Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“That wouldn’t be hard.”

And there it is. The Jab. I don’t want to fight at my sister’s wedding, so I let go of him, but he goes on.

“Gram won’t be around forever. She should retire and enjoy the kids. There’s a nice assisted-living place out by us.”

“She loves the city. She’d die in the suburbs.”

“I’m the only person in this family who can face the truth. She needs to retire. I’m willing to buy her a condo.”

“Aren’t you generous.”

“I’m not thinking about myself.”

“Then it would be the first time, Alfred.”

The law of the sibling jungle springs into effect. Alfred’s tone, the look on my face, and the fact that we’ve stopped dancing sends a silent alert out to my sisters. Tess, sensing a fight, has come to the edge of the dance floor and locks eyes with me. She shoots me the Need me? look.

“Thanks for the dance.” I turn my back on Alfred to make my way to the Friends’ table, which is now empty because everyone over the age of sixty stampedes the dance floor for an uptempo version of “After the Lovin’.”

I squeeze past Mom and Dad in the stampede. “It’s our song!” Mom chirps as she holds Dad’s hand high in the air, like a May Day ribbon. They pull each other close as Mom plants her cheek on Dad’s. They look like Siamese twins joined at the blush line. Engelbert Humperdinck used to be my mother’s favorite singer, until Andrea Bocelli provided the first emotional catharsis of her life. She listens to Bocelli in the car, drives around Queens, and weeps. Through her tears, she says, “I don’t need therapy because Andrea taps my grief.”

I sit down at the empty Friends’ table, pick up my fork, and stab my salad. I’ve lost my appetite. I put the fork down and survey the crowded dance floor, which, when I squint, looks like a pointillist painting of sequins, jet beads, and Swarovski crystals on a canvas of lamé.

“What did Alfred say to you?” Tess says, sliping into the chair next to me. Tess, my older sister by a year and a half, is a busty brunette with no hips. The bridesmaid gown gives her the shape of a champagne glass. Despite her bombshell physique, she is the brainiest of the three sisters, perhaps because Alfred used her as his flash-card moderator from the time she was four years old. Tess has Mom’s heart-shaped face, and the second best nose in the family. Her wavy black hair matches eyelashes so thick she never has to wear mascara.

“He implied I’m a loser.” I yank up the front of my dress like I’m pulling a full Hefty bag out of a trash can.

“He told me that I’m a bad mother. He thinks I let Charisma and Chiara run wild.”

I look over at the Venetian table, where seven-year-old Charisma pokes a hole in a cannoli and hands it to five-year-old Chiara, who blows out the filling. Tess rolls her eyes. “It’s a party. Let them have some fun.”

“Alfred wants Gram to retire.”

“He’s on a campaign.” Tess checks her lipstick in the butter knife. “You know, those assisted-living places can be really nice.”

“Don’t tell me you agree with him!”

“Hey, I’m on your side,” Tess says gently.

“Every time Alfred brings it up, it’s like he stabs me.”

“That’s because you care about Gram.” Tess dips the knife in a butter rosette, then spreads it on what remains of Bob Silverstein’s dinner roll. “And the shoe company is your livelihood.” My sister looks weary, which tells me she had the same discussion with Alfred and got nowhere.

I don’t want to ruin the reception, so I change the subject. “How’s your table?”

“Why did Ma spread us out like UN peacekeepers? Doesn’t she get that we actually like each other and want to sit together? Okay, maybe put Alfred and Clickety Click at the Stuck-up table-”

“Call her Pamela. You want an in-law war?” I look around to make certain there aren’t any in the area. Alfred has been married to Pamela for thirteen years. She’s four feet eleven and wears five-inch stilettos, even at the beach and, rumor had it, during labor. We named her Clickety Click because that’s the sound her heels make when she walks in rapid little steps. “The petite inherit the earth. Nothing is more alluring to a man than a woman who can fit in his wallet.”

“I’d love to be tall like you,” Tess says supportively. “At least you have gusto. Pam has no gusto. Anyhow, they’re completely suited for each other. Alfred is shut down and Clickety is positively bloodless. This spoon”-Tess holds it up-“has more personality.”

Tess looks over at Charisma and Chiara, who have taken black olives out of the crudité dishes and placed them over their eyes. The girls laugh as the olives roll off their faces and onto the floor. Tess motions for them to stop. The girls scamper off. Tess waves to her husband, Charlie, to watch the girls. He’s stuck at the Rude table listening to the guests gripe about their lousy seats near the kitchen.

“Look at Alfred’s boys,” I tell Tess.

Our nephews, Alfred Junior and Rocco, look like miniature bankers with their bow ties and the crisp napkins on their laps.

“I heard Pamela sent them to the Good Manners and Me class at Our Lady of Mercy. So well behaved.” Tess sighs.

“Do they have a choice?” I yank up the front of my gown again. I check my watch. It feels like it’s been fifteen years between the soup and the salad. “Mr. Delboccio put his hand on my ass.”

“Disgusting,” says Tess.

“To tell you the truth, with the Spanx on, I couldn’t even feel it. I could sit on a hot griddle and I wouldn’t know it.”

“So how do you know he took a feel?”

“The look on Mrs. Delboccio’s face. I thought she was going to pick up the candelabra and beat him.”

“He probably had too much to drink. And it’s so hot out. The liquor just goes right to the brain and pickles it. Promise me you’ll get married in a blizzard.”

“I promise. I also promise to get married at city hall on a Tuesday.”

“C’mon, you’d miss out on all of this.” Tess turns in her chair and looks out at the sea of our relatives. She turns back around. “Okay, city hall is fine. We’ll wear suits. Day suits and wrist corsages.”

The tuxedoed waitstaff pours out of the kitchen and through the galley doors like chocolate chips into cake batter. With one hand, they carry enormous silver trays loaded with plates covered in metal hats. With their other hand, they snap open metal racks and place the trays on top of them. In quick succession, dinner plates filled with succulent beef tenderloin, a delicate purse of whipped potatoes, and spears of fresh asparagus are placed on the table. At the sight of the food delivery, the dance floor empties instantly. The guests return to their tables like a football team heading for the locker room at halftime. Tess gets up. “Gotta go. It’s the entrée.”

The Friends take their seats and nod approvingly at the plates. The tenderloin is pricey, thus demonstrating a level of opulence, which Italian Americans appreciate more than the dissolution of the cold war and tubes of anchovy paste on demand.

“So, how’s it going at the shoe shop?” Ed Delboccio asks. His bald head looks like the sterling-silver platter hats the waiters have stacked in the corner. “Tell me this. Does anybody even want handmade shoes anymore?”

“Absolutely.” I try not to snap, but I must have since everyone at the table looks up at me.

“Don’t take offense,” Mr. Delboccio says and smiles. “It’s just a query for discussion’s sake. Why would anybody order custom-made shoes when you can buy them cheap at those outlet malls? Shirley here is a regular at those warehouse sales. KGB-”