“If you look hard enough, you can find something to like about anybody,” Mom says diplomatically.
“She’s got good taste,” I add. “She has very dramatic sense of color when it comes to her clothing.”
“Always well dressed,” Tess says, cracking a pecan in half. “You can’t say she let herself go. She was right about that.”
“She was,” I agree. “So why didn’t we like her?”
“I don’t think we ever liked her because we’re all scared of Alfred.” Tess smooths her nutshells into a pile like she’s racking the balls for a game of pool.
“You’re right. We’ve danced around him all our lives. Trying to please him, or stay out of his way—it’s him. It’s not her,” I realize. “It was never her.”
“I disagree. I’m not afraid of my own son.”
“Mom, when we were kids, you’d have a pot of sauce on the stove for rigatoni for dinner. When Alfred came in from the library and he didn’t want marinara, you’d turn off the sauce, put the pot back in the fridge, and start pounding cutlets. You were afraid of him too.”
My mother picks up a nutcracker and decimates a pecan with one squeeze. “Do you kids analyze everything your father and I ever did or didn’t do?”
“Yes,” we answer in unison.
“I don’t think that’s healthy.” Mom frowns.
The last of the relatives have left with the last of the leftovers. June grabbed a cab after a parting whiskey shot. She has another party tonight in the East Village.
I finish the last of the dishes. I go to the table and blow out the candles, which have burned down to flat orange puddles in the holders.
I grab the last two cannoli and climb the steps to the roof. The scent of roasted chestnuts fills the air.
Gabriel has his feet up on the chaise, looking at the moon. I sit on the empty one beside him.
“Nobody ate the chestnuts,” Gabriel says.
“A lot of drama today. They forgot.” I hand him a cannoli.
“I can’t. I got no room.”
I put the cannoli aside and lean back on my chaise. The full moon is lit like a diner sign on the off-ramp of the Jersey Turnpike, so close I could reach up and write Open 24 Hours on the face of it.
“You prepared a beautiful meal,” I say.
“It didn’t matter. It went down like gruel.”
“How about that Kathleen sending an e-mail?”
“I never liked that redheaded hussy,” Gabriel says. “Not for a second.”
“I was surprised she’d send an e-mail like that.”
“Then you need a wake-up call. She wanted Pamela to find it. Holidays suck for mistresses. They’re sitting home scheming! There they are: all alone in the dark with their black thoughts and a Morton’s pot pie. And instead of going out and finding an available man, they want to wreck the holidays for the married ones. In the old days, they did drive-bys. My mother called the police one Christmas when my father’s mistress cruised by for the fiftieth time before the manicotti. Now, all these home wreckers have to do is e-mail. Saves on gas, I guess.”
“Your father cheated too?”
“Of course.”
“Is it inevitable?”
“There’s a study. Around sixty percent of all people in long-term relationships stray. Except, I don’t go by those statistics. They say five percent of all people are gay, but that number can’t be right—if you count up the hairdressers alone, you got at least fifteen percent of the general population right there. I think men have a hard time being men. Straight men at least.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Women give men a place to go. A man is a useless piece of equipment whose purpose is lost if it were not for women.”
“What are you talking about?”
He nods, warming to his subject. “It’s like this. A man might go out and get a job, but only for someplace to go during the day. And he’s only working that job to give the money to his wife. And then, if he does really well…to buy her good jewelry. And only because she asks for it. Diamonds aren’t a man’s idea. The first woman sent the first man into a hole in the ground, and when he emerged with the first diamond she looked at it and said, ‘It’s too small. Dig farther.’ Men are not ambitious outside of their desire to impress women. A woman, in return, gives a man’s life shape. A context. A place to go. It’s very simple.”
“You mean that every man is motivated not by ambition or power or wealth, but because he wants to please a woman?”
“Absolutely. Think about it. A straight man doesn’t care about surroundings, or good food—unless we’re talking Mario Batali or Tom Colicchio, but they’re an anomaly. No, women are the inspiration behind anything that has ever been invented, made, or built by men. Women, in fact, rule the world because of that power, and I’ve always thought it a waste that they don’t see that.”
If Gabriel is right, and I think he could be, I might still have a chance with Gianluca. If he lives to love and please a woman, why not me?
Gabriel continues, “If there were more of us, gay men would rule the world, because we have it all. We know how to create a place to go, and we like being in it. We’re homebodies with flair. We are. But we’re outnumbered by the straights. No, this life…is all about women. When you girls say it’s a man’s world—well, if only that were true! I’d be loving it. You ladies should own your power. You need to pick up the ball and run with it. I only use that analogy because of all the football talk at dinner.”
“Sorry about that. The men in my family mistook your lovely table for a tailgater.”
“If only straight men could take that passion they have for a ball flying through the air, and apply it to making the world better, they could fix global warming, ocean dumping, and mountaintop removal in the time it takes me to stuff a turkey.”
“Or make twenty individual soufflés.”
“I am handy, aren’t I?”
“Beyond.” I reach over and take Gabriel’s hand. We look up at the midnight blue sky.
“What’s to become of us, Valentine?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re thirty-five years old.”
“That’s not old,” I say.
“It’s not young either. Do you ever think about the future?”
“I try not to.”
“You live in a bubble.”
“I like my bubble. It’s blue and shiny. And you should know, you did the interior decorating.”
“So stay there.” Gabriel smiles. “It’s a gorgeous Tiepolo blue, and it works well with your skin tone.”
“Thanks.” I don’t have the heart to ruin Gabriel’s holiday by admitting that I spend a lot of time worrying about the future. Time is passing, and I feel I have nothing to show for it. Sometimes I flip through my sketchbook and remember places and times, the color of the afternoon sun on old bricks or the exact shade of red on a cardinal that landed on the bench in Hudson River Park while I was drawing, but in general, I’m amazed at how quickly the days fade in my memory. What will I remember about these days ten years from now? Will I agonize that I didn’t do enough to build a life with a man that loves me? Will I be like June, who knows how to party but likes to go home alone? “Gabe, I have an idea. I don’t want to get the number elevens between my eyes. Why don’t you worry about the future for both of us?”
“Not a problem. Once this economy turns, I’m going to start to save money, and I’m going to get rich. I’m going to plan for my retirement. I’m going to need a lot of cash. A gay man living on social security on a fixed income? I don’t think so. The only fixed item I want in my life is that North Star up there.” Gabriel points up to the sky, where small specks of silver peek through the blue. “No, I’m going to need cash that flows. I need a big budget—just for decorative lamps. I’ve got a plan. How about you? What are you going to do with the second half of your life?”
I think for a moment. When I’m on this roof, I feel anything is possible and I have s
ince I was a child. I search the sky as far as I can see beyond the point where the Hudson River meets the Atlantic Ocean. The answer lies somewhere between here and there, the home I love and know, and the greater world beyond, which I’m not so sure of.
Finally I say, “I want to love a man who can be true.”
“Aim low, wouldja?”
I laugh. “That’s all I want. And one other thing. Don’t ever leave me.”
“Where am I gonna go?” Gabriel asks.
“I don’t know. Away. Somewhere. My family is crazy.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Gabriel assures me.
The autumn moon slips behind tufts of low, gray clouds. “A storm is rolling in,” I say. And while I can’t be sure about the weather, somehow, when I say it aloud, it sounds like a promise.
13
A Little Learnin’ Is a Dangerous Thing
GABRIEL AND I CARRIED OUR first Christmas tree home from Jane Street and decorated it last night—two full weeks before Christmas. We like a blue spruce scent for as long as we can have it.
I carry my morning coffee over to the sofa and put my feet up. There’s nothing like the twinkle of sky blue, soft gold, ruby red, and bright green lights glowing deep in the branches first thing in the morning. Watching the lights reflect in the old glass ornaments is the closest I will get to inner peace. This has been some year. Gabriel and I couldn’t decorate the tree fast enough. We figure, with the way our family holidays have been going, celebrate early and celebrate often, because you never know.
“Val, Alfred and Bret are downstairs.” Gabriel stands at the top of the stairs.
“Is June in?”
“Any minute.”
“I’m on my way.”
I follow Gabriel down the stairs and into the shop.
Bret gives us each a report. “So here’s what’s happening. In about an hour, Shelley Chambers DaSilva is going to come into the shop and observe. She wants to see what inspires your designs, how June and Gabriel cut patterns, and Alfred’s role as your brother and business partner. She’s a consultant, and she reps the major department stores. They send her out to see how you create your product. She’s on the lookout for a solid operation with good business practices. She’s looking at you, Val, to understand your approach and sensibility and how Angelini shoes fit in their overall selling plan.”
“You should show her your new sketches. Like the La Boca,” Alfred says. “That’s a real calling card.”
“Thanks.” I look at my brother, who has been here since dawn. His methodical style, left over from years as an executive in the banking industry, comes in handy on mornings like these, when we have to present our wares to a wider world. The folders are neatly labeled on the cutting table; there’s a cup of number 2 pencils, a pot of coffee brewing, and a small box containing batteries and cords in case Ms. DaSilva’s laptop needs a boost. Alfred considers every scenario always. I’ve come to rely on his sense of detail in business. “Have you told the rep about our production deal in Buenos Aires?”
“She knows all about it. In fact, she has contacts in Argentina, and they’ve already gone over and checked out Roberta’s factory. They were impressed with the quality of the manufacturing. Roberta met every standard. So now all we have to do is sell them the initial order,” Bret says.
“Our hope is that they take the full order for ten thousand pairs of shoes. It would make our lives so much easier if we didn’t have to find another vendor to stock the remains,” Alfred adds.
“Do we have to do anything special for this Shelley person?” Gabriel asks. “I would love to demonstrate my pattern-cutting technique.”
“No need to grandstand.” Bret smiles.
“Who, me?”
“Just be yourself,” Bret assures him.
The phone in the shop rings. “Angelini Shoes,” Alfred says. He looks at me. “She’s right here.” Alfred hands the phone to me.
“Valentine, we met a few years ago at June’s place. This is her neighbor, Irv Raible.”
“The club owner?” I remember Irv had a piano bar that June used to frequent with Gram. One night, I joined them.
“Yeah, that’s me. Well, June called me this morning, really early. She wasn’t feeling well, and so I went over. And I was going to take her to Saint Vincent’s—over to the emergency room. But she had her breakfast and seemed better. And now…well, I think you should come over right away.”
“To June’s?”
“Yes. Please. And hurry.”
I hang up the phone. “I’m sorry, guys, I’ve got to go. Something is wrong with June.”
“I’ll go with you,” Gabriel says.
“No, no, you stay and do the meeting. I don’t know how long I will be.” I grab my coat and purse and run for the door. Snow begins to fall, steady and white, onto the cobblestone street.
I run to the corner of Washington and hail a cab. As the cab whisks me from the West Village to the East, my heart begins to pound. I jump out on East 5th Street and find June’s brownstone apartment building. I ring Irv’s bell and then June’s. He pokes his head out of the second-story window of June’s apartment. He throws me the keys.
I race up the stairs.
Irv, a muscular but small man of sixty with a shaved head and a gold hoop earring, stops me in the door. “I’m sorry, Valentine. She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
I push past Irv and into the bedroom. The Weather Channel is on the television set. I shut it off and turn to the bed. June lies still on top of her Indian madras bedspread; the bed is made underneath her. She is dressed for work. Her bright red pigtails sport ribbons. I touch her face. Her skin is cool to the touch. She hadn’t yet put on her lipstick. She smiles peacefully; her face has the countenance of a child’s.
“I think it was a heart attack. Very fast,” Irv says from behind me. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know. I know. The picture of health.”
I go to the window and close it.
“Have you ever found somebody…somebody who just died?”
I shake my head that I haven’t.
“It’s the strangest thing. They don’t leave right away. You know she’s still here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her spirit is in the room. I’ll go down and wait for EMS. You take your time.”
Irv goes, closing the door behind him. And for a moment, I want to follow him out. I’ve only been to wakes and funerals, where the dead lie in fancy caskets, dressed in their Sunday best, in full makeup and surrounded by bouquets of flowers. This is new and strange to me. I kneel next to the bed.
I take June’s hand in mine.
I bow my head, not to pray, but to picture her coming in the shop with coffee every morning, and on Fridays with a doughnut for each of us. And I think about all the things she taught me that no woman in my family could ever say for fear of compromising their moral code. But for June, it wasn’t a compromise at all. June believed in love and making love and making better love. She lived in her body without apology. There was so much more for me to learn from her.
And now, all there will be is mourning. June tried to prepare me, but I wouldn’t listen. So now I have to hold on to everything she said, like directions given in a storm; her words will lead me to safety. I cry when I realize I won’t be able to talk with her ever again.
“Are you here, June?” I look at her peaceful face. “Whatever you’re seeing, must be pretty amazing.”
I look out the window.
“It’s snowing, June. You would’ve been bitching this morning.” I smile and remember how she hated the snow. “Thank you, friend. Thank you for being Gram’s best friend, and then, when she moved away, you became mine. You never treated me like anything but a peer. You always made me feel that I earned my seat at the cutting table. You taught me so much. I don’t know what I’ll ever do without you.” I hold on to June’s hand. And it’s the strangest thing, the longer I hold on, the more it feels like she’s
leading me somewhere. I don’t release my grip for a long time.
It’s a blur when the police come with EMS and Irv explains what happened. I hear them when they declare her dead, then lift her carefully onto a gurney and carry her out.
I stand alone in her very neat, spare apartment, with its low-slung leather chairs, futon sofa, and long bamboo coffee table, a stack of books from the public library in the center. June had checked out Mrs. Astor Regrets by Meryl Gordon, a biography of Wallis Simpson Windsor called Mrs. Simpson by Charles Higham, and a large book of Louise Dahl-Wolfe photographs.
The walls, painted bright white, are covered with posters, one of the ABT ballet season in 1967 and another of a bluegrass music festival in West Virginia in 1975. Nothing crafty lies around—no hobby equipment, no knitting needles or sketchpads, only a yoga mat, rolled up neatly in the corner. And there’s an upright piano. I had no idea she played.
I go into the kitchen, mindlessly really. I look in the sink. Spotless. Her cereal bowl is washed, single spoon, mug for tea. All clean, as though she knew she was leaving. I open the fridge. It’s nearly empty. I remember that she leaves work early on Mondays to go grocery shopping. That’s why the cupboard is bare.
“You all right?” Irv says, leaning against the wall that connects the kitchen to the living room.
“Not really.” I close the refrigerator door.
“She talked about you all the time. You and your family. She loved the Angels. That’s what she called you guys. Not the Angelinis, but the Angels. You know, you were the only number she had on her emergency call list.”
“You mean my grandmother.”
“No, you. Valentine.”
“Really.” This makes me smile.
“She loved young people. Had friends of all ages.”
“Yes, she did.”
“I got her stash out,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me?”
“You know. Her stash. Her marijuana.”
“Oh, my God.” I rub my eyes with my hands.
“No worries. I think quickly on my feet. Especially right after I call the cops.” He smiles. “Do you want it?”
Brava, Valentine Page 28
