Full of Grace (24 page)

“We’re glad to have him, Grace. This business of your father only wanting you to marry an Italian is so stupid. Anyway, I told him, Grace loves Michael? Then we love Michael.”

“It’s not stupid!” Nonna said. “Don’t tell me the way I’ve lived all of my life is stupid!”

Nonna must have been feeling better because she was on my mother’s case again. Although I could see her wince in pain every time she got up or sat again.

“I’m not saying that, Mom, and you know it,” Mom said in what I thought was a rather bold way. But then she blew it by saying, “I meant no offense.”

“Abbastanza!”
Nonna said. “After all, we are all aware that Mr. Zabrowski is of Polish origins.”

“Yeah, but you’re not having his children, Ma,” Mom said, and giggled.

“Is he coming for dinner?” I said.

“Yes,” Nonna said, “and he’s coming to Mass with us, too.”

“Are you and Michael coming to Mass, Grace?” Mom asked.

There it was; the first shot of the holiday had been fired over the bow. But I was ready. “Of course!” I said. “I even brought a dress with me. By the way, the tree looks good, Ma.”

And the tree did look good. There was a noticeable absence of the usual ornaments, and little gold and red bows were tied to the tops of probably one hundred strategically placed red glass balls. Then the best half of Mom’s old ornaments were interspersed among them. Careful placement made the chipped and faded junk from our childhood seem like heirlooms. And all the Christmas cards that were usually taped around the doorway to the dining room were attached to a gold wire garland of round paper clips and draped.

Regina rolled her eyes and nodded to me.

“Marianne and Nicky decorated everything this year. Well, he got Santa up on the roof. She did the tree,” Mom said. “Don’t you think she did a nice job?”

“Yeah. We should rent them out to the neighbors.”

“Hey! That’s a sweet little cross you have on there, missy,” Regina said.

“It was Michael’s mother’s.”

“What? Let me see!” Nonna said.

“Let me see!” Mom said. “Oh, my! How nice!”

By six o’clock, we were ready to serve dinner. Marianne and her mother (Jeanette? Janine?) had arrived and George Zabrowski was pouring wine with my dad.

The meal was a rerun of Thanksgiving except for the menu and the decorations. This time the folding tables were draped in the same green velvet, but the overlays were ivory to match the background of Mom’s Christmas china. There were red flowers and red candles, and despite
the fact that Marianne had commandeered the decorating of
my family’s
Christmas tree, everything else was living up to our expectations. Even Lisa arrived at the table modestly dressed in a red cotton sweater and a tartan plaid skirt.

Dad said grace and made a toast and the meal began, but the conversation got off to a slow start.

“So, how ya doing, Michael?” Dad said.

“Fine, sir, thanks.”

“Good. How ya doing, George?”

“Fine, and you?” George Zabrowski said.

“Fine. Good.”

Mr. Zabrowski cleared his throat and said, “When I was a young boy in Warsaw, Christmas Eve dinner was very much like this. We had a seafood dinner—only seafood. No meat. This is wonderful.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dad said. “So, Tony? How’s school?”

“Good.”

It was clear that unless somebody jumped into the conversation and opened it up, dinner would be remembered as a Pap smear/colonoscopy/ root canal. But then along came my future sister-in-law.

“Does anybody want to hear about the wedding plans?”

Her eyes were so filled with excitement that as much as I wanted to say,
No. No one cares,
I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“Sure,” Regina said. Regina was always a sport.

So through the baccala salad, the fried calamari, the spaghetti with clams, the shrimp scampi, the stuffed flounder, the fried baccala and finally the lobster tails, we listened to Marianne talk on and on about herself.

“And y’all? The bridesmaids’ dresses are going to be so lovely. They really are ones you can wear again, and I was thinking that if everyone wore the same nail polish…”

“Blah, blah, blah,” I whispered to Regina in the kitchen as we changed the plates for the next course. “Jeesch! Can’t somebody tell her to just shut up!”

“She sure does like the sound of her own voice,” Regina whispered back.

“Honestly! Right? Where’d she get that southern accent from? I thought she was from Ohio or Indiana or something?”

“Nothing worse than a convert. You know that. Come on. Let’s keep moving here.”

We knew that even old Connie had finally had enough of Marianne’s continuing wind when she said, “What’s Santa going to bring you this year, Paulie?”

“I don’t know. Probably not a pony, huh?”

Marianne turned scarlet at being ever so politely issued a gag order by her future mother-in-law. She helped to clear the next course and cornered me in the kitchen.

“Let me ask you something, Grace, and I want the honest truth.”

“Sure. Is there any other kind?”

She sucked her teeth and said, “Does everybody in this family just plain old hate me? What did I ever do to y’all to deserve this?”

“This what?”

“There I am talking about the most important day in my whole life and your mother asks that fat little Paulie, who somebody
should
really put on a diet, what he’s getting from Santa! I was right in the middle of a sentence!”

“No, you weren’t. You were right in the middle of monopolizing my mother’s Christmas Eve dinner, Marianne. You should have realized that when people started falling asleep in the clam sauce.” I said it all nicely and with humor for two reasons. One, it was Christmas Eve, and two, I really didn’t want to fight with her. I didn’t mind giving her a jab, but I didn’t want the holiday to be remembered as our personal slugfest.

Regina, however, had other plans. She had overheard everything.

“Whose kid you calling fat, huh?”

“Well, he shouldn’t weigh so—”

Regina stuck her index finger almost
in
Marianne’s flaring nostrils and said, “Lemme tell you this. When you have your own kids you’ll understand. But you never say a word about mine. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” she said.

“Never!”

“Fine!”

“Merry Christmas,” I whispered to Marianne as I passed her with a stack of plates.

Sorry. I couldn’t help it.

Finally, the meal was done, the dishes were done, the tables were put away, and six empty bottles of some special Mezza Corona Pinot Grigio Big Al bought in Savannah rested in the recycling bin. Mom, Dad, Nonna and George, and Marianne’s mother (Justine?) were sitting down for a break in the living room while everyone else did the dishes. Marianne and Nicky dried plates and glasses. Tony and Lisa scrubbed pots under Michael’s supervision. Frank and Regina swept the floor and Paulie helped me wrap up leftovers and deliver espresso to the elders.

“You know, some people triple their risk of a heart attack after eating huge meals like this,” Regina said.

“Nice,” Frank said. “Now she tells us.”

“No! Frank! You know it’s true!”

“Happy Holidays, Regina!” Nicky said.

“Well, look, if you don’t have a heart attack in three hours, you probably won’t,” Regina said.

“I’ll set the alarm clock,” I said. “What time is midnight Mass?”

“Midnight, duh,” Nicky said.

Everyone laughed. “No, you dumb-ass. I meant, is there a choir performance before it or anything like a parking problem?”

“I’ll find out,” Regina said.

It turned out that we had to leave by eleven if we wanted to sit together, and indeed there was choral music beforehand. Somehow we managed to arrive on time.

I had not been to midnight Mass in years, always managing somehow to dodge it. To be there with my entire family was, surprisingly, very emotional. Nonna went up the aisle first, my father at the ready to catch her if she stumbled. She moved carefully with her walker, every step deliberate. She was so frail and I worried that this might be her last Christmas with us. Then my mother followed with George at her side. Frank and Regina pushed their kids ahead of themselves. The rest of us trickled in behind them. Dad and Nonna waited at the end of the pew, telling each of us where to sit. They had decided that two half pews were
more to their liking than one long row of Russo and Company. So we filed in, genuflecting and making the sign of the cross—Paulie’s the most exaggerated, causing snickers, and Marianne’s the most fervent, resulting in more eye-rolling.

“She makes me want to puke,” I whispered to Michael.

“Hush! You’re in church!” he whispered in mock horror, smiling in agreement.

There had to be over one thousand people at that Mass, and to be honest, that amount of humanity gathered under one roof to worship had an unmistakable effect on me. I think it would have startled the biggest cynic in the world. It wasn’t just the thunder of group prayer. Call me crazy if you want, but when a prayer ended, there was something that lingered in the silence that followed, like an echo. I don’t know if it was a radiation of emotion or if it was my ears simply readjusting to the acoustics. Something was going on that I had never noticed during all the years I had attended Mass with my family.

It was a little creepy at first. But eventually I became interested in the phenomenon as I watched my father pray. The sincerity with which he mouthed the words and the effort my whole family made to say the prayers in sync with one another, and indeed with everyone gathered, fascinated me. In one moment I felt like we were participating in something tribal, and when a prayer abruptly ended, I was released from the power of a thousand drums only to be swept up again the next time the congregation prayed as a whole. At some point I would ask Father John what he thought.

After Mass we were standing around outside the church saying hello and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. The air was damp and cool. Dad went with Frank to get the cars. I turned to Michael.

“So Merry Christmas, sweetheart. How did you like Mass?”

“Merry Christmas! Um, Mass was quite a workout, to be perfectly honest. I’m tired.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” I wondered if he had the same reasons I did. “It’s been a long day anyway.”

“So what’s next on the Russo agenda?”

“Sleep, I hope.”

No such luck. Regina and Frank sent their children to bed after they kissed everyone good night. Nonna said good night to George and he kissed her on the cheek. Marianne and her mother (Janelle?) came in, said good night and left almost immediately.

“I’m embarrassed to say this,” Frank said, coming back through the kitchen with Regina, “but I’m starving.”

“You want cake?” my mother said.

“No, I was actually thinking about a sandwich. We got any salami in here? It’s after twelve, right?”

Plastic containers tumbled to the floor when he opened the door.

“Get out of your mother’s refrigerator,” Regina said, picking the containers up and scooting him aside.

“Yeah, you could die in a landslide,” I said. “I could eat half of something. You hungry, Michael?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “I’m always hungry.”

“I know there’s potato salad in here and some cold cuts. I saw them earlier. And some provolone…”

Regina kept digging around and tossing me various items. A platter of sandwiches were thrown together in a flash by the experienced hands of my sister-in-law, and I put plates and napkins on the table. Dad placed an open bottle of red wine on the table, and my mother excused herself for the night, after helping Nonna to her room.

“Too late for coffee,” Dad said, and handed everyone a glass. “To Christmas!”

“To Christmas!” everyone said, and began eating.

“So? How you doing, Michael? You feeling okay?” Dad’s face got serious then.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Michael smiled at my father and my father remained somber.

“This whole family got on their knees and prayed for you, you know.”

“Yes, sir. And I appreciate it, too. Thank you…all of you.”

“Do you pray?” Dad said in a Big Al moment. It seemed like the room inhaled.

“Well, I went to church with you tonight, didn’t I?”

Then it seemed that the room exhaled.

But Dad didn’t like Michael’s answer and I wasn’t particularly thrilled by it either. Michael had skirted the issue by answering with a question, leaving my father and everyone to think whatever they wanted to think. I realized it would not be the only time that my family would question Michael about what he held sacred, if anything. Because they were in the beginning stages of admitting Michael into the family bosom, they wanted to understand the full measure of his character. I also knew Michael well enough to know that he did not believe the dawn of Christmas was the time to engage in that particular discussion. It would have been ill-mannered, especially as a guest.

Dad and Michael looked at each other and finally my father spoke.

“We’ll talk.”

S
ometimes what is unsaid has more power than spoken words. Late in the day, as I passed through the rooms of my parents’ house, every face seemed peaceful and content. The quiet spoke volumes about making the effort to come together for every holiday, because over time we developed a renewed solidarity. Yes, Nicky was a pain in the neck, but he was
our
pain in the neck. Frank and Regina carried the heaviest load because they lived so far away, but they never complained about the travel. Sure, they would joke about seeing interstate highway every time they closed their eyes, but the truth was that they wanted their children to know who they were and that they were a part of a larger fabric. For me, I only had to drive down from Charleston, but the fact that my parents had finally made a move toward accepting Michael was very gratifying. It had been a wonderful Christmas. The house smelled good, looked as good as it ever had, and the excellent spirits were almost a palpable thing.

By late in the evening, Dad, Mom, Nonna and George brought Christmas to a close, nestled into sofas and chairs, watching one more holiday special on the television. Lisa, Tony and Paulie were assumed to be happy with their haul because there was no bickering from their quarter. Marianne and Nicky left for her mother’s (Jerry Anne?) house to watch old home movies of Marianne’s dance recitals.

What a day it had been! The Russo Machine of Holiday Cheer
completed the annual task of Santa, swinging into action from the first ray of daylight. When all the presents had been opened, we cleared away enough debris to fill a Dumpster and then, without a hiccup, we produced yet another meal of epic proportions. It seemed like we washed thousands of dishes. Just when normal human beings would have surrendered to a stupor of exhaustion, we did not.

Michael, Frank, Regina and I were in the kitchen, believe it or not, eating pie and still talking. With our words and what appeared to be insatiable appetites, we tried to slow time, to stretch the perfect day just a little longer.

Michael was engaged in conversation with my brother.

“I love your kids, Frank, especially that Tony. He reminds me of myself when I was his age.”

“Thanks. He’s a handful, though.”

“A handful?
That’s
being generous. Wait! I forgot to smack him this morning!” Regina said.

“Why would you do that? What did he do?” Michael said.

“He didn’t do anything! But when you have a kid like him, you smack him…”

Frank chimed in. “In the head anyway. Even on Christmas.”

“It’s a family joke,” I said.

Michael grinned and Regina said, “Well, I’ll smack him twice tomorrow. It gets his day going.”

“Ah, I see,” Michael said. “Well, this has been an amazing two days for me, I must say.”

“Why is that?” Nonna said, thumping into the room with her walker.

Regina got up. “Here, Nonna. Sit.”

“No! You sit! I can stand up and eat a piece of pie.”

“Yeah, right,” Frank said. “Headline: ‘Grandmother on Walker Expires While Eating Pie as Healthy Grandchildren Do Nothing.’ Please sit, Nonna. Join us for a few minutes.”

“Well, all right, I could go any minute, you know,” she said. “It could be our last conversation.”

“You’re going no place, Nonna,” I said, and turned to Michael. “She says that all the time.”

Michael nodded and I shrugged.

“I’ve seen that silly movie ten times anyway. Did I show you? It’s a little loose because I got so skinny. But I can take a link out.” She held out her wrist so we could see, for the tenth time, the inexpensive but lovely wristwatch George had given her. “He gave me cologne, too!”

“Beautiful!” I said, and showed her the wristwatch Michael had given me, for at least the third time. Nonna’s clothes were actually hanging on her frame. Somewhat.

“Oh! How beautiful!”

“Thanks. Did I show you this?” Michael said, and for at least the third or fourth time showed her the one I had given to him.

“Oh! So extravagant! But does it signify something you want to share with her grandmother? I am still the matriarch of the clan, after all. At least for the moment.”

“We know, Nonna,” Regina said. “You could go any minute.”

“It means she is the most important woman in my life,” Michael said.

“I don’t care
what
they say about you, Michael.
I
think you’re wonderful. And if a certain someone named their baby girl Francesca, she might inherit this watch someday.”

Nonna’s remarks were so crazy that no one knew what to say. Michael cleared his throat and got up to get a glass of water. Regina, Frank and I just looked at one another. I figured Michael was mortified. But maybe he was amused. Frankly, I couldn’t tell.

“Oh! Come on! We’re not getting married tomorrow, folks,” I said, hoping to show that we weren’t offended. “Let’s just relax on that, okay?”

“Should I return my gift? Ha. There’s a salad bowl already gift wrapped in my hall closet.”

“I could use a salad bowl…” I said, and Michael reached over to pinch me.

“I think the holiday has gone very well!” Regina said. “My kids are crazy about you, Michael.”

“Put my plate in the sink, please, sweetheart,” Nonna said to me.

She was an old fox. Nonna knew exactly what she had said.
Get married. Have a baby. Name her after me
. I thought, How about
no
?

“Sure,” I said. “Should I cut a piece for George?”

“That would be very nice. Frank? Help me here, please.”

Frank helped Nonna gain her bearings on her walker and I stayed by her side as she inched along. I handed the pie to George, who’d followed Nonna into the kitchen, and helped Nonna get comfortable on the sofa.

“Well, you can all rant and rave, but I’m not going to Mexico,” she said.

“What are you saying? Of course you’re going,” Dad said.

“Oh, come on, Nonna!” I said, secretly relieved like you cannot imagine.

“No, no. I’m too old. Grace will bring me a statue and a holy card and that will be plenty for me. And take my rosary to be blessed.”

“This is terrible! Al already paid for your room, Ma!” my mother said.

I said, “I can get him a credit.”

“No, listen to me. I have thought on this for weeks. If I could get around like other people, I might go. But this walker is impossible. I ache everywhere in the mornings…It has become out of the question.”

When I came back into the kitchen, they all looked up at me and shook their heads.

“She’s not going to Mexico and that’s it.”

“I don’t blame her,” Regina said.

“I think it’s a sin,” I said. “It would’ve been the biggest thrill of her life.”

“Grace?” Frank said. “How did you think you were going to get Nonna all around Mexico City with a walker anyway?”

“Well, Mexico City would probably have been easier than the suburbs.”

“If she took a nurse with her, she could go anywhere,” Regina said, smiling.

“You want to go to Mexico as Nonna’s personal aide?” I said. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Only halfway. I have always wanted to go to Mexico. But I couldn’t go now even if I was just part of the group.”

“Work? Kids?” Michael said.

“You got it. Ah, Meh-hee-ko! So romantic and mysterious! That whole story of Our Lady of Guadalupe? That’s by far the most interesting one the Church has. For my money, anyway.”

“What? They got the Blessed Mother growing out of tortillas now?” I said, thinking I was pretty witty.

“Shut your pagan mouth,” Regina said, teasing. “No, don’t you remember the story from Sunday school?”

“I must’ve missed that Sunday,” I said.

“They had Mary growing out of a bialy or a bagel in Brooklyn a couple of years back. Remember?” Frank said.

“And appearing on the side of some bank building in Florida,” Michael added. “But once they washed the windows, that was it for her. Or something like that…”

“Stop! You’re all a bunch of heathens!” Regina said. “Seriously!”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I have a tape, but I haven’t watched it. Give us the Cliff Notes version of the myth.”

“It’s no myth,” Regina said.

“Yeah, okay. We’re all ears,” Frank said.

“Well, it was
1531
or around there, but anyway it was December and cold in the mountains. This poor Indian fellow, Juan Diego, is passing by on his way to Mass. He hears this music and these voices singing and looks around to see the Blessed Mother standing there.”

“How did he know it was her?” I said.

“Because she
said
so! Jeesch!” Regina said, with no small amount of exasperation in her voice. “She tells him to go see the bishop and to tell him to build a sanctuary in that spot.”

“I love these stories. It’s always some poor wretched schnookel who gets fingered for immortality,” I said.

“Yeah, a schnookel with an unmentioned history of mental illness,” Michael said.

Regina stopped and tightened her jaw. We had insulted her with our sacrilegious jokes that honestly meant no harm.

“Okay. Whatever,” Regina said. “Make fun.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and tried not to snicker. “Really. Come on, Regina.”

“No, you listen to me,” Regina said. She was seriously annoyed. “All of you. There are things in this world that happen that can’t be explained—bad things, miracles…”

“Do you seriously believe in miracles? Really?” Michael said.

“I see them all the time,” she said.

“Like what?” I said.

“Preemies,” she said. “Good example.”

“Premature babies?” Michael said.

“Yeah. You get this baby who weighs less than a tuna sandwich, right? He’s in an incubator. His mother is there stroking him with her fingertips and telling him how much he means to her and how much she loves him. She’s praying and he starts growing like a weed. Meanwhile the baby next door in another incubator with the same issues and no mother or nurse cooing to him is getting sicker and sicker. You don’t think that’s a miracle?”

“I think that’s very hard to quantify and document,” Michael said.

Regina stared at Michael, a little surprised by his skepticism, and then turned to Frank. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, babe,” he said. “I mean, I don’t want to sound like I’m waffling here, but I think you’re telling the truth and Michael’s right, too. That said, if I was very ill, I would much prefer to have my name going around a prayer group than not. You know, hedge your bets?”

“Well, that’s the whole problem with the world in a nutshell. Nobody believes in anything anymore.”

“I believe in good medicine,” Michael said. “And a positive attitude can be a great asset.”

Regina leaned across the table toward Michael and said in a low voice, “What about God, Michael?”

“Come on, Regina,” Frank said. “Let it go.”

“I’m not asking because I care what Michael believes,” she said. “That’s his business. I’m asking because I think it’s interesting. I just like to hear different theories on what people think the deal is, that’s all.”

Michael leaned back and took a long look at each one of us.

“You don’t have to answer that, Michael,” I said. “Does anyone want anything from the fridge?”

“It’s okay,” Michael said.

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” Frank said. “Michael, don’t let my wife paint you into a corner.”

“No, listen, it’s fine. Look, Regina, here’s what I think. I think faith is a gift that gives a lot of people answers and hope and all sorts of good things. But do I believe there’s a God up there or out there that is counting the number of hairs on my head? No, I don’t. And I don’t think it matters because if there was tangible proof of the existence of God, we would have heard about it by now. Don’t you think?”

“A lot of people might argue that that’s what the Bible is, Michael,” Regina said. “And Jesus…you know? That stuff?”

“Touché. But answer this. If there
is
a God, then
why
is there so much suffering among innocent people all over the world? Why wouldn’t God put a stop to it?”

“Well,” Frank said, obviously growing a little weary of the question and of the day, “people bring suffering on themselves and always have.”

I decided it was time to come to Michael’s defense. “Not certain diseases or birth defects or any number of things that can happen…”

“So who put the image of the Blessed Mother on Juan Diego’s poncho that should have disintegrated five hundred years ago and didn’t?” Regina said.

Michael turned beet red. He didn’t want to tell Regina he thought her religion was baloney and he didn’t want to say he believed in something he didn’t just for the sake of my family. So he simply said, “I don’t know.”

“Okay!” Frank said. “It’s bedtime! Let’s take this up another day! Come on, Regina.” He stood up and pulled Regina to her feet. “Let’s pack it in.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Michael. I didn’t mean to hammer you,” she said.

“No problem,” he said. “Look, it’s not that I don’t
wish
there was a God out there who knew the number of hairs on my head, but it’s just
not something I spend a lot of time trying to understand. I have put years and years into trying to ease human suffering through science and research. And I try to be a decent human being by making my contribution to that science and research. If there’s a God out there, I think He would forgive me for not recognizing Him if I have lived a good life.”

“Well, I sure hope so, for your sake,” she said.

“Regina!” Frank said.

“Sorry, I’m pooped,” she said. “We’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Michael and I were left in the kitchen to wipe up the crumbs and turn out the lights around the house. Everyone else had turned in or gone home.

“Your sister-in-law is pretty adamant, isn’t she?”

I brushed the crumbs from the table into my hand, threw them in the sink and ran water to flush them away. “I don’t know what got into her tonight. She’s usually a pussycat.”

“No, she’s nice enough, and it’s not even that I disagree with her. Hand me a towel and I’ll dry.” I threw him a towel and he picked up a plate. “I mean, she sure holds the popular opinion on religion and so forth. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it would be nice to believe in something with that kind of
conviction
.”