Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Since when?” Alfred yells.

I look at Gram, who begins to speak, but reconsiders.

“Kids, don’t get like this,” Dad interjects.

“Oh, we’re gonna get like this.” I stand up. When I stand, the in-laws-Pamela, Charlie, and Tom-get up from the table and inch back to the fence line of the roof. Only Roman remains at the table, with a look on his face that says, Here we go.

“You two, stop it right now,” Mom chirps. “We’ve had a lovely holiday.”

I persist. “How much was the offer, Alfred?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I said, how much?”

“Six million dollars,” Alfred announces.

Shrieks rise from my relatives on the roof, like hosannas at a tent revival.

“Gram, you’re mega rich!” Tess exclaims. “You’re like Brooke Astor!”

“Over my dead body,” Gram says, looking down at her hands. “That poor Astor woman. And I mean poor. May she rest in peace. If you don’t raise your children right, all the money in the world doesn’t matter. It’s the fast track to tumult.”

“Please, Ma, we are not the Astors. There’s a lot of love here,” Mom says.

“So what’s going to happen with the offer?” Jaclyn asks delicately.

“It’s a very high offer, a great offer, in fact, and I’ve advised Gram to sell,” Alfred says, laying out his plan like a road map. “She can finally retire after fifty years of killing herself, get a condo in Jersey out by us, and put her feet up for the first time in her life.”

“She has her feet up right now,” I tell him. I turn to Gram. “What happens to the Angelini Shoe Company?”

Gram doesn’t answer me.

“Valentine, she’s tired .” Alfred raises his voice. “And you’re pushing her. Stop being selfish and think about our grandmother for a change.”

“Now, Alfred, you know how much I love my work,” Gram says.

“That’s right. We’ve got a great business going here. We make three thousand pairs of shoes a year.”

“Oh, come on. That’s hardly viable by any current business standards. You don’t have a Web site, you don’t advertise, and it’s run like it’s 1940.” Alfred turns to our grandmother. “No offense, Gram.”

“None taken. That was a big year for us.”

Alfred continues, “You use the same tools Grandpop did. At this point, the Angelini Shoe Company is nothing more than a hobby for you two, and the part-timers you employ. It’s a financial wash in a good year, but with the debt, it’s irresponsible not to consider closing and cleaning up what you owe. Besides, even if we could find somebody to buy the shop, it would not come to one percent of what this building is worth. This building is the gold.”

“It’s our business!” I tell him. Doesn’t he see that our great grandfather’s shoe designs are the gold? Our name? Our technique? Our reputation? Alfred puts no value on our tradition. What are we without it? “We make our living in this shop!”

“Barely. If you had to pay rent, you’d be in the street.”

Clickety Click moves back to Alfred’s side. She threads her arm through his, which tells me that she’s heard this before.

“I live within my means. I’ve never asked anyone for a penny.”

“I helped you when you broke up with Bret and quit teaching.”

“Three thousand dollars. You didn’t give me that money. I paid it back in six months at seven percent interest!” I can’t believe he’s throwing this in my face. Then again, of course he’s throwing this in my face. He’s Alfred! My mother shifts uncomfortably on the lawn chair and Dad stares off at the Verrazano Narrows Bridge as if it’s burst into flames like a marshmallow on a stick.

“I think what Alfred is trying to say,” Mom says diplomatically, “is that my mother is of a certain age now, and in looking ahead, down the road, we should all anticipate changes.”

“Right, Ma,” I challenge her. “And the road is icy, your tires are bald, and you’re skidding. Anything to support your precious and brilliant son, Alfred. What he wants, he gets. If he was truly concerned about Gram and her well-being, I wouldn’t open my mouth. But my brother is all about the money. He’s only ever been about the money.”

“How dare you! I’m worried about Gram!” Alfred shouts.

“Are you?”

“Your brother loves his grandmother,” Dad interjects.

“Don’t speak for him,” I tell my father.

“Don’t speak for me,” Alfred tells Dad.

Dad puts his hands in the air in surrender.

“And don’t speak for me,” Gram says, standing. “I will make all the decisions about the Angelini Shoe Company and my building. Alfred, as smart as you are, you have a big mouth. You should never talk numbers. You’ve thrown everyone into a tizzy.”

“I thought since it was just family-”

Roman looks off, like a guest hoping to disappear from the fray. But he can’t move. I catch a flicker of impatience in his eyes.

“Even worse!” Gram says. “Those kinds of numbers only make people nervous. For God’s sake, they make me nervous. I’m a private person and I don’t want my business ripped into like a Christmas package for public consumption. And, Valentine, I appreciate everything you do for me, but I don’t want you to stay here because you think you have to-”

“I want to be here.”

“-and Alfred has a point. I’m not what I was.”

“I didn’t mean it to sound like that, Gram,” he says. “I do believe it’s your choice. But I’d like to see you relax for the first time in your life. There’s a reason people don’t work at a job when they’re eighty.”

“Because most of them are dead?” Gram says, giving up and sitting down.

“No, because they’ve earned a break. And, Valentine, nobody said you couldn’t pursue shoemaking as a hobby. It’s time for you to have a real career. You’re in your midthirties and you’re living like a Boho bum. Who’s going to take care of you when you’re old? I suppose I’ll get stuck with that tab, too.”

“You’re the last person I’d ask for help.” And I mean it. Clickety Click exhales, one less thing for her to worry about.

“We’ll see. So far, I’m the only Roncalli kid who picks up a check.”

“What are you talking about?” Tess wants to know.

“Gram’s party.”

“We offered,” Jaclyn and Tess say in unison.

“So did I!” I tell him.

“But I paid! And I’ve got news for you, I always pay.”

“That’s not fair, Alfred, you can’t pick up a check and then complain about it. That is terrible form!” Tess makes a motion that Gram, the honoree, is listening.

Alfred doesn’t care. He goes on. “Who do you think pays for Dad’s doctors? He has insurance, but there’s a deductible and there are out-of-pocket expenses. He has to go out of network for some of the procedures. But you girls don’t know that! Why? Because you never ask!”

“We will repay you, Alfred,” Mom says quietly.

“If you didn’t swoop in and pay for everything, like Lord Bountiful, we would be happy to pay our share,” I tell him. “You only pay so you can hold it over our heads.”

Alfred turns to me. “I’m not going to apologize to you for being successful. There’s a success tax I pay every day in this family. I’m the one who makes money, so I’m the one who pays. And you resent me for it!”

“Because you complain about it! I’d rather be broke and living in a box on the Bowery than in that castle of fear you live in. Just look at Clickety Click…” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Tess and Jaclyn inhale quickly, while Mom mutters, “Oh no.” In the silence that follows, I swear I can hear the clouds drift past in the sky overhead.