Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Great,” we lie.

“Your mother wants me to sing ‘Butterfly Kisses’ to your sister, but I don’t know the song at all.”

“Cut off her liquor. Or else she’ll sing ‘You Gotta Get a Gimmick’ from Gypsy like she did at your twenty-fifth,” Tess says.

“She had sciatica for months afterward,” my father says and nods, remembering.

“Don’t try and sing, Dad. Tell them to play the CD and you can dance with Jaclyn instead,” I suggest.

“That’s what I said, but you know your mother, she thinks weddings are an opportunity to hold auditions for American Idol . I work for the parks department, not Simon Cowell. Any Roncalli, Angelini, or Coo-cootz off the street is expected to get up there and sing. Any minute my brother’s gonna get up and perform the first act of Man of La Mancha. Trust me. He’s one gin and tonic away from ‘The Impossible Dream.’”

Our sister Jaclyn is breathtaking in a simple strapless bridal gown with a fluffy tulle skirt. Her tiny waist twists as she threads through the tables looking like an electric-mixer beater dripping with white frosting.

Mom suggested that Jaclyn’s white peau de soie bodice be piped with an iridescent mint-colored ribbon to bring out her green eyes. It was a brilliant move. Gram made Jaclyn a beautiful pair of leather pumps in petal green. I buffed the leather until the green was almost completely rubbed away, leaving only a hint of antiqued patina. From head to toe, my baby sister glitters like a citrine.

Jaclyn plops down in Mrs. La Vaglio’s chair. She is a true beauty, her delicate features in perfect proportion, framed by her shiny black curls. “Was your meat tough?”

“No, no, no,” Dad, Tess, and I chime.

“I needed a chainsaw on my filet.” Jaclyn fans herself with the engraved menu card. “Valentine, you’re gonna have to kill with the bridal toast.”

“No pressure here,” Tess says wryly as she surveys the guests.

“Do me a favor. Make sure everybody at Gram’s table has their Miracle-Ears turned on.” I feel sweat bead on my forehead.

“Don’t let this bother you, but my mother-in-law hates everything.” Jaclyn takes a sip of my ice water, then puts the glass against her cheek. “Always with the comments. Like the Irish know how to tell a funny toast. Please.”

Tess and I look at each other. The Irish invented the toast, not to mention the well-told story, and they happen to be very good at them.

“Watch yourself, Jac. Mrs. McAdoo is family now,” Dad says. “Be kind. The most important thing in life is getting along with other people. Without other people, you’re alone. And when you’re alone, you’re alone.” My father whisks his index finger on the inside of his shirt collar like he’s getting the last bit of face cream out of a jar.

“Everything will work out. It usually does,” says me, the voice of optimism. Meanwhile, I’m biting my lip so hard, it’s giving me a headache.

“Valerie! You’re on!” The bandleader points to me.

“Valentine!” Tess and Jaclyn shout to correct him.

“Whatever!” He waves the microphone at me like a drumstick.

I look across the dance floor. The best man is by the drum set chugging a fuzzy navel with a group of frat boys.

“Knock ’em dead!” Dad says cheerfully. Jaclyn and Tess give me a thumbs-up with smiles peeled so wide open, they look like they’re having their teeth bleached. I look over at Alfred, who is giving a dissertation on gluten allergies to the Cousins’ table.

“Good evening, family and friends.” I slip the microphone into its stand and adjust the height. I’m five feet eleven in these three-inch heels. I’m not sure, but I may be taller than the groom. I know for certain I’m taller than anyone at the Friends’ table due to spinal disk collapse and hipbone deterioration, which they discussed freely during the soup course.

The chatter in the room dulls to a few lone voices, then suddenly falls to silence. The only sound I hear is the whistle between Aunt Feen’s dentures and her gums as she breathes. “I’m Valentine Roncalli, a sister of the bride.”

“We know who you are!” Lorraine Pinuccia shouts from the remote Island table, so far away her wave resembles a distress signal.

Tess rises up out of her chair slightly and shoots Pinooch a dirty look. I look over at my mother, who has a smile of support plastered to her face identical to the one she had when I blew my line as the “Gloria in Excelsis Deo” angel in the kindergarten Christmas pageant in 1980. “You can’t help me now, Ma,” I want to shout to her, but she looks embalmed.

“Well, thank you, Cousin Pinooch. You know we’re now the Roncalli-McAdoo family and maybe the McAdoos haven’t met us all yet,” I explain. It could be the sweat in my eyes, but I think Boyd McAdoo, the thrice-divorced electrician brother of my new brother-in-law is leering at me, another reason to cut this short. “God was in his heaven,” I begin, “and decided that it was time to create a country…he wanted to create a great country, with gorgeous vineyards, and lush fields, and glorious sunsets-”

“The first country!” My father bellows as he makes a number one in the air with his pointer finger.

“Dad. Please. You might want to save your upper register for ‘Butterfly Kisses.’” I dive back into the story. “God knew He wanted to call it Italy.” My dad’s brother, the eternally inappropriate Uncle Sal, yanks a rose from the centerpiece at the Parents’ table and stands, waving it like a flag. “Viva Italia sempre!” he cries.

Mr. McAdoo stands and yanks another rose from the centerpiece. “To the Emerald Isle!” he counters.

“E pluribus pizzazz!” my mother heckles.

“To the world!” I raise my arm high in the air to include all global humanity.

Tess applauds. Alone. “Anyhow…,” I continue, “God had to fill Italy with people, and He wondered, ‘Shall I create woman first? Or shall I create man first?’ The debate went on for several months until He decided. ‘I shall create women first so they can have dinner ready for the men.’”

Gram, Tess, Jaclyn, Mom, and Dad wait a beat then look around, and finally, in solidarity, they force their laughs. The remaining guests sit in a blue pool of silence lit by low votive candles, which makes them look like out-of-work circus performers in a Fellini movie.

“All right then.” I regroup. “Do you know why God created brothers in Italian families? Because he knew their single sisters needed somebody to dance with at weddings.” The self-deprecating humor goes over worse than the pointed joke. I am dying up here. It’s so quiet in this room, I can hear the ice melt in Len Scatizzi’s rum and Coke.

Mr. Delboccio, the fanny feeler, shouts, “I asked you to dance, Valentine.”

“She said her feet hurt,” his wife pipes up. “Of course, why would a shoemaker’s feet hurt? Doesn’t make sense.”

“Regardless, I’m not gonna force,” Mr. Delboccio retorts.

“You should never force,” Mrs. Delboccio snipes back.

“Okay, you two. Let me hang up this routine so you can get back out on the floor and show us youngsters how it’s done. I believe the Neil Diamond medley is next.” And then I do the very thing I hate, I make two fists and egg-beat them. Just like Mom.

“Youngster? Where? At thirty-three years old, you’re no spring chicken,” Aunt Feen shouts from the Dementia table. Then she makes a hissing sound with her upper plate for punctuation. She looks around the room, her eyes rolling around in their sockets like frantic golf balls. And then she bellows, “Thirty-three! Madonna! That’s how old Jesus was when he died on the cross.”

“People only lived to be forty back then,” Tess hollers back.