Full of Grace (22 page)

“Tell Al to bring in the bird,” Mom said. “Everyone is starving.”

We cleared the center island and put three bottles of Chianti and two bottles of Pellegrino on the table. The Pellegrino was a special request from Nonna for the sake of her romance so we wouldn’t look like a band of Gypsies, drinking water from the tap.

The turkey was given an exalted position on the end of the island on an enormous cutting board, right by the outlet, so Dad could use his electric knife to carve. All the other dishes of food were lined up like soldiers on warming trays with serving utensils by their sides. We all found our way to the table except for little Lisa.

“That turkey could be a toddler,” I said to Regina.

“That’s a little sick,” she said with a laugh. “Lisa! Come on! We’re gonna say grace! Teenagers,” she said. “Did you notice that eye makeup?”

“Who cares?” I said. “It washes off.”

Well, here came trouble out of the guest room and swishing into the living room, where we were all gathered around the table. Lisa had changed into the kind of lace-trimmed silky camisole that is popular with young girls and a very short skirt that was destined to give Big Al, and possibly Frank, agita like they never had in their lives. Her bra straps, from the bra she had yet to need, were showing. Big Al hadn’t seen her yet, but Frank’s eyes were bulging.

“In the name of the Father…” Big Al began.

Frank shot Regina a death ray. Regina looked back at him as if to say,
Who knew?

“And of the Son…”

Any minute now, I thought. But we got through Dad’s special grace for the holiday. Just as Mom and I got up to get the platters of antipasto, Big Al went off like a Scud missile.

“Holy Mother! What the hell? Regina! Cover your daughter!”

“Pop! What?” Lisa said with the expected defiance.

“Oh, God,” Regina said.

“What?” Lisa said again.

“You come to my table in your underwear? Where’s your respect? Answer me that?” He turned to Regina. “You let your daughter dress like a
putana
? Whaddaya, nuts? You want—”

“Calm down, Al,” my mother said, in a low voice everyone heard. “We have guests!”

“Maybe you had better go put on a sweater, sweetie,” Regina said.

“No!”

“You’re not sitting at my table half-naked!” Dad shouted.

“What’s the problem?” Nonna said.

“Your great-granddaughter is not dressed decent!” Dad said.

“Stand up, honey,” Nonna said. “Stand up.”

Lisa, more angry than humiliated, stood. Nonna gave her the once-over. And then here came Marianne’s two cents.

“Well, it
is
a little skimpy, hon. I think I might wear a jacket if I were—”

“Stay out of this,” I hissed.

“Watch it, Grace…” Nicky said.

“You watch it, too!” I said back to him.

“I think she looks adorable!” Nonna said. “Now, sit! Let’s eat!”

My father had been trumped by Nonna and shrugged his shoulders. But it didn’t matter to Lisa that she’d quickly been exonerated by the queen of Naples. Lisa had been demoralized and singled out for a public reprimand. Therefore, she was entitled to stew in her self-righteous in
dignation, and dammit, she was going to stew and sulk for the remainder of the meal.

“Don’t mind Pop; he can be a poop,” I whispered to her between the tortellini in brodo, the oysters on the half shell and three more bottles of Asti Spumante that Dad had set aside for the day.

That made her smile and she said, “No duh.”

Peace was restored.

When it was time to carve the turkey, we all got up and went back to the kitchen. One by one, the plates were piled high with meat, stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce, string beans with garlic and bread crumbs, whipped sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, breaded cauliflower and asparagus. And just in case we overlooked a food group, there was a platter of pickles, olives and celery and dishes of relishes.

“Boy, if I didn’t have to get up for more food, I wouldn’t get any exercise at all,” Regina said.

“Reg, I like my women to look like women,” Frank said in his most manly voice, and slapped her on the backside.

“Hey!” she said, pretending to be annoyed. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. They looked at each other the same way Michael and I looked at each other and I missed Michael then.

Suddenly I realized that Nonna was with a Polish man. How come it was permissible for her to have a Polish boyfriend and my Irish one wasn’t worthy? Then I remembered, it was because of Michael that I led a godless existence. Right.
Have another glass of wine, Grace
. I could say I had made friends with a priest and then see how that went over with the ruling party. As soon as we all sat down again, I did.

“Guess what, Dad? I met a priest.”

“Where? At Mass?”

“No. At his rectory.”

“What were you doing in a rectory?”

You see, this is the problem with alcohol. I had intended to keep the details of my trip to Mexico under wraps until the last possible moment. But once you poured more than two glasses of wine for me, I would tell
you anything you wanted to know. I might even make some stuff up. It wasn’t my finest personal quality and I knew it. But I wasn’t going to lie to my family at Thanksgiving. That was just too tacky.

“Well, here’s the story.”

I told my father all about the trip and how excited all the old people were about it. Then I told him—not that he cared, but I made him listen anyway—that Bomze had given me some time off to care for Michael, and in return I was to figure out how I was going to get the trip organized for as little money as possible.

“So how’s it going?”

“Michael?”

“No. The pilgrimage.”

“Well, I got the airfare all donated, but I can’t find hotel rooms yet.”

“Old people shouldn’t have to stay in some dump,” Dad said.

“What’s that?” Nonna said.

“I said, old people making a trip to see the Blessed Mother in Mexico City should stay in a nice place that’s safe and, you know, nice.”

“
You’re
going to see Our Lady of Guadalupe?” Nonna said as she blessed herself. “Madonna!”

Then Big Al turned to me. “How many senior citizens are we talking about here?”

“I think the number is fourteen.”

“Make it fifteen—take your nonna—and I’ll take care of all the hotel rooms. Got it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. I’ll make the check out to St. Mary’s as a donation and they can pay the hotel. That way I get a tax credit. Or…wait a minute. I got a buddy who’s building a new hotel and he’s got a couple of places in Mexico City. You don’t worry, Grace. Your old man’s gonna handle it.”

“Daddy, you’re so wonderful. Thank you.”

“Hey! No big deal. Just tell Bomze Big Al saved him a lot of
’
shca-role
! Now tell me some more about this priest.”

I rambled on and on about Father John and slipped in a few comments about Michael, which no one acknowledged except Frank and
Regina, who winked at me to imply that we would talk later. Finally, it was time to clear the plates and bring in the platter of finocchio. I could eat raw fennel dipped in peppered olive oil until it came out of my ears. Most days, but not that Thanksgiving. Picture this. We were thirteen people, all of us overfed, ten of us overserved and three kids ready to launch into a sugar frenzy, when two of them weren’t trying to sneak a glass of wine and one of them wasn’t looking for an opening in the action so that he could run outside and snitch a cigarette.

The finocchio had arrived and was disappearing with dwindling enthusiasm, and we had yet to rise from the table for coffee, dessert and anisette. Marianne’s mother—I couldn’t remember her name for beans and didn’t care either—was talking to my mother. Nonna was completely smitten with George and who could blame her? And I had Michael on my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was suffering through the day. Maybe he was talking to the nurses or had his mother propped up in bed trying to talk to her. I felt so guilty about being with my family—such as they were—when he had only me and a couple of relatives scattered to the winds. Guilt stuck again as I realized I was always thinking my family was a caricature of some sitcom when in truth they were reasonably loving and generous to a fault.

“We’ve got pies to eat,” my mother said. Everyone groaned and no one moved. “Okay, should we have dessert later?”

“Let’s begin the impossible dream,” I said.

“What’s that?” Regina said.

“A clean kitchen—what else? Otherwise…”

“We’ll die right here at the table,” she said with a laugh.

It was Mom, Regina and me who began clearing the table.

“Come on, Lisa,” Regina said. “You’re old enough to wear makeup on the holidays? You’re old enough to use a dishcloth. Let’s go.”

Then you-know-who piped up. “I can help tooooo.”

What? And wreck that fifty-dollar manicure?

“That’s okay,” I said. “You can serve your pie later.”

“Nicky?”

Some whispers were exchanged between the lovebirds, which I ignored, and then Nicky came into the kitchen, where I was rinsing plates
and loading the dishwasher. Regina was in charge of plastic wrap and Mom was putting aside those dishes and things that were to be hand-washed later.

“Come on, Grace,” he said. “Cut her some slack. She wants to be a part of things, you know?”

“I understand, but not this part.”

“You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”

I smiled, thinking it was something of a compliment. “Hello? She’s company, okay? Company doesn’t do the dishes. What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh. You’re right. Sorry about calling you—”

“Get out of the kitchen, Nicky. You want them to call you a sissy?”

Nicky slinked out and back to Marianne’s side. I saw them get up and go toward his bedroom. Scandal. You didn’t go into a bedroom with a member of the opposite sex unless you were married. Never mind it was the twenty-first century outside the front door. If Dad saw them, he would start yelling, but I looked out the window to see Dad gathering up all the dirty utensils from his grill. He and Frank were deep in discussion about something. If Nonna had seen them, she would do the same as Dad, but I looked back to see her focused full throttle on whatever it was George was saying. And then the screaming started.

“Yes! Yes!”

Marianne came running down the hall waving her left hand and stopped to show the ring to her mother. Jane maybe? Janine? Eventually, I imagined, I would remember her name. They came into the kitchen and showed it to my mom first. The ring sparkled like a disco ball from the eighties and even my heart fluttered for her. After all, this was the moment of her engagement and that is a pivotal moment in any girl’s life.

“Oh! Let’s see!” my mother said. “Oh! Marianne! Welcome to the family!” My mother gave her a big hug.

“Let’s see,” I said. “Oh, Marianne. It is a beauty. Congratulations!”

Actually, it wasn’t beautiful. On inspection, it was puny. If I was going to marry someone like Nicky, he would have to give me some
thing the size of that sapphire Gloria Stewart threw off the back of the boat in
Titanic
. Seriously. Poor Marianne. She now had Nicky
and
a dinky ring. I rewarded her with a dish towel.

“You can dry,” I said. “But you’d better go show it to Dad first.”

“Ooookay!”

“Can I be in the wedding? Oh! It’s gorgeous!” Lisa said. “Can I?”

“Of course!” Marianne said.

She scooted out the sliding door and I shot Regina a look. She snickered and so did I.

“Poor Marianne,” I said.

“Poor Marianne,” she agreed. “She should know what we know.”

“No, she should never know what we know. About Nicky, about life or—”

“About raising kids!” Regina said. “Look.”

She pointed to the grill area, where Frank, Dad, Marianne and now Nicky, all of them animated, were giving one another congratulatory handshakes and hugs while to the side stood Tony, Regina and Frank’s oldest, chugging a Budweiser as fast as he could.

“He is so totally busted,” Regina said, and went outside to deal with him.

Lisa stood next to me as we watched Regina slapping Tony all around the sides of his head while he ducked and tried to escape. Frank grabbed him by the back of his shirt and held Regina back. It looked to me like Dad was now getting involved.

“Nothing like a little drama to make the holidays bright,” I said.

“It’s his third,” Lisa said. “I only had one. But don’t tell Mom, okay?”

“No aunt ever betrayed her niece while she scrubbed the pots.” I handed her a scouring pad.

“I’m going to change my top,” she said. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

I could have said,
You should have done it hours ago
. I could have said,
You have to remember where you are, you’re with your grandparents and your great-grandmother. This is their house
…but I didn’t say anything more than “Okay, go ahead.” I just reminded myself once again that I should make some effort to be a better aunt. Maybe I would take her for a cou
ple of weeks the following summer and try to talk some sense into her head before she turned into a screaming slut.

It was getting late. We finally served dessert and coffee and cleared all the dishes away. Dad, Frank and Nicky were putting away the folding tables and moving all the chairs back to where they belonged. Marianne, her mother, George and Nonna were looking at some old photographs of Nonna’s from Italy. The kids had all been excused. Mom and I were drying the last of the glasses. My cell phone rang. It was Michael.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, “how did your day go? We’re still drying dishes.”

“I’m still here with my mom, Grace. She’s not doing so well.”

“What do you mean? Do you need me to come?”

“No. But thanks. I’ve been sitting here all day and just reading to her. They say that even though she’s unconscious, she can still hear me. I’m going to go home and get some sleep. I think I’ll come back tomorrow and just be with her. Oh God, Grace, I just hate this.”