“We were fine, Ma. Jack drove,” I tell her proudly, so that she can love him even more than she already does.
She might not approve of our living situation, or the fact that his parents are divorced and he’s not Italian, or Catholic, or from Brookside. But luckily, none of that stops her from treating him like a Chi-chi-bean-loving son. He won her over from the start with his voracious appetite and copious compliments on her cooking.
“Thank you for taking good care of our girl, Jack,” my father says, shaking his hand.
I should probably resent the implication that their girl is incapable of taking care of herself, but for some reason, I don’t. Not right now, anyway. I’m just glad they’re welcoming Jack as warmly as they’d welcome one of their own.
I can’t help remembering how wary my parents were of Will—and rightly so, in retrospect.
Granted, they were wary of Jack in the beginning, too, but not for long. Not after they met him. My mother quickly went from calling him a Smooth Operator to Fed-Exing him her homemade pizza.
As I watch Jack greeting everyone in turn—by name, no less, even the kids, and with big hugs—I swear I’m falling more in love with him by the second.
Who else could walk into this madhouse and willingly fit right in?
“Jack, can I get you a glass of pop?” my mother asks lovingly.
“Pop? Ma, get him a beer,” Danny speaks up. “I’ll have one, too.”
My mother looks at me.
“I’ll have one too,” I say in response—then realize that she wasn’t asking me that.
In fact, she wasn’t asking me anything; she was giving a silent order:
Go get those beers for the menfolk.
Okay, she doesn’t really say
menfolk.
But that’s about the most progressive thing about her.
Luckily, my newest sister-in-law, Katie, Spadolini Kitchen Slave In Training, comes to the rescue. “You guys go relax. I’ll get beers for everyone,” she offers.
“Even me?” Vince Junior asks.
She ruffles his hair. “You get pop.”
“He gets water,” Mary Beth speaks up. “He drank three cans of Pepsi already. I’ll never get him to bed tonight.”
“Isn’t it a little late for them to be up on a school night anyway?” I ask her as we all make our way to the dining room, which is, of course, the center of the house. Countless milestones have taken place around this long table.
Come to think of it, this would be a fine site for Jack’s proposal.
“It’s not a school night, Aunt Tracey!” says Nino, the proud kindergartner. “We’re on vacation!”
I don’t reply to that; I’m too busy trying to figure out how to lure Jack to the table with a ring.
But Jack says, “Well, Nino, the thing is, if you don’t get to sleep early tonight, you won’t get to sleep early tomorrow night, or the next night…and if you’re up late on Christmas Eve, Santa Claus won’t come!”
By now, the entire family is gazing adoringly at my Jack, because around here, if you like my mother’s cooking, small children and Christmas, you’re
in.
Which, come to think of it, would explain why Will was always
out.
He liked none of the above. Especially Christmas. In fact, he’s spending the holidays alone in New York again, by choice, supposedly brushing up on his monologue for a January audition.
I presume he didn’t get that film role he was so perfect for. I kept meaning to ask him about it the last few times he called—which he still does, from time to time—but he was too busy dominating the conversation to let me get a question in edgewise.
Not that I care about Will’s fledgling film career.
Or about Will himself.
I try to imagine him here in Brookside with me for the holidays, sleeping in my brothers’ old bedroom and admiring my mother’s handmade ceramic Christmas tree and fiber-optic manger scene.
Nope. That would never happen, even if my mother agreed to prepare strictly macrobiotic meals and outfit Danny’s lower bunk in Frette linens.
But there’s Jack, wholeheartedly complimenting a glowing Connie on everything from the lopsided tree and Vegas-style manger scene to the worn but cheerful vinyl poinsettia-covered cloth that runs the vast length of the dining-room table.
All the table’s leaves are in place, as usual. Not because we’re expecting to feed a big crowd over the holidays—which we are—but because my mother feeds a big crowd on a daily basis. You never know who might pop in, or at what time of the day or night.
Speaking of which, no sooner have we sat down than the front door opens and a couple of my cousins walk in, dressed, as my father likes to say, to the nines. Here in Brookside, that means designer jeans with spike heels, plentiful cleavage and Sharpie-thick eyeliner.
“Jack, this is Toni and Donna,” I say as we shuffle chairs around to make room for them at the table.
“You’re the one with the big-shot job in New York City,” Donna squeals, tipsy enough from what she and Toni coyly call “Girls’ Night Out” to transform Jack’s polite handshake into a full-blown bear hug.
“Well, I’m not really a big shot…” Jack extracts himself from Donna’s embrace and looks at me, embarrassed.
Maybe he’s not a big shot in New York, but…
“Trust me,” I say with a bright smile, “you really are.”
At least in Brookside.
“So when are you two getting married?” Toni asks, reaching for one of the
cucidati
that are heaped on a platter in the center of the table.
Everybody looks at Jack. Including me.
Normally, I’d be cringing, but at this point, I want to high-five my cousin for putting him on the spot and making him squirm. It’s about time he had to answer to somebody for his actions—or lack thereof.
Jack doesn’t squirm, though. Nor does he appear to be on the spot.
No, he merely says, wily as Boston Rob, “Hey, are those the fig cookies I’ve been hearing so much about? They look great,” and helps himself to a
cucidati,
thus forever endearing himself to the woman who may—or may not—become his mother-in-law.
As for everyone else, they’re suddenly busy helping themselves to the tray of drinks Katie has delivered. Nobody seems the least bit concerned about the fact that Jack and I aren’t engaged yet or that he didn’t answer Toni’s question.
Maybe I shouldn’t be, either.
Maybe I should try to just relax and enjoy the holidays.
After all, everybody I love most in the world is right here in this room…how often does that happen? Hardly ever. So I might as well kick back and enjoy it while I can.
Anyway, next year at this time, I’ll be married. I just know it.
In fact, next year at this time…
“Who’s hungry? I’ve got lasagna, eggplant and pizza in the oven,” my mother announces, even as I tell myself that next year at this time,
Tra La!—
I might very well have a little Jack Junior in the oven.
Or not, I decide, watching my sister-in-law Michaela turn green and make a beeline for the bathroom at the mere mention of lasagna.
Why rush into parenthood? Being engaged is enough of a goal to start with. Everything else will follow eventually.
Jack catches my eye and smiles.
I don’t even pretend he can possibly read my mind as I smile back at him.
Then he mouths,
“I love you”…
And I realize that he can.
Chapter 15
I
’m dreaming of a white Christmas.
Chances are, I’ll be getting one. The latest weather forecast out of Buffalo calls for bitter cold with windchills below zero, and two feet of snow today—which is Christmas Eve—plus a bonus eighteen inches tomorrow. Yay.
I’m also dreaming of a white wedding gown, and a white veil, and a pair of white satin pearl-beaded shoes I saw in the bridal magazine I went out to buy this morning on the pretext of getting the New York papers.
The New York papers aren’t available in Brookside, in case you were wondering. The
Buffalo News
and the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
are available, but no
Times
or
Post
or
Daily News
.
“Getting married soon, Tracey?” asked Al, the old guy behind the counter at the local corner store that sells everything under the non-sun.
Everything, that is, but the New York papers.
“Yup, soon,” I told Al, because I had on gloves so he couldn’t see my bare left hand, and I figured I didn’t owe him an explanation even though I’ve known him forever—he lives a few blocks from my parents’ house and goes to our church.
Then again, in Brookside, just about everybody lives a few blocks from my parents’ house and goes to our church. That doesn’t mean they should be privy to my wedding plans—although when I actually have some, I’m sure I won’t be opposed to sharing.
Despite the fact that the forecast for my getting that white gown, veil and shoes is far less certain than the one for snow, I read the magazine from cover to cover when I got home. I had to do it in the bathroom so I wouldn’t get roped into helping my mother peel, cube and fry the potatoes for breakfast.
Yes, we’re having fried potatoes. For breakfast.
Along with fried eggs, fried bacon and buttered white toast. Typical Spadolini breakfast fare.
Is it any wonder I’ve had a weight problem my entire life?
I dare to set foot in the kitchen only when my sister, who’s dropped by, calls me from the foot of the stairs.
When I get there, I find my father sitting at the table while Mary Beth pours his coffee and my mother fills his plate.
“Where’s Jack?” he asks, ostensibly because I need to get busy serving my man, too.
“Still asleep.”
“He’s tired from all that shopping you two did yesterday,” my mother says sympathetically.
“Did you go shopping?” Mary Beth asks with interest. “Where?”
“They went to the Wal-Mart,” my mother says on my behalf.
Not that I’d have called it “The” Wal-Mart, which is a strictly local colloquialism.
“Well, that’ll wear anybody out,” my father concludes, and puts a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “No wonder he’s still in bed. Connie, these eggs need salt.”
If I were the one who was still lounging in bed at 9:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve, they would all be calling me lazy. That, or taking my temperature because you don’t sleep in unless you’ve got a bug.
I’ve passed off many a hangover as a bug in my day.
But Jack isn’t hungover, unless it’s from milk. Which is all he drank last night, along with the dozen
cucidati
my mother fed him before bed.
We had gone to a movie and he gave my hand a meaningful squeeze during the steamy love scene. When we got back, I was hoping to sneak him into my room for a little preholiday
fa-la-la-la-lovin’,
but there was Connie, waiting up in her flannel nightgown asking, “How about a little snack?” By the time she was finished with Jack, all that was on his mind was a long winter’s nap in my brothers’ old room down the hall from mine, which is where he’s sleeping while he’s here.
Oh, well. It isn’t like we don’t get plenty of
fa-la-la-lalovin’
action when we’re back home.
And anyway, it’s hard for me to feel sexy, let alone uninhibited, in my parents’ house. Especially when I’m wearing one of my mother’s flannel nightgowns, which I was forced to do last night because I spilled lasagna sauce on my pajamas.
But my parents’ house is where I am, and where I’ll stay, so I’ve got to make the best of it.
In that spirit I have to admit that it’s cozy in the kitchen this morning, just the four of us. An ancient Ray Conniff Singers Christmas album—as in, vinyl—is playing in the next room, and the snow is coming down like crazy beyond the window above the sink.
“Where are the boys?” I ask Mary Beth.
She scowls. “With Vinnie.”
“Oh.” I pause, then ask because I have to, “How are things going with…everything?” Meaning the divorce, which apparently takes forever to accomplish in New York State.
“Don’t ask.”
“Sorry, I won’t.”
Except I already did, and she wants to tell me about it. Her round face, which is normally cute and sweet, takes on that tight bitterness she always gets when she talks about her cheating soon-to-be-ex-husband.
First she tells me that he’s been late with his court-ordered child-support payments for months, yet he bought his girlfriend fancy jewelry for Christmas.
“How do you know that?”
“Nino told me. Vinnie took the boys shopping with him to get her gift.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s quality father-son time.”
I shake my head, feeling sorry for my sister. What did she do to deserve this?
Okay, for one thing, she stupidly married Vinnie.
I know it sounds callous of me, but anybody could have seen this whole thing coming from a mile away, even way back on their wedding day. And if not then, anybody could have certainly seen it coming when Vinnie was caught with another woman while Mary Beth was in labor.
But my sister was blindly in love with him, even then. He apologized countless times for cheating on her—which he did countless times—and she took him back countless times. That was on the advice of my mother and Father Stefan, our parish priest, both of whom convinced her that marriage is sacred and must be preserved at any cost, especially when there are young, innocent children involved.
“Plus,” Mary Beth says now, per the young, innocent children, “Vinnie still claims he wants shared custody.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll fight him on it in court if it comes to that. And he won’t win.”
I look at my mother, standing by the stove. She heaves a heavy sigh and shakes her head sadly. I know she encouraged Mary Beth to work out her marriage for the kids’ sake, but at this point, she must realize that my sister is better off divorced. Even if it means she can no longer take communion, which, in my mother’s opinion, is tragic.
“Do you get the boys back tonight?” I ask Mary Beth.
“Hell, yes.”
“Mary Beth.” My father doesn’t like swearing. Then he says to my mother, “
Bella!
The salt! Come on!”