“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 crème brûlée 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 Sunday 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?
You would think that estrangements that occurred a hundred years ago are irrelevant, until I walk into my own shop. I still can’t get along with my own brother, and there are times, when I fight with Alfred, that the wound seems ancient. Maybe the answer lies in the past.
After all, history is the energy that flows through our work in the shop. Everything I create is based on the designs my great-grandfather left behind; wouldn’t it also stand true that we also carry certain behaviors forward when dealing with one another?
I IM Roberta. “What do you do?” I click send.
A few moments pass. I wonder if she’ll give me the brush-off. Then, an instant message pops up from Roberta.
“I operate and own the family business,” she writes.
“What business?
“We manufacture men’s shoes. We’re the Caminito Shoe Company.”
Roberta types in the name of her company, just as I do my own. A chill goes through me. “Gabe, you won’t believe it. Roberta makes shoes.”
Gabriel sits down next to me and reads the e-mail exchange. “This is crazy.”
I type: “Would love to discuss everything with you. May I call, or do you prefer e-mail?”
Roberta types: “Send me your questions, and then we’ll talk. I have a new baby, and my hours are difficult.”
I exit out of e-mail and click into Google. I type in: “Shoe Manufacturing in Buenos Aires.” I type in “Caminito Shoe Company.” A series of articles about Argentinian shoe manufacturers pops up. My hands shake as I type.
“I can’t believe it. I have a cousin who makes shoes, too!”
“Everybody has a twin, you know. Maybe she’s yours. Northern hemisphere, southern hemisphere—separated by the equator. I wish we’d found your twin in Rio, though—I always wanted to go to Carnival.”
“Sorry, I wouldn’t care if she had a mill on the moon.”
Gabriel places a cup of coffee with a small scone next to the computer.
“For me?” I place the pressed linen napkin on my lap.
“If you’re going to dig up family secrets, you need to eat.”
“You’re better than a husband.”
“Or a wife. Deciding to keep the Minton china made me feel British. I just had to whip up some scones.” Gabriel places the jam in front of my plate.
I nibble the buttery fresh biscuit. “You should open a bakery.”
“I’ve thought about it.” Gabriel pours me a cup of coffee and then one for himself.
“Can we talk?”
Gabriel sits. “I’ll talk about anything—including NASCAR, which I know nothing about—I just don’t want to talk about Alfred.”
“I’m sorry. I’m obsessed. But it’s because I don’t know what to do.”
“Do nothing. You can’t be sure you saw what you saw.”
“Oh, I saw it.”
“Okay, for the thousandth time, let’s say it was what you thought. That they were kissing. What if it was the first time they kissed?”
“What difference would that make?”
“A lot. Nothing puts the brakes on a budding affair like getting caught in an illicit lip-lock. Put yourself in Alfred’s shoes. The only thing worse than your sister catching you fooling around is your wife. I can’t imagine that the Redhead and your brother didn’t talk later and say, ‘This was God telling us to stop.’”
“You watch too many Lifetime movies.”
“I know,” he says.
“The tension with Pamela makes sense now. She calls the shop all the time. She can never find him. He forgets to show up for stuff at the school. He’s late. And he hides behind the job here. He uses me and the shoes as an excuse.”
“So what?” Gabriel shrugs.
“I don’t like it.”
“Oh, I think you like it a lot. You finally have something on that brother of yours who never did right by you.”
“That’s not true. I didn’t want to find out that my brother was this kind of a guy. I’m very sad about it. And mostly sad about it because he tortured my father emotionally all these years for doing the exact same thing!”
“That’s their business.”
“Yeah, but the rest of us were dragged into it.”
“Okay, look, I’ve known your brother almost as long as I’ve known you. I’ve always thought he was a little stiff, and I never liked the way he treated you—but I never pegged him as a bad guy. A superior guy? Yes. He was always a snob. And he never failed at anything. Well, he didn’t until he left his job at the Bank of All Money.”
“He was let go.” I correct Gabriel.
“Got it. The only difference between a vice president and a receptionist is that when a vice president gets fired, he gets to spin it and say he left first—they do not extend the same courtesy to the working class. We are, simply put, shit-canned and shown the door.”
“Got it.”
“What you don’t get is that at the age of forty—this is the first time your brother has been shown the door. He has had an enchanted life up until now. And that’s worse than taking your lumps all the way through, like the rest of us. We are used to disappointment. We know failure. We not only expect the other shoe to drop, we’re there to catch it when it does. We know what it takes to come back from a blow. Alfred really hasn’t been tested. And guess what? Now, he’s been tested. And he’s scrambling.”
“I know. And I actually feel sorry for him.”
“You know what? I do too. The man is in a pickle. He looks at his life with the wife and the kids and the house in Jersey that costs a fortune—that he’s always been able to pay for, and now he can’t. Now everything will change. He’s looking at cleaning the pool himself, and mowing the lawn himself, and asking Skinny Minnie to go out and get a job to help out, which he never had to do before, and the guy feels like he’s been asked to put his balls in a shoe bag. Okay? Your brother is falling apart as he’s trying to hold it all together.”
“As smart as he is, he didn’t see it coming. The collapse. The banking disaster.”
“Oh, they all saw it, they just didn’t believe it. They didn’t want to believe it. And why would they? Who would want to believe that the money would ever stop! And you know, it killed him to have to come here and work with you.”
“I know, I know.”
“And I will guarantee you that Gram told him in the beginning, Just look out for Valentine, okay? She never proposed a partnership. Gram probably didn’t want to bother him, she probably said, Check in on Val at the shop once in a while, help out with the financials—and he said, Gram, it’s over at the bank. I need a job. You can’t just have me check the books—I need a stake in the thing, because I have no other options right now. I’m telling you as I’m standing here, I swear on my mother, father, and our s
tandard poodle Brutus—all dead by the way—that your brother groveled for this gig.”
“You could be right about that. I mean, Gram never mentioned a partnership until we were all in Italy together for the wedding.”
“A little late to sit you two down, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.”
“So almost on cue, when Alfred is feeling the most vulnerable on all fronts, and like a loser in general, then Missie the Redhead makes the scene.”
“Kathleen.”
“Yeah, her. Alfred couldn’t feel worse about himself; he’s watching June cut patterns and you making art, and he’s lived a life pushing around a bunch of fake numbers. He’s the lowest he’s ever been because he realizes that he’s spent his life not making anything. Missie the Redhead works for the government in a crap office downtown, and she’s ten years younger, therefore ten years dumber, and she looks up to your brother—who probably spun some tale to her like he’s gone back to his roots by choice to run this shoe company, and she looked at your brother, with his big life, and all his experience, and his full head of hair, and said, I want me some of that. And that’s what she’s having down there by the powder room. Some of that.”
“Dear God.”
“And everybody wins—at least in the short term. Your brother is nicer to his wife, the mistress has something to look forward to other than people like you filing loan applications—and Alfred gets his groove on. After the biggest disappointment of his life, he feels smart, scintillating, and desirable again, and then hot sex ensues. And the world goes round. Got it?”
“Oh, I got it.” I put my head in my hands.
Gram used to say if you are lucky enough to live a long life, you see everything come and go at least twice. If I had to predict the things in life that I would have seen twice, it would have included a lot of trends: the return of thick eyebrows, the resurgence of curly hair, and the reinvention of skorts. But I never thought I would have lived through Dad’s indiscretion twice, and I surely didn’t think it would be my own brother Alfred, so wounded by it so many years ago, who would repeat the mistake.
Brava, Valentine Page 14
