Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

After we put Gram and Dom back in the car and sent the rest of the family back to Perry Street, Gabriel and I settled up with the folks at Integral Yoga before walking back to join June’s funeral luncheon. Two popular yoga classes had to be canceled to accommodate June’s ceremony, and we felt it was only right to compensate the venue.

“You okay?” I ask Gabe.

“I’m sick of it.”

“Of what?’

“Death. Funerals. I’m over it.”

“That’s the point of a funeral, to begin to heal and move through it. You heard the monk.”

“Yeah. I guess. You know, I think June had a plan.”

“Really?” I never saw June as a woman who made plans in advance; she seemed always to be of the moment. I never asked her to dinner a week in advance-she would never remember the date. But if you grabbed her after work for a pasta run to Piccolo Angolo, she was up for it.

“June wanted to leave things neat,” Gabriel says. “June taught me to clear the cutting table every night. She never cut a new pattern at the end of a working day. She said you should only ever show up to a clean work space.”

I think about June’s apartment. Everything was clean, pristine, and in place. She was dressed. She was ready to walk out the door.

“Do you think she knew?”

“That she was gonna die? No, I don’t. Irv’s been clearing her answering machine and calling people. And there was a message from June’s dealer. I think if she knew she was dying, she would have canceled the order.”

As we cross 8th Avenue at Horatio Street, I see that our Village has changed. The Greenwich Village of June’s heyday is gone. Now our neighbors are polished and in many ways predictable. Bohemians of the new order wear Theory suits and boots from Jeffrey’s. They talk on cell phones and rush around just like uptowners.

I look ahead, down Jane Street, where June made her way to the Angelini Shoe Company on foot every morning. And I swear for a moment I see her, walking at a clip, her dancer’s neck leading her forward, her legs extended in long, graceful strides, her bright blue coat unbuttoned in the cold flapping over her work smock, as she juggles two coffees from the deli. She makes the turn onto Perry Street, with a yoga mat slung across her back, her red braids flying behind her in the wind as she goes.

WE ORDERED SANDWICH PLATTERS, LOADED with wraps, crudité trays, and fresh fruit plates for delivery from Whole Foods for June’s farewell. Never say “free lunch” in Greenwich Village to former dancers-you are assured a full and hungry house.

Toward the end of the lunch, Irv comes into the kitchen, where I’m helping Gabriel fix the last shaker of martinis for the Corps de Ballet Mourners.

“This was lovely. Valentine, I’d like you to have this.”

Irv gives me the framed nude photograph of June that graced her memorial service.

“Are you sure?” I say to him.

He shrugs. “I want you to have it. I’ve enjoyed it all these years…”

My father eavesdrops as he pulls the creamer from the fridge. “Who wouldn’t?” He chuckles.

“Irv, did you meet my dad, Dutch Roncalli?”

Irv and Dad shake hands.

“I have some photographs of me from the same show.”

“Irv was a dancer too, Dad.”

“Were you wearing pants in your picture?” my father wants to know.

“Excuse me?” Irv raises his eyebrows.

“You know, pants .” My father grabs the thigh of his suit pants and grips it.

“No, I was nude, too,” Irv admits. “The photographs were similar.”

“Why break up the set?” my father wonders aloud.

“I’ve got to get going,” Bret says, placing his plastic cup in the recycling. “I’m taking the girls to the Chatham gazebo to meet Santa.”

“Sounds like fun,” I tell him. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. I loved June, too.”

“And she knew it.”

Finally the last of the guests go, and just our family remains. Pamela has been antsy all afternoon. I noticed she got into a long conversation with the yoga instructors from Integral. Maybe she will find inner peace on 13th Street. She pulls her coat on to go.

“The boys are at karate. I have to pick them up,” she says.

“Isn’t your mom meeting them?” Alfred asks.

“Yeah, but I like to be home when they get home.”

“If you wait, I can go with you.”

“No, no, you stay. I can get the train.”

“But Gram would like to visit with you.”

Tess is hosting Christmas Eve with the dinner of the Seven Fishes at her house, and when she called to invite Pam, Pam was very nice, but said she hadn’t made up her mind about her holiday plans yet.

“I spoke with Gram,” Pamela tells him.

“Okay.” Alfred gives in. He kisses Pamela on the cheek. She turns to go.

“Pam?” My mother stops her.

She turns to my mother.

“I need to talk to you,” Mom says.

“Not today, Mom,” I say firmly.

“It’s okay,” Mom says, as she sips her second martini.

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s not a good time.”

I implore my sisters to help me.

Pamela throws her purse down on the chair. Then she sits down on the zebra love seat.

“All right, Ma. I’m all ears. I have no secrets in this group. Have at me. But if this is about Christmas, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“I know. And there’s no pressure,” my mother says.

Pamela looks at me in disbelief.

My mother stands and holds on to the top rung of her chair. “Thank you for coming today.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Pam, I was so happy when you came in the door over at Internal Yoga.”

“ Integral ,” I correct her.

“All right already. Integral.” Mom waves her hand.

“Of course I would be there. I thought the world of June,” Pamela says. “She was one of the last honest people on earth.” Pam looks down at her manicure.

“Where’s my mother?” Mom looks around.

“She and Dominic are down in the shop.”

“Good.”

Mom looks around the room. Only my father, my sisters, and their spouses remain. The rest of the mourners have gone.

“I’m very proud of my family.” Mom cries.

Tess hands her a tissue.

“God knows we are a flawed group. But you know it isn’t chance that brought us together. We were meant to be a family. And Pam, you are like my fourth daughter. I relate to you. I’ve lived through your pain. I understand it. Just because I like my shoes to match my bag, that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I have a mind.”

“Is that in dispute?” My father bites into a brownie from the dessert tray.

Mom shoots him a look. “You’ve been an excellent daughter-in-law, Pamela. You’re a wonderful mother-and I know you’ve been a good wife. This situation is not in any way your fault.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Pamela stands, so my mother can quit while she’s ahead. But my mother doesn’t.

Mom continues, “Marriage is like working in a coal mine. You hack away in the dark, day after day, busting rock, and you think you’re not getting anywhere, and then all of a sudden, this little sliver of sunlight appears and you say to yourself, Oh, that’s what I’ve been waiting for-just a little light, just a little bit of hope-a sign, maybe, that will get me through. And Pamela-it does. You cannot throw away sixteen years of love and life with someone over a stupid mistake. You just can’t.”

“Ma, Pamela needs time to think,” Alfred says.

Pamela speaks directly to my mother. “I respectfully ask you all to butt out. We’re too close-or rather, you’re too close. I’m not comfortable discussing my life with you. I have my friends to talk to-”