Love on the Back Burner

by Barbara Oliverio

  “Celia, help me here.” Anthony turned to his wife for support.

  Celia shook her head. “Antonio, you know that I promised to be true to you, but nowhere in the wedding vows did it say that I would get in the middle of family arguments. Besides, how long have you three been going at that one, and it still hasn’t been settled. I have a feeling poor little Betta here is going to hear that story at her wedding.” She leaned over the car seat and adjusted the sleeping child for comfort.

  Anthony and I looked at each other and shrugged. Probably true. No stories died in our family.

  “Besides, Ali, you should thank me—I mean Damian. Isn’t that how you wear your hair now anyway?”

  I smacked him in the back of the head and ran my hair through my stylish locks. “I’ll have you know I am complimented very often on my edgy style.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Anthony. “But tell me, do you have to stand on a box so that people can see you to pay you those compliments?”

  “Hey!” My height was a constant source of amusement for my tall brothers.

  I wagged a finger at him, but then reached down and patted him on the knee. Yes, it was good to be home.

  By this time, we were pulling in to the driveway of my parents’ home. The two-story brick structure was in a modest neighborhood and had a large front porch that held a porch swing and several chairs. In the summer evenings, when my parents had any free time from working at the nursery, they loved to sit on that porch and enjoy the breezes. Nonna’s chair sat to the left, an unassuming rocker that she had made more comfortable with a sunny patio cushion. Bright flowers spilled from window boxes that adorned the railings.

  When I was a teenager, I used to lay on the porch swing, reading and dreaming of the faraway places I’d visit after I became a career woman. Hmph, faraway places like Phoenix?

  Stop! This was supposed to be a nice family visit. As usual, we pulled the car toward the back, parked, and entered through the kitchen door and were greeted with the sights, sounds, and smells of my childhood.

  “I brought you something, Nonna,” said Anthony.

  “Alessandrea! Bella mia!” My nonna, even shorter than me, reached up and kissed both my cheeks and hugged me. She was a round woman with sparkling blue eyes and bright white hair that she had worn in a bun ever since I could remember. Her sense of style could best be described as eclectic. At home, a pair of plaid polyester pants could be topped with a floral blouse finished with an apron in another floral design. On her feet that particular day, she had anklets and had completed her ensemble with a pair of bright blue Crocs. (When she discovered those comfortable shoes, she bought a pair in every bright color she could find.)

  My parents usually just shook their head at her ensembles, but they were always thankful that she was more conventionally dressed when we went out in public. In Nonna’s words, “If-a nobody wanna look at me in-a my house, they no have to come here.” This statement was usually delivered as she pulled one of her many straw hats tighter on her head before going out to the garden.

  “Bambina … che cosa e? Non ce per mangiare a la Denver? (What’s wrong? There’s no food in Denver?)” She held me at a short distance.

  I laughed. “No, Nonna, there’s plenty! Io mangia sempere! (I’m always eating.)”

  She gave that lift of chin and “tsk” that only Italian grandmothers can give that can convey entire sentences. In this case, it meant, “You may think you are fooling everyone else, but Nonna can see that you are too thin!”

  She then grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the table.

  “Allora. Ho fatta un poca ‘snack’ per te. (Well. I made a little snack for you.) An’ you too, Antonio an’ Celia. An’ mia bellissima Elisabetta. Everybody wash-a you hands.”

  Even though luggage was not even brought in from the car, we did as we were told. Nonna was a steamroller, not to be stopped.

  For her small “snack,” she had prepared roasted peppers, a spread of salamis, prosciutto, cheeses, olives, and fresh bread. In addition, she had bowls of fresh fruit in the center of the table.

  She stood to the side as we said a hasty blessing, then urged “Mangia! Mangia! When-a you parents come home, we have dinner.”

  “Nonna, you know that for most people, this WOULD be dinner?” I said, as I precariously piled peppers onto an already bulging sandwich.

  “Ehhhh,” Nonna said as she folded and refolded the kitchen towel in her hands.

  Anthony and I continued eating as Nonna made a plate for Celia, who had seated Elisabetta in the scarred high chair that had survived the three of us, and had begun feeding her.

  The kitchen door opened again, and Damian strolled through.

  “Ah—Padre Damiano! Just-a in time!” She pulled Damian to the sink. “Wash-a you hands. It’s-a time to eat.”

  “Hi to you too, Nonna,” said Damian as he followed her directions, then came over to kiss the top of my head. “And welcome home, Ally-Cat!” He sat beside me and automatically began making himself a plate. He leaned to his other side. “And how is la principessa?” he cooed to Elisabetta as he moved his head toward her. The baby took a break from banging her high chair to reach her chubby little hand toward her cheerful uncle and rewarded him with a smile filled with strained peas.

  “Hello my darling brother!” I said around my sandwich.

  “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow?” he said as he began construction of his own tower of cold cuts.

  “Hey! Are you sorry to see me sooner?” I wanted to avoid any discussion about my early arrival.

  “That’s right, Damian. You’d think you’d be happy to see your baby sister—if for no other reason than to finally settle that age-old argument of who cut her hair!” Celia didn’t miss a beat as she continued feeding the baby.

  “What!” exclaimed Damian. He pointed his fork at Anthony. “Antonio, you know that it was you and that I got in so much trouble.”

  Anthony shook his head. “Sorry, brother …” And they were off. The subject was fully changed.

  I looked at Celia, and she mouthed “You’re welcome.”

  We had barely finished clearing the table when I heard my parents’ truck pull into the driveway as they returned from the nursery.

  My grandfather had started D’Agostino’s Nursery when he and Nonna arrived in America from Italy. His love of plants and flowers had translated into a tiny business that he eventually worked together with my father and uncle. After his death, my dad and uncle kept the business running, eventually bringing their sons into the fold. Anthony’s addition of a landscaping business had broadened D’Agostino’s to a point that my father felt would have made my grandfather very proud. They were bidding on business as far away as downtown Pittsburgh.

  As the only girl in my generation, I had bigger hopes and dreams than the family business. I earned a scholarship to Notre Dame and worked hard to pay my expenses while there, but even so, my parents had scrimped and contributed toward my educational goals. After graduation, I was the only one in the immediate extension of cousins who moved further away than Pittsburgh to pursue my professional goals.

  My parents were happy that I had big goals, and when I moved to Denver, they were okay with my unconventional choice to leave the fold because they wanted nothing but the best for their children. (Although, I suspect that my being near Keira and her family helped to reluctantly settle their minds. They had a tremendous amount of respect for Keira’s work ethic and, having met her parents years earlier, knew that I was going to be near a good family.)

  Still, I had never stopped feeling like I needed to prove myself more than the boys did. Even though my parents were very proud of me, I always felt a pang of guilt. How many vacations or new cars were sacrificed because of my choice?

  I ran to the porch to greet them.

  “Pop!” I hugged and kissed him. Shorter than both my brothers, he had the same flashing eyes, curly hair (now decidedly graying), and lopsided smile that must have melted
many hearts in his day but had been reserved for the love of his life—my mother—from the moment they met in first grade at St. Mary’s Elementary School.

  He was dressed in his work clothes: chinos and a chambray shirt with the “D’Agostino’s” logo embroidered on the pocket. A baseball cap with the same logo was tilted back on his head. Instinctively I checked his front shirt pocket for a package of Juicy Fruit gum. Yep. Still there. I pulled a stick out, unwrapped it, and began to chew, a joyful reminder of my childhood.

  “Ma!” I reached out to embrace my mother. She was neat and trim, with a sassy salt-and-pepper haircut, and her glasses hung around her neck on a beaded chain that we had told her made her look far older than her years. She usually just shook her finger at us and told us to wait, we’d someday know what it was like to not be able to see. She had on a polo shirt with the nursery logo and crisp khakis.

  “Ma, how do you work all day and still look like a fashion plate?” I exclaimed.

  “Where do you think YOU get it from?” she grinned, then turned to my father in an exasperated voice, “Marco, don’t try to unload all of that yourself! Get the boys.”

  She called out, “Antonio, Damiano—help your father!”

  My brothers arrived.

  “‘The boys’? We heard that, Ma. Do you recall exactly how old we are?” asked Anthony.

  “And you do remember that Tonio here is a father himself, practically an old man?” teased Damian.

  My mother swatted them both after kissing each on the cheek. “You’re still my boys!”

  She grabbed me by the elbow and ushered me into the kitchen. “And you, you’re still my baby girl! And I am so happy to have you here with me for a few days. Now, I don’t know all the details of what’s going on in Denver, but I know the best remedy for anything is hard work, and we have a lot to do, so let me tell you what we have planned.”

  And she was off. I smiled inwardly. Yep. If I needed immersion therapy, several days with my family was definitely the way to go.

  Over dinner, we discussed plans for the upcoming festivities.

  “Alexandria, I’m glad that you are here to help finish making cookies. We have dozens more to make in the next few days,” my mother said.

  “Sure, Ma, I’m here to do whatever you need done.” I waved away another serving of pasta, but when I reached to my left for more water and turned back, another serving had appeared. I immediately looked at the likely culprit, Nonna, who was innocently sipping her own glass of water.

  “You know she’s a stealth feeder,” Damian grinned as he mopped up sauce with a crust of bread.

  “I know,” I said, “but I always forget just how quick she can be!”

  My mother snapped her fingers. “Pay attention, you kids.”

  “You’re the kid!” Anthony mouthed as he pointed at me and grinned.

  “Pop!” I said in mock anger. “Tonio called me a kid!”

  My father kept his head down and had a smile on his face. Dinners at our house were not for the faint of heart.

  “Tonio! Alex! Be nice. We have a priest at the table!” Mom took Damian’s hand in hers.

  “I knew it!” said Anthony. “He only became a priest to get in good with Ma!”

  Everyone laughed, even Pop at that point. My mother got us back on track.

  “Allora. We’ll make cookies tomorrow. Then we can finish the sauce for the lasagna and make the cabbage rolls the next day.”

  In our small town, with its mix of ethnicities, it was not uncommon to have a mix of specialties at a family celebration. Celia came from a Polish background, so cabbage rolls—halupki—would definitely be on the menu.

  “Marco, you checked the refrigerators in the parish hall right?” she asked as Celia and I started clearing the table.

  “Oh, make sure you do that!” I said with a little too much emphasis.

  “Of course, bella, you don’t trust your pop?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I guess my face gave away my feelings because my brothers read that something was wrong.

  “Come on, Ally-Cat, what’s up?” asked Anthony.

  I knew if I didn’t explain it, he wouldn’t let it go, so I leaned against the sink, took a deep breath, and told the story of the tragic misadventures of Natalie’s wedding. In the telling, though, it lost some of the tragic elements, and I finally could see more of the comedy.

  Nonna, who had left the kitchen during my story to check on the baby, came in just in time to get the last moments.

  “Tinturra Mia!” she said using a colloquialism. “Tutta la pasta, ruinata? (All the pasta, ruined?)”

  “Yes, Nonna. But I did something different. I made Chicken Piccata, and everyone loved it.”

  “Ah, brava Alessandrea!”

  “But, honey, how did you do that all by yourself?” my mother asked sympathetically.

  “Oh, I, um, had some help.” I turned back to the sink to wash the platter in front of me.

  “Oh, who? Your friend Natalie was the bride, so it couldn’t have been her. Probably her family was tied up with other things. Your friend Elliott? Or was Keira back for the weekend?”

  Darn my mother! She really SHOULD work as a detective part-time.

  “No, um, just someone.”

  “But a stranger? You depended on a stranger? Was it that new boy, Camden?”

  “Cameron, Ma, Cameron. And, um, yeah, it was Cameron.”

  “Oh ho!” Anthony stopped his task of putting leftovers into containers and came over to put his face in mine. “Look how red her face is! Damian, wasn’t Cameron the one you said asked you all the questions about her when you were out there?”

  I spun around. “You didn’t tell me he quizzed you about me!”

  Damian was wrapping bread and stopped. He said, not unkindly, “I didn’t think I needed to treat his confidential conversation with me like a junior high study hall discussion that I should share with you. It wasn’t as if he was scoping you out or anything, Sis, he was just asking general questions. And at the same time, since he seemed interested in my baby sister, I was asking him questions about himself. If you recall, Ally-Cat, that evening I indicated to you that he and I had spoken, AND that I thought you should get to know him better.”

  I searched his blue eyes. Drat. He always was a straight shooter even before he entered the priesthood. I knew that he would never have done anything to harm me deliberately.

  “Is this boy someone who hurt you?” asked my mother.

  “Ma! He’s not a boy!”

  “Well, what is he then, bella mia, and why are you so upset?” asked my father.

  I looked between them, then at the rest of my family, all staring at me expectantly. I suddenly regressed to age thirteen and felt very constricted.

  “None of you understand me at all!” I shouted. I threw down the towel I was holding and ran upstairs to my old bedroom.

  My childhood room showed evidence of my growing- up years. My parents were not wealthy, and I didn’t have the pristine white matching French Provincial furniture that so many of my contemporaries coveted. But after many trips to the thrift store and scouring sales catalogs, my sanctuary became a reflection of me at the time.

  Nonna and my mother had helped me make crisp white curtains that accented the walls, which I had painted the palest of lavender. I had chosen the color specifically to echo the apartment of the characters of a favorite TV program. My bedding was in bold stripes of deeper purple to match. At the time, I thought it was what a “city girl” would choose. Oh, in those days, I couldn’t wait to graduate and move away and start my grown-up life!

  Over a plain desk, I had hung a simple mirror that my father had helped me surround with bold lighting to approximate the lighting of a backstage dressing room. And as I sat there many mornings applying my makeup (once I was allowed to wear makeup), I often gave myself a pep talk for the upcoming day.

  The closet was now empty of my clothes, but my mother had taken it over for storage. My bookshelves
still held a few of the books and mementos that I didn’t take with me and that my mother couldn’t discard. I was certain in a few years, however, that this room would slowly be taken over by Elisabetta when she came for overnight visits, and I would need to pack the remainder of my own life away.

  I sat on the floor with my back against the foot of the bed and mused about those future days, impossible to conceive, thinking too about the baby fast asleep in her tiny traveling crib in the living room downstairs.

  “Oh, Betta, what a lot of living you have to do!” I murmured out loud as I hugged my stuffed bear close to me, the sole survivor of a bed full of stuffed animals.

  “What, you think you’re so old, Granny?” asked Anthony as he walked through the door, dragging my suitcases behind him. “Before you jump at me, Ma said I needed to get these up here in case you needed anything.”

  “Oh sure, blame Ma!” I looked up at him, but my tentative smile told him I was not really angry. He sank down beside me and leaned back as well.

  “Do you think mothers ever lose that capability to guilt you into doing something?” I said.

  “Not Italian mothers. Especially with sons. Have you noticed how Nonna can get Pop to jump with just a tilt of her head?”

  “Ahh. You guys love it.” I punched him on the shoulder.

  “I know. If it were something that threatened my manhood, I’d take it as an insult, but it’s not. I look at it as the least I can do for the woman who brought me into this world and sacrificed a lot for me.”

  I looked at my most glorious of big brothers who was my shining hero, and once again marveled at how much he had accomplished and how well he had his life organized. Two college degrees that he paid for himself, a thriving business, a beautiful wife and a darling daughter. I dropped my head to my knees and sobbed.

  “Hey, hey,” he put his arm around my shoulder, “this is not like you. What is up?”

  “Oh, Tonio, I am such a loser.”

  “What? I can’t let you say that. Are you upset because we were giving you grief earlier? Come on, have you been away from home so long that you can’t hold your own? Where’s the girl who chased Peter Argiro down the street to bang him on the head with a book bag?”