of cereal. Breakfast is bigger than that.
A bagel must be oven toasted, then served on a platter with a dollop of cream cheese, a fan of smoked salmon, chives, and capers, with a side of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Eggs are on the menu three times a week, either poached or scrambled or whipped into a healthy scrapple of fresh onions, peppers, spinach, and egg whites in a skillet.
I believe my new roommate is adding years to my life span with his healthy eating habits (if I skip the desserts!). I never drank pomegranate juice until he moved in, and now every S
unday morning I have a glass.
Despite all Gabriel's positive influences in the health department, I've been having trouble sleeping. The apartment, usually neat and tidy, is in disarray while Gabriel sorts through his boxes and figures out what to keep and what to store. Down in the shop, June and I do our best to keep the mood light, but it's nearly impossible, since Alfred, who used to invoke my wrath, now drains the same well of emotion leaching my pity. Who would have thought after years of avoiding him, now I'd be worried about him.
I can't mention Kathleen and The Kiss to him, and he certainly isn't volunteering an explanation. We never communicated well, and now it's worse. The jabs are gone, replaced with self-loathing silence. I long for the days when I could ignore him, and just do my work. But now he's made that impossible. He has changed. Imperious Alfred has been replaced with a sullen version, practically depressed, and terribly sad.
We need to talk, but I don't know how to broach the subject. It's too painful, or maybe I just don't know what to say. And once we get past the awkward acknowledgment that I know and he knows, what's to be done? Even if we do talk about her, I hold no sway with Alfred, so any advice I might give him would be ignored. I have to do something, though, because it's affecting our day-to-day lives in the shop. When we're working, it's obvious his mind wanders and is clearly not on the job at hand, while mine returns to the same subject over and over again: How could you do this to your family, Alfred? How could you?
Gabriel sets the table for breakfast while I open my e-mail on the laptop.
The first message that grabs my eye is from Roberta Angelini. The subject line reads:
I Believe We Are Family
I open the e-mail. Roberta Angelini of Buenos Aires knows of Michel Angelini. She writes that she has information that would be "of interest" to me.
What an odd phrase to use, as though she's daring me to open doors that have been closed for generations. But I have more than a passing interest in understanding why there was a schism in my family a hundred years ago, and why the rupture has been buried for so long.
Going through Gram's boxes, I have learned that our family history has been recorded in ledgers, legal contracts, and sentimental letters marking important passages and dates. They do not, however, tell the whole story. There is no record of the reasons behind the decisions made in the documents. There are gaps, and omissions. My great-grandfather wrote his own brother right out of the family story. But why?
Brava, Valentine: A Novel Page 13
