Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

Aunt Feen throws her head back and laughs. “That’s me!”

“Because…” Pamela tightens the belt on her size 2 coat. “I’m getting my boys and going home. Do you remember where that is? Home. The place where I made a life for you.”

Pam goes down the stairs. Her stilettos go clickety-click, clickety-click all the way down. Alfred follows her out.

The entrance door downstairs snaps shut.

“Anyone for dessert?” Gabriel says from behind the counter. “I could use a digestivo. Fernet Branca? Bitters, anyone?”

“Gimme a slab of tiramisu,” June says. “This is the goddamnest Thanksgiving I have ever spent.”

“I’m sorry, June.” Mom dries her tears. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“This family needs to grow up.” June pushes her plate aside.

Aunt Feen applauds. “The wheels are off the bus. Off the bus! Off the bus!”

“Shut up, Feen.” June turns to my great-aunt. “You’re a mean old broad. You got a camel’s hump of misery on your back.”

“That hump is from osteo. Bone deterioration. I had a difficult menopause,” Feen explains.

“I don’t care where you got it. You’re the only old lady I know that gets dumber as the years roll on. And all these people dance around you in fear. I’m not afraid of you.”

“You attack a lonely widow on Thanksgiving. Nice,” Feen says quietly, milking any pity her blood relatives may still have for her.

“Poor Feen.” June turns and faces her. “It’s never enough for you. Is it? Your sister kowtowed, your niece, everybody’s afraid of you. Everybody fears your temper. Not me. I see who you are. You’re just an ungrateful old nag. You never got your portion. Never got a fair shake. And when you did, it was never enough. Nobody could fill the empty sock of your awful childhood. So you never got what you wanted. Boo hoo. Most people don’t. But the difference between you and other people is that they move on. They don’t calcify. They don’t blame everybody else for their troubles, and call the lawyer to sue the city every time they take a spill on the sidewalk. Put down the wineglass and pick up the magnifying glass and look in the mirror. Face yourself.”

Aunt Feen’s spine straightens in self defense. “Why you-”

“I’m not done.” June levels her gaze at Charlie, who looks away.

“Shame on you, Chuck. Open your eyes. The world isn’t black and white anymore-it isn’t even brown-it’s shades of something completely new. And not a minute too soon. Time for God to liven up the paint box. So your sister-in-law gets on a plane and finds out you have black people in the family-hardworking people who make their own way, and speak Spanish and grow olives-what’s it to you? Really, how does that affect your life? Do you really want to spend the precious moments of your life hating people you’ve never met from two continents away? If that’s your idea of living, then that’s your business, Chuck, but don’t bring the rest of us down to your idiot level. You’re embarrassing yourself with your ignorance.”

“June,” Tess warns.

“Shut up, Tess. I’ve known you since you were a baby. I’m talking to your husband.” June turns back to Charlie. “Let me tell you this about black people-and I know, because I’ve loved ’em all, black, white, Filipino-or at least I think he was-maybe, come to think of it, he was Hawaiian. It doesn’t matter. I have tasted God’s smorgasbord from Boston to Buhl, and I’m better for my experience. Does that offend you?”

“This is some Thanksgiving.” My father sighs.

June looks at Charlie. “Well, does it?”

Charlie shakes his head.

“Didn’t think so,” June continues. “You should be proud to tell your daughters they have family in another country and that those folks have a little different patina from you. But let’s cut to it here, Charlie. You’re Sicilian, your people are a mere paddle in a canoe from North Africa. And you know it, and yet you have the temerity to act as though Sicily is the land of pilgrims and Wonder Bread. I got news for you-you’re already family-you are African. It’s just pigment, Charlie. Pigment. So knock it off. I’m annoyed with you already.”

Gabriel places June’s tiramisu in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” my brother-in-law says meekly.

“Let me tell you who your daughters will marry. They will marry men exactly like you, Charlie. So if you want them to bring home a couple of small-minded bigots with a size twenty-two and a half collar, well, then, you’ll get your wish.”

Gabriel pours June a cup of coffee. He places the cream and sugar in front of her. June dumps cream into her coffee and stirs. “It’s a café au lait world, people.” She sips. “Get used to it.”

I help Aunt Feen into the back seat of a town car. She grips the Macy’s bag full of Thanksgiving leftovers on her lap like they’re gold bricks hot off a Brinks truck. I ask the driver to see Aunt Feen to her apartment door, and he agrees. She waves me off.

I push the entrance door open and see a light on in the workshop. I kick off my shoes; the heels are killing my feet. My toes throb like my head, everything hurts after the worst holiday I’ve ever spent, anywhere, anytime.

I poke my head into the workshop. Alfred sits at the desk, his head down. My father sits at the worktable, watching him.

“Hey guys,” I say, pushing the door open. “Alfred, are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. I look at my father. Dad looks at me and shakes his head.

“Alfred?” Dad says softly.

Alfred doesn’t respond.

“Son?” Dad gets off the worktable and goes to Alfred, placing his hands on Alfred’s shoulders. Alfred begins to weep. “It’s going to be all right, Al,” Dad says.

Alfred turns around and stands. He puts his arms around my father and buries his face in his shoulder. He is now heaving with tears. My dad looks at me as he pulls Alfred close to him.

“I’ve ruined everything, Dad. Everything.”

“It’s a dumb mistake, but you didn’t ruin anything.”

“She’s leaving me.”

“She’ll forgive you, son.”

“Why would she?” Alfred asks.

“Come here.” Dad helps Alfred sit down. Then he pulls up a work stool next to him. He takes my brother’s hands in his own. “You’re a good son. A fine man. I’ve been proud of you every day of your life. Even when you weren’t proud of me. I’ve done things that weren’t right in my life, and the goddamn thing still haunts me. And now I’ve visited it on you.”

“And I judged you, Dad. I judged you, and then I did the same thing.”

“That’s okay that you judged me. It meant that you knew I did wrong.”

“I’m a hypocrite.” Alfred hangs his head.

“Hey. Listen to me. I left my marriage for a while, and I’m not proud of it. I was in a dark place when I had that affair. I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back, I wasn’t thinking straight. I felt like my life was over-I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. And I blamed your mother that I wasn’t a big cheese. I don’t know, I grew up in a household where my mother pushed my father. I guess I thought that’s what a wife should do. I’d missed out on a promotion in the Parks Department, and I went home to your mother and she said, ‘Dutch, don’t worry. It’ll come around. Try harder.’ I should have appreciated her even more, but it just made me feel bad about myself, and I couldn’t shake it. I needed to feel good about myself again. So, I went looking for trouble because that made me feel alive, back on my game. But it was a temporary fix. And when I went with the other woman…my heart…”

My father wipes away a tear, but he recovers, and focuses on my brother.