Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Aunt Feen’s thick white eyebrows twist into one lone tube sock across her forehead. “That’s even worse. That means at thirty-three she’s really got one foot in the grave and the other on a rag rug.”

“All right. Stop it. Or we’re cutting off your sidecars. Here’s the best I got. A couple of weeks ago my dad went to the doctor. He took Mom along to do the talking…”

A few giggles rise from the tables.

“…and the doctor says, ‘Dutch, you’ve got bursitis. Now, I can do one of two things. I can give you a shot of cortisol. But you don’t need it. Your body produces it naturally.’ ‘It does?’ My dad was amazed. The doctor said, ‘All you have to do is have sex.’ My father and the doctor look at my mother and she says, ‘Doc, I’m not the one with bursitis.’”

The room bursts into applause. “Please raise your glasses.” I realize that I don’t have a drink. The best man slaps his sweaty half-empty fuzzy navel into my hand.

I raise the tumbler high. “Tom, welcome to our family. Jaclyn, you are beautiful and we love you and we’re here for you. Salute! Cent’anni!” I take a sip, defying my better judgment and standing orders from the board of health. “And, folks, don’t forget the goody bags. There’s Aramis cologne for the men and Li-Lac chocolates for the girls!”

“Chocolate? In this heat?” Monica Spadoni barks from the Rude table. “They should give us miniature stadium fans. Of course, we’re back here by the kitchen where they’re broiling meat!”

I ignore her, slip the microphone out of its stand, and give it to the best man, who looks through me, as boys do when a spinster is chaperoning a sock hop. After a few more toasts and the cake cutting, I go to the Dementia table where Gram is dipping a biscotti into her espresso. I lean over the back of her chair and whisper in her ear.

“Are you having fun?”

“Ready when you are. Let me just say good night to the kids.” Gram puts her beaded clutch on the table and pushes her chair back.

I go to the cake trolley and stand next to my mother. I put my hand on her shoulders. “Ma.”

My mother the mind reader frowns. “You’re leaving?”

“Gotta get Gram home.”

“So soon?”

“Ma. All we’ll miss is the great aunts forming a line like Vestal virgins in a Charlton Heston movie to fight over the centerpieces.” Tomorrow every grave of my forefathers from Bayshore to Sunnyside will be decorated with wedding flowers. Italians never waste a floral arrangement. It’s a sin.

“Thank you.” Mom takes me in her arms. “I love you, Valentine. Thank you for taking such good care of my mother.”

“Do me a favor,” I ask her.

“Anything,” she says.

“Don’t make Dad sing ‘Butterfly Kisses.’”

Mom throws her shoulders back. “You people are no fun.”

Gram comes up and gives Mom a quick kiss. Mom tucks a piece of wedding cake wrapped in a napkin into my purse. Alfred, Jaclyn, and Tess gather round, taking turns saying good-bye to Gram. Finally, after we’ve kissed the last cousin twice removed we are free to go.

Gram and I make our way out of the Starlight Venetian Room to the lobby, through the grand foyer with its vaulted ceiling, past walls covered in cranberry-and-gold-flocked wallpaper, past the inlaid marble fireplace, and finally, under the twinkling chandeliers to the entrance foyer.

Gram takes a goody bag off the table for me and then takes one for herself. We hear the sexy, opening swing chords of “Oh, Marie” as the band plays us out into the balmy night. We climb into our car and settle back in the seat. The driver turns and looks at us. “Early night, girls?”

Gram says, “Manhattan please.”

We look at each other and smile. At last, we’re going home.

THE LIMOUSINE SWERVES AROUND POTHOLES as we approach the entrance of the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Gram and I share the Li-Lac chocolate sampler as the skyscrapers of Manhattan loom ahead like giant piano keys, black and white against a silver sky.

Once we’re out of the tunnel on the city side, we turn down Second Avenue. The East Village looks like the old Greenwich Village I remember as a child. Tonight, it’s a late-summer carnival of dense crowds lit by pale pink lights and blue neon. As we make our way west into the heart of Greenwich Village, we leave the high-rises and nightlife behind us, and enter the hushed sanctuary of winding streets lined with charming brownstones, their window boxes stuffed with geraniums lit by antique lamplights.

From my bedroom window in Queens, as Madonna’s “La Isla Bonita” played on repeat, I’d imagine the glamour and sophistication of Manhattan just a few stops away on the E train. I couldn’t wait for Sunday dinners in the Village with my grandparents. When Dad would make the turn onto Perry Street, and drive over the cobblestones, we’d bounce around in the backseat like tennis balls. The cobblestone streets signaled that we were almost there, the place where magic lived: the Angelini Shoe Company.

“Where is it?” our driver asks.

“The corner building. See that blue-and-white-striped canopy? That’s us,” I tell him.

The driver pulls up to the sidewalk and stops the car. “You live all the way over here?”

“Since the day I was married,” Gram tells him.

“Hot neighborhood,” he says.

“Now.” Gram smiles.

I help Gram out of the car. She fishes for her keys by the light of the streetlamp. I look up at the original sign, over the door. It used to say:

Angelini Shoes

GREENWICH VILLAGE

Since 1903

but years of rain have washed away the last three letters. Now it says:

Angel Shoes

GREENWICH VILLAGE

Since 1903

The l in Angel is shaped like an old-fashioned ankle boot, in off-white with teal buttons. When I was a little girl, I longed for a pair of boots just like the one on the sign. Gram would laugh and say, “Those spats haven’t been in style since Millard Fillmore.”

The spicy scent of new leather, lemon wax, and the oil from the cutting machine greets us in the entry. I bypass the frosted-glass paneled door, etched with a cursive A, which leads to the workshop, hike up my gown, and climb the narrow stairs. I reach the first floor, one large room that combines the kitchen and the living room.

“Go ahead and turn on the lights,” Gram says from below. “With these knees, I’ll be up by Tuesday.”

“Take your time,” I tell her.

I flip the switches for the track lighting over the kitchen counter. The open galley kitchen extends the length of the back wall. A long black-and-white-granite bar separates the kitchen from the dining area. Four bar stools covered in red leather with bronze tacks are tucked under the counter. I remember Gram hoisting me onto the stool when I was a child. How strange that here I am, in my thirties, turning on lights and making sure everything is safe for her, as she always did for me.

In the center of the room is a long farm table that seats twelve. The straight-backed chairs have floral crewelwork seats, embroidered by my mother. We share meals, meet with customers, and make our business plans at this table, the center of our family life.

An opulent Murano glass chandelier hangs over the table, dripping with bunches of crystal grapes and draped with beads of midnight blue. There’s a vase filled with fresh flowers in the center of the table year-round. Gram is a regular at the Korean market on Charles Street. Fresh flowers are delivered every Tuesday, and Gram makes it her business to go and choose the best of the bunch. This week, orange tiger lilies are stuffed into an antique crock.